Phoenix - Spring 1961

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CARLYLE:

Poetry, therefore, we will call musical

thought. The Poet is he who thinks in that manner'!

POPE: Poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep./MARTIAL: He does not write whose verses no one reads./CHANNING: Most joyful let the poet be; It is through him that all men see.!

BLAKE:

Poetry fettered fetters the human race.!

SHELLEY: Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden .beauty of the world.!SHAKESPEARE: ... as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name'!WHITMAN: I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.lMAcLEISH: A poem should not mean but be.lEMERSON: All men are poets at heart.lHORACE: The man is either mad or he is making verses. 1ST. AUGUSTINE:

Poetry is the devil's

wine.lHENLEY: Poetry is laughter in Hell.

LIBRARY

MAY 9 1961 UNIV. OF orE

T E PH

I Poetry Issue

apri11961

NUMBRR 3

VOLUMB 2

Orange

IDd

Wldte Literary Supple.eat

THE UNIVERSITY OF TENNESSEE Knoxrille, Tennessee

editor

IMOGENB "JBFF' GREENE

SONNET

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Gf'IIIu& ..........................

AN APRIL DIRGE

s. .-

assistant editor

RENNI DILLARD

ssction editors

JAMES CLEMMER JUUA WITT DORIS RIVERS LAURA JEAN GOSS f1OBt'I'1 H. PHILUPS HAMLIN, JR.

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FOR GILBERT MURRAY lMvitl Lee Rtdri.

IN ABEYANCE B.".. Holft,ha ..

A SIMPLE SYMPHONY &tin! DiUIVtl .~_ ._. .

SOPHOMORE AT MIOOBNTURY H4f'Old Hglti.g~'" PAlUSt FAREWELL TO HELEN

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ON THE PALL Of TROY S~nB

Gran ~......,.......,...•...,..~......-

DAFFODILS-AFr£1\ A DREAM Ste,hen Shu-ning LiB IN SPRINGS PAST Jim Sparks •.••• OLD FACES Steyhen ShtHdng Uu

.o • •

staff

SANDRA BROWN DON EVANS

KURT HARRIS BECKY ROBERTS JAMES A. SPARKS MARY CLAIRE WYATr

business manager

FRED GENTRY

advisory board

Dr. Petey G. Adains, Or. Dale G. Cleaver, Dr. James F. Davidson, Prof.

James E. Kalshoven, Mrs. Carolyn Martin, Prof. Frank Thornburg.

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NO ANSWE.R Stephen Shu-ning Li" .... ......... ....... .......... ....

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IN A CHILD'S WHISPER A CHIlD'S RIME Eugene H ollahan .................................... ........ . ....... ..... 7 FOUR DREAMS AND A WHISPER

Suzanne Grahn .. ~...... ....... _...... _................. ... .... ... .... ... 8

PREFERENCE Suzanne G,ahn ... .......... _ .............,

ASYLUM Bugene HoUahan

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THE PHOENIX

april 1%1

Sonnet by Suzanne Grahn

Make me a tongue that I may sing to you A rose, whose redness never sang before.

Its petals press the virgin scarlet through Their veins to yours in richness that is more Than all the withered roses of the world In all their ruby hours, breathing Their flowery blood in perfumed beats that furled Life's inky images in seething Colors from crimson blush to roan maroon, Running the spectrum's moods from dawn to dusk In urgent knowledge that the shades come soon To black their brilliance in a scentless musk.

My rose is richer. Though its form may fade, It loves forever in my silent shade.

AN APRIL DIRGE by Suzanne Grahn

Spring is a quiet sound that grates my teeth, Sawing a nervous scale across my tongueAn April dirge of disconnected song That cannot 路 praise the rain bow for the rain Scattering on the stones of distant streets.

Far off, I hear me echo Marlowe's shadow, Complaining in some streetless, sunny meadow.

- 1-

FOR GILBERT MURRAY by David Lee Rubin -Vacant armor rusts near rotting hulls; The wind and Paris wail the ninth spring Green, greener than water from failing wells; Helen like snow in freshets . . . of these I sang, For sixty years, chalking the count of ear On chipping slate. Catalogues of wounded Gods, of godlike slain, speeled out the war, Martialed the callow from their dreams, unblinded.On an eastern isle, burning your daughter, buck The wind for gloss and syllabi, freeze The olive sunlight, crack the tower of rock: You are the final heir of sealed eyes, In whose blank light the Argives hoisted spar, And studded the bleeding plain with strident fire.

Reprinted from Quarterly Review of Literature X:4 (Autumn, 1960).

Copyright 1960, Bard College.

IN ABEYANCE by Eugene Hollahan The lady loves the quiet thing, Shuns my common roistering.

The chaste chambers of her mind, Sounded but by delicate wind: Images of puerile strength, Uncertain depth and no length.

I am washed in the warm sea, Where she's Venus yearningly.

Rough collusions mar my days, Convent quietness marks her ways.

She holds me to my futile course, Frail with all that winning force.

Musing, rapt, and distant, she Thus passively defeats me.

- 2 -

A SIMPLE SYMPHONY by

Renni Dillard

I listened first to ancient airs Struck with Dionysian strains Where what I sought was magnified, Abstracted, distilled, rarified Centuries old Classic cold Beyond me dwelling.

Then listened to a later anthem Stirred by sacramental sounds Where what so sought was Gothic-dim Breathing a eucharistic hymn Centuries long Medieval song Above me flying.

Then turned tired ears to a younger lyric Splashed with tearing, trembling tunes Where what still sought was unchecked, swelling, Lavish, aching, loudly welling Centuries spent Romantic lament Before me passing.

Then strained no more for ancient songs now Stilled for me, too-muted musics.

Lying still I heard a simple symphonyLifting lyric, freely flowing, Gently touching, old pains slowing Now-song begun Centuries young Beside me laughing.

- 3 -

Sophomore At Midcentury by Harold Hollingsworth

I walk the corridors, the vaulted corridors Where Gothic arches soar through endless space, And mantled priests and bishops line the walls In crypts adorned with haughty likenesses.

Tapers burn on altars long since dead As millions pass, but each one walks alone.

I walk the corridors, the mystic corridors Where veils enslave the light.

Footsteps echo loud in languid air As I the tortuous passages transcend, And terror grips my soul.

I walk the corridors, the living corridors Where all is dark; and yet I think I see.

PARIS' FAREWELL TO HELEN ON THE FALL OF TROY by Suzanne Grahn

The sun is dying. We have reaped its rays To light our love, and now we pay the price Of nature's theft, for we obeyed her law And only sin as servants of her shameIn you I loved my being; hundreds Of human murmurs, like the moan Of those that die in battle, or the laugh Peculiar to a careless child of three; Seas and shores and men who sail and seek them: These worlds in you.

I do not worship you as man's ideal, But somehow mine-my part of Paradise, My human comedy. No gallant words, But simple words that love I leave you now.

My bow and arrows glisten; they cry for me, Oh Lord, atop the battlements.

- 4-

DAFFODILS -after a dream

by Stephen Shu-ning Liu

Fade, and be gone, My daffodils!

Joy of my early years!

So steel, the ruthless master, wills.

N one is there ,t hat will miss you, none.

I bear my grief alone, Beg no pi.ty, shed no tears.

IN SPRINGS PAST by Jim Sparks

In springs slipt past I have walked upon the square In Raleigh, and fed the fat pigeons there, Peanuts bought with a treasured dime, Heard the old men, past their prime, Talk of springs of a former time.

Immobile in a web of pine tree scent and sun, I have seen a squirrel run to steal A morsel missed by the careless birds, Heard the old mens' hollow words, In Sand-hill brogue, their sand-filled words.

Little time I had then for things not of the moment, Delighted in the grass, the birds, all else so unimportant.

The green now is a sadder hue; Today, the chattering birds are few.

The old mens' thoughts are my thoughts, too.

- 5 -

OLD FACES by Stephen Shu-ning Liu

Banyan trees planted by my grandfather, Had their long arms and 路tough 路 muscles.

The inky crows had built their home On the tree-tops, And the summer symphony in the leaves Were performed by a galaxy of cicadas.

Bare-footed, I often found myself Among a large crowd of farmboys, In the late evening when the breezes Brought the blue jays home from the far hills.

Our neighbors would come smoking pipes Beneath the shade of the banyan trees: They talked and kept on talking About men and women in the village; They argued, and kept on arguing On things no bigger than green peas.

Their voices were getting louder, I could see their excited faces In the flicker of lighted pipes.

"They are going to fighd" I thought; But suddenly they broke into a chorus Of hearty laughter, that sounded Like New-Year's Eve firecrackers.

Sometimes a full moon paused in the sky, And the wind came with the fragrance Of the blooming cassias and water-lilies.

Cousin Lee, Old Chang, Big Sister Mel Came near and their faces were seen: Haggard, races they were, but serene.

And those old faces still appear to me In the dead silence or the night: How strange, how doleful, how hastily they Fade away before the dawn! oh those faces, .Those old faces beneath the banyan trees!

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NO ANSWER by Stephen Shu-ning Liu Within my native woods, my native land, Alone beside a lonely grave I stand: "Sweet mother, oh arise, arise and see, Thy son is home and now he comes to thee."

No answer; snow is falling on the grave, And wind is surging like the ocean wave.

Close stands a poplar tree, ghastly and bare, Its last leaf hanging in fhe icy air.

"Sweet mother, cold, oh cold, thy somber bed!

Tell me how rests here now thy tired head."

No answer; snow is falling on the grave.

My tears bedew my pillow, not thy grave, Yet wind is surging like the ocean wave.

Sweet mother, winter days are drawing near!

And through the changing weather, scene, and year, The snow that comes with such a dreary cheer, Falls heavy on my heart as I lie here.

In a child's whisper a child's rime by Eugene Hallahan

My heart's away in Ireland Away in the rock of the sea Where I hear the ancient whisper As it whispers now to me.

My heart so long unwatered So bitter and barren of air Drove straight as a hurtling sparrow Now nestles and n ursles there.

My heart's asleep in Ireland Lulled fast in the rock of the sea And stays to its brief beat's closing And awaits the rest of me.路

- 7-

Four Dreams and a Whisper by Suzanne Grahn

I: SACRE Spring of reds and green, Not delicate but life ablaze Converging to a center, Springing forth again with new Pulsation.

Lilacs are not bright enough for Growing here, nor hues of vague Sweet fragrance, nothing new That has not long been oldEarth smell, and grass too arrogant for May; An image out of focus, strangely Bright-too bright.

That Spring may give her increase, Beauty weave her net, that Life may flow unending through the vein Of time, one life is offered up In colors vividly afraid of deathIn brilliant discord, tones intense, Comanandingly reborn.

For life, rapacious, beating Pushing, pressing, spirals upward Downward-reds in blood gone dancing As no dancing ever was before, And greens more green-why must you cry?

Your bones may shriek the rhythm if they will, Your fingers beat awakening the soil and All the thousand tiger-lily shades.

For we are not alone, we patterns Of a force beyond our ken, Beyond the numb, grey reason of our minds.

A brain not clockwork but the wild

- 8 -

Hot surge of light and soundKinetic laughter-is not nearly Strange. Why must you cry?

For we are not alone, we prisms of an All-containing sun.

II: THE FAUN Who shudders at the pointed ear Or trembling mute with pity turns away, He need not fear. The heated green of grasses Redolent and richly still need Bring no pain.

Awakening along the ancient mindless Pathways of the soul are Many songs, and this one not the least.

For love is-love is all these whisperings And more: the subtlety of movement, Peaceful pipes, and forests shadowed Dimly by the sun; the head that Turning swiftly like a cat revolves (Reality of muscular delight) with Eyes that glint and slideHalf-human joyousness, but still the lips Are curved.

The thing you seek is not within.

Your words are meaningless distractionQuavering and dull.

Why must you come lamenting to these Ancient trees and seek your own reflection In their shade? To lead this form, this Animal, this man undone by beauty And the human mask-why must you come?

There is no sorrow here, but impulse Old as mushroom dust-why are you sad?

There is no bird, no swift Small bird that will not join Your song.

III: TYL The owl that gazes darkly in a glass Sees beauty, only beauty, where No beauty is; his own consummate Ugliness reflects a lovely light, his

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Laughter but a raw high creaking on the Wind.

With blaring horns it comesAnd do you know that scarlet is a sound?

That beauty is a rustling in the leaves of Autumn-gone? Throw back your head and Listen to the flame that blazing higher Seeks its own appointed end, the Turbulence of life before December's Cold. Why do you laugh?

A spirit laughing long and blind to All unbeautiful.

The ordinary peasant with a soul, And eyes for artistry-this is the Clothing of the mind-no more. And High above the colored tiles Reality is strangling on its Rope; above the pointed steeple-tops a Mind goes twisting, tortured, dangling from its Rope, ' the beauty there in balls of Spidered flame. Why do you cry?

Perfection is the ultimate design, And freedom from the mind is Beautiful. Why do you cry?

No other has conceived these Spidered flames.

IV: PETROUCHKA Of all the broken things that will Not mend, I cry-of all the Springs gone mad, And many-colored winds now Desolate-and yes the Bending bones beneath a silent sky, A sawdust track of echoes and desires.

I cry the stillness where No seasons are but snowBut snow is whiter here than snow Should be, but snow is here And draws a veil across the Prism world.

I cry. There is no sound in Crying when the winter comes and all the Deepest tears are held unseen, no Sound of screaming though the body strain And break with inward fear.

- 10 -

What have you done? What now remains Of dancing bears and all the giddy crowd, Of tambourines and drums, the lone high flute, And puppets on their merry strings?

What now remains?

You smile and go your way Beneath the rainbow lights, 'til darkness comes.

The carnival is past. And now The ribboned patterns break, the hawkers fold Their voices, put away their wares, and now The twilight is.

For beauty-on-a-string one soul more lost, Oh strangers, to this nothing land, Oh charlatans-what have you done?

Oh merry-makers now so far away, Why did you come? To cut the strings Why did you come, with prying hands And fingers' clumsiness-Oh God, But leave the song. The wooden limbs are nothingLeave the song.

A broken wing is better; that the bird Should die is better; leave the singing To the end. What have you done?

And why have you--and why have you decreed That all the blinding loneliness of snow Should come And all the binding loneliness of snow Should hush The one swift singer dying Soundlessly?

- 11 -

PREFERENCE by Suzanne Grahn

I've loved the rush of velvet wings Against my cheek at night When some dark moth mislaid his course And staggered in his flight!

Your voice across a quiet room, Soft words ,t hat bump my ear And stir the surface of my thoughts, Is softer and more dear. . .

The thousand fingers of the rain Have learned to play my heart But not the giddy little tunes One touch of yours can start!

Still . . . one encounters much less pain In loving velvet moths and rain!

ASYLUM by Eugene Hollahan

Men with fine hair, fine eyes no more seant, Sit and mar the frozen air with tepid breath, And wait a dusty wait for a dusty death.

Their wild and frenzied fire no recreant, But banked by time and wear and love's withdraw, Muse on each other with a barren mirth, Muse on the waiting in the iron earth, Muse on the visions that as youths they saw.

These men figured stay in the fickle brain, Have a life in unfleeting memory; While the winter iron becomes spring's bubble, Diffusing in a warm and gentle rain.

These men become the vision, and we see Them waiting, mute with a tongueless trouble.

- 12 -

Contributors

•. , ••.•Graduate student ht English Rockford, illinois

SUZA!liN£ GRAHN

JAMES

A.

SPARKS

••.•• ....•...• ..

.

J1.t1f.ior English mOlor

Nashville. Tennessee EUGENE

i IOLLAHAN

• Graduate stucumt in English.

Memphis, Tennessee

...•...... .......•...

DAVID RUBrN

.... . . ....•..

.,.

Junior f'rench. majof

Oak Ridge, Tennessee RENN[ DILLARD

HAROLD

Senior transfer frm~1- Agnes Scott College; English '»"I.ajor Lynchburg, Virginia

....

J. iOLLINCSWOaTII.

... .•••. .• . .

.lnstructor in History

Dallas, Texas ST£PHEN LIU

PAUL DA Clotkiep 1838 WEST CUMBERLAND AVENUE KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE PHONE 523-8325

. ...... ... " . Graduate stu.dent in E1'Jglish Form05a

Submit contributions to:

IMOGENE GREENE,

Edit~r

The hoenix Box 117 1621 W. Cumberla.nd Ave. Knoxville, Tennessee