Oakwood Collegiate Institute - Oracle Yearbook (Toronto Ontario, Canada)

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THE WEEK BEFORE JUNE Twas the week before June, and all through the school Not a creature was stirring from desk, chair or stool. Late papers were stacked in piles with care In hope that the teachers would soon find them there. Ardent prayers has ascended to God up above, Lord, help in these finals if you really do love. ' Tis said of some students, when finals they take No more preparation than this ever they make. But, now on with my story, which will end with a slap I had just settled myself for a brief afternoon nap. When out in the hallway there arose such a clatter I jumped from my chair to see what was the matter. When lo, in my sleep laden eyes there appeared A vision so common, it could not be feared. ' Twas kind Mr. Hobbs, and lo and behold Was followed by teachers whose ranks I ' m told Are high above normal; they had a right to be bold. SERGIO MARZOTTO Having entered the room, they chose themselves seats. Silence prevailed as our principal rose to his feet. He said in a voice, both loud and gay, Now gather round closely and heed what I say For soon comes to Oakwood the reckoning day. Let ' s surprise the students, this wonderful year And show to each one some special cheer. We ' ll forget about finals for these next few days, Bum all the term papers, give everyone eighties. And so ' twas decided on that fateful day. The meeting broke up and they all went away. And after they ' d gone, my hopes did rise With visions of report cards with nothing but eighties; No finals to write; no books to be read; No failure of courses to bother my head. Why, this is like Heaven, that city so fair, No sorrows, no worries and no school up there. Then my ear was disturbed by a voice soft and low, Its ring was familiar, Come on now, let ' s go! And novvf back to this world of things as they are, I think I ' ll go visit the nearest of bars. For now I ' m convinced things are what they seem, My city called Heaven was only a dream. Dom P. Saliani IIL JOHN JAAKKOLA 56

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THE MISTS THE VISION All tlie shadows rush to shore, Wet and cold, small and grey. They blend, they fade, And shivering, strive To find the warmth of day. They flee, these shadows, murky grey, Pursued by tempests close behind, Behind — the storm. Ahead — the day. But mists are slow and blind. But some there are who scorn the fog. Black billowing clouds who fly, Forsake the day And join the storm. The Devil ' s battle-cry. And some are sunlight ' s warmth and pow ' r, They soar to seek the sky Above the mist. Voices not lost But ringing warrior ' s cries. And some are white and some are black. They soar to night or day. So few are high And for the rest. Not black, not white, but grey. Warren Bourgeois - . ' .J-- S i 1 ■- K -HI It is twilight; the vision will soon fade away. Then one can only think and dream of her. She is completely absorbed in her music as she stands there in the evening. Her lithe body is motionless yet she gives the impression of flowing and melt- ing wax. The beautiful head is slightly drooped. Past, present and future are meaningless: even time is struck still by her. Then darkness falls and she is gon«. Gabriele Haussmann WHY NOT TAKE THE FAMILY BOWLING? FIRST SNOW During the night the snows had come. I gazed out the window at the land, which looked like a piece of white paper crumpled up in places. The trees appeared to be made of cookie dough tinted green with layers of white icing on them. Turning my head a little, I saw the broad plain that seemed to stretch out to the Rocky Mountains. I had to avert my eyes, for the sun glaring on that spark- ling white, almost silvery, snow was beginning to hurt — a hurt like the one caused by staring into a lamp for a long while. I watched as a black dot on the staring white plain moved nearer. Strange it seemed that anything could progress on such an expanse. Ah, but that was one of the magical qualities of snow — a great stretch of it hypnotized you into believing the unreal. Anne Tori 9A 55

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A PROLONGED AGONY The light cast grotesque shadows across the blurred, cold surface. Darkened rectangular figures gyrated to and fro and a heavy, hot mist dulled the atmosphere. Then, like the detonation of a powerful bomb, a nervous spasm shot up through his system and the student ' s mind cleared, focussing once more on the page of Latin Composition by Breslove. Utor, uti. usus sum — plus the ablative. The words jumbled in his mind, forming weird patterns and geometric spirals. What was the use of it all? He stared at the bare green wall and one hand mechanically turned the page while the other reached back behind his neck, relieving a disturbing itch. Oh yes, the scholarship. Mustn ' t forget that one needs a language other thgn English for the scholarship. His pen tapped an irregular staccato rhythm on Purpose Clauses, his chin nestled in the palm of his hand and his eyes reading and rereading, Present Subjunctive in Primary, Imperfect Subjunctive in Secondary Sequence. The words came out of his mouth half-muffled and he felt drowsy, very drowsy. His eyelids were closing with thoughts of holidays, but the date on the calendar pierced the enveloping fog and the student sat erect. His brow wrinkled with determination and he gripped the book with both hands. Mustn ' t do that Can.t do that, he said to himself. The battle of Pharsalus took place in the year Maybe it was time to take a break. Just a few minutes. Then the calendar met him face to face again and he realized that with only two days to go, there was no time for a break. Then he looked on down the page, leaving the battle of Pharsalus behind. He stared at the black printed etchings on the page and when they had reproduced themselves in his mind and he knew that he had learned what he had to learn. He would get the marks for that part and marks were very, very important. One could not get very far without marks. The student straightened up from his crouched position over the desk and relieved his dulled, cramped muscles in a yawning, drawn-out, strained stretch of his arms and a prolonged pointing of his throbbing, inactive legs. Time to go to bed again. Got to get up tomorrow and get a lot of studying done. After all, examinations are only two days away and one must work to achieve. That ' s education. Arthur Kamin 13F DOUG CHAN COME LIVE WITH ME - REPRISE My dearest one, I have to say That no one ' s yet proposed this way. I feel just now, a bit bemused, For you, my love, are quite confused. You seem to crave the open air. We ' d Hkely make an awful pair, ' Cause I am not a sporty girl. I much prefer the social whirl. A Bed of Roses sounds like fun. But just a mite uncomfy, hon; And though I ' m daring, so they say, Your wardrobe ' s just a bit outre. You make the food sound just divine — Whose hands prepare it — yours or mine? I ' ll warn you now that I can ' t cook — You ' re sure its me you want to hook? THE WIDOW She knelt quietly in front of the alter. Her eyes were tightly shut as if to shut out all the ugliness and misery of the world. Hands clasped together, she made an effort to maintain her rapidly fading strength. Her face was twisted with devotion and strain. Only her lips moved, formly barely audible whispers as she prayed for the soul of her dead husband. But worst of all, my dear young man, You lack (what is the word) — elan. You ' re hopelessly jejeune, I find — ■ This worldly miss is not your kind. It ' s clear I ' m not your ideal mate, Perhaps you just appeared too late; I ' m jaded now, and though it ' s sad, I ' m glad I ' m not a naive lad. Shirley Zucker IIB Jane Christie 13E 57