Buffalo State College - Elms Yearbook (Buffalo, NY)

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... .S -s 4. W? f gut .x. .gag . V ', . N 1, 1 . if . sf 1. . . -,cr A . wr ,f . ASX ' X F .X f re -S as: V ' .JNLX an age. Is the age over in which that dream had itsiiexQteti'tce-has s awggssfss- it gone by? Can we treat the Constitution as if it were gone by? Can we interpret it out of existence? By calling it a living, document, it means something different every day, soitgigthing new every day, until it doesn't mean anything that it meantiifi5iMadison. And this thought occurred to me the other day when I picked it up. Has the dream, instead of having come true, has it done something that the witches told about? Has it simply materialized? Young writers that I know-nbvelists that I know-began as poets, most of them. They began more ethereal than substantial, and have ended up more substantial than ethereal. And is that what has happened to our country? Has the ethereal idealisrrifiof the founders materialized into something too material? In X America last year at a convention I heard everybody regretting fearing or.worrying about our materialism. Not for our own sake, but for their sake, because we were misleading them into a material future for the whole world, and anxiety for us. I told them we were anxious about that too. We have scales in our bathrooms or one that is coming to birth. It depends on what Iiii . ,R .xc J' -s W L, if 'Es l 507' Q POSITI to you-a poem about what MQAQJSOH may hov,g,irl1oughi.:rs This gyry r Sweeties rite errr ourrrgiw' and ll 'S mY SIQVY Of theffrevolutionary war. My story of the revolution- Gfif Wm mlglii be Gboufrlgtwo little battles-one little battle called Kings Mountain andianotherslitltle battle called Bennington-but I'll,Ieave battles out anclsgive you the abstract: ,ffhe land was ours before we were the land's. Q. She was our land more than a hundred years f Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were EngIand's, still colonials, Possessriingwhat we still were unpossessed by, ,Possessed lgyfwhat we now no more possessed. tiveywere withholding made us weak weffoundfout that it was ourselves Were withholding from our land of living, to see how materialwe are getting. Now I think the first thing I wanted to say to you is thatiQ7v,a,mfen N, -X .s .. . found salvation in surrender. were we gave ourselves outright lThe gift was many deeds of warl fkS?,.the landiivaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, have not been philosophers. They have beenxgtoo wise Such as she was, such as she would become. philosophers. They have the wisdom of alliisggch ,,,, VV,,,,.i,,..y,The dream was to occupy the land with character-that's Misery loves company, or 'We all must eat of S iiiianother way to put it-to occupy a new land with character. That is just a figurative way of saying we must a ,I You must have these interests that you keep to knit. And you but I won't say that. Or else, in California, I Iearngdto say we must all eat our peck of gold. That means we all mustgggt an little rich . . . the country must get rich, and we must not Now I know-I think I know, as of today-what dream was. It was iustla dream of a new land to fulfill withiipeople in self-control. In self-control. That is all through his thinkings And let me say that again to you. To fulfill this land-a new land- with people in self-control. And do I think that dream has failed? Has come to nothing, or has materialized too much? It is always the fear. We live in constant fear, of course. To cross the roadiygfyve live in fear of cars. But we can live in fear, if we want to, of too much education, too little education, too much of this too littlieifof that. But the thing is, the measure. I am always pleased when I see someone making motions like this fgesture of conducting a chorusl-like a metronome. the music measured. Measure always reassures me. Measgire in love, in government, measure in selfishness, measure in unselfishness. Measure in selfishness. My selfishness is in being the one to of it first, and it is only iust a little ahead of my unselfishifess in listening to someone else who thinks of it, aghead of me. Butigffirst comes the selfishness of being the one to of it, and toitake the liberty. Q 2 5 5 F . . ss sg - slr ff ,ss must not live in uncertainty about anything like that-iust with no ideas at all about them. That's what I call being a Dover beach- ' r fcomber--to wish the long uncertainty would end. It isn't that un- twig certainty, it's getting forward. Every time you have a fresh idea in theiuknittiing, it's strengthening. It is life. It is courage. And just to get away from all that, I am going to say a poem called Birches -for whatever it means. I interpreted the other one, but this goes uninterpreted: When I see birches-bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy's been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They click upon themselves As the breezes rises, and turn many-colored As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust- Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break, though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when Truth broke in With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm I should prefer to have some boy bend them As he went out and in to fetch the cows-M Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, Wltose only play was what he found himself, Summer or winter, and could play alone. One by one he subdued his fathers trees. By riding them down over and over again Until he took the stiffness out of them, And not one but hung limp, not one was left For him to conquer. I'Ie learned all there was To learn about not launching out too soon And so not carrying the tree away Clear to the ground. I-te always kept his poise To the top branches, climbing carefully Witlt the same pains you use to hll a cup Up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of bitches. And so I dream of going back to be. lt's when l'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pothless wood Wliere your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs Broken across it, and one eye is weeping From a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Eorths the right place for love: I dont know where its likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, And climb black branches up a snowrwhite trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. . . . and that is not an escape poem, that is a retreat poem