Dominican College of San Rafael - Firebrand Yearbook (San Rafael, CA)

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MODERN POETRY Shallow, blue-white as new-skimmed milk. Of no lasting quality, nor rich full depth, Touching on expression, surface feeling. On some thin passing fancy of a thought; It lasts no longer than the fleet Fancy quickly spoken of. You who have ever felt the pulsing throb Of love, the hollow dragging depth of loss. Who know the weight, the chilly clutch of fear Hear now, the modern poet speak his piece. Sweep out, he cries in metre odd and vague, All strong but time-entarnished times of love, Of hate and sorrow. Let them lie Forgotten in their gutter of cliches. Wipe out all rhyming prayers of pious men, God, if He lives, can reign no longer here. Yet, any child, unspoiled and innocent Will catch rhymes shining, and investigate. He ' ll dust them off, and then with new-aged eyes Will hug the treasure, singing, to his breast. Rene Brooks ' 50 135

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offers a criticism. Then out of the fog comes light. Mrs. Archer ' s enthusiasm, her poetic gift, her critical sense, the flame of her love for poetry kindles the slightest poetic spark in those who are fortunate enough, and faithful enough, to attend her sessions. That she has not used her powers in vain is evident from the fact that five poems written by members of the club were accepted for publication in the National Anthology of College Poetry. We are publishing a selection that pleases us especially from the best that has come out of the Poetry Club. POPCORN TOWN White-fltiffed seed-clouds. Dancing balls in a marble-veined sky! Who would pass through the Janus-portal And view the grease and salt Of rutted streets; Calliope and brass-buttoned monkey Tooting a whistle-dance; Or search for love in two hands Movie-clasped? Marjorie Hansen ' 50 134

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THE MURAL ROOM-MEADOWLANDS This room, sun-softened Has drunk deep living; Its memories are unknown to us Who are today. The stirrup-cup, The shadow of the red coat. The jingled spur. Are long gone. Now there remains Only cobwebs of recollection Caught on the walls. Paint lit by the sun. The mind is not stirred By their intangible softness; They are felt only as a wind is felt; Their thought moves. Then is gone, beyond the reach Of ordinary things. The walls cry without sound, Tally-ho! . . . Gone to ground! The dogs are no longer young. The riders are of another time, But the hunt gallops over the wall. 136