John Adams High School - Clipper Yearbook (Ozone Park, NY)

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TI-IE POEM'S THE TI-IING PATRICIA BROWN IT HAS been said that the greatest thing a poet can do for us is to let us look at the world with his eyes. For some unknown reason, poetry was a thing afar, something I could not dare to understand. Recently, I was introduced to poetry, and only now I realize the explicit interpretation of life that a poet has been gifted With. Poetry has opened my eyes to the everyday matters which seemed so insignificant. Most likely, I thought of beauty as a thing of fascination and truth of cleanliness to the soul or as Webster so justly states: righteous- ness. I have never compared these two as similar yet in Beauty and Truth, Emily Dickinson writes We brethren are . . . and it is true, for beauty is something of everlasting resign and truth can never die. Beauty is a lovely sight and truth is clean, good and beautiful to the ear. They go hand in hand for beauty is truth and truth, beauty. In Walt Whitman's Miracles I see the daily life as a topic f'or the poet. Whitman writes of ordinary sights and gives significance to the common- place. Miracles are so called because they excite wonder, Writes George Son- toyana, author of The Idea of Christ 7 in the Gospels, Each morning the sunrise excites wonder in the poet, and the order of the solar system excites it every night in the astrono- mer. Life itself is a perpetual miracle. Now I can see the beauty of white buds bursting forth on my apple tree, I can hear the tinkling as my sisters chatter endlessly, and somehow every day unveils new wonders. Nevertheless, poems are not writ- ten only about pleasantries. There are other subjects of life other than beauty that a poet can interpret. Death, Dirt and Misery . . . perhaps not cheerful, yet very real. lt is through pieces of poetry like Chi- cago by Carl Sandburg that I see a city come to life. I can imagine confusion of busy streets, can hear the noisy grunts of cattle in the slaughter houses, and almost love to brush the dust, dirt and smoke from my face as the trains come rumbling into the freight yards. Chicago, Hog Caller of the World. That is the Chicago Sandburg writes about. An alive Chicago! In Richard Cory by Edwin Ar- lington Robinson I learn that money and power are not the most impor- tant factors of life. If one has not friends and peace of mind all the riches hoarded at Port Knox, Ken- tucky, are worthless. Now, at last, I realize why poetry is such a valuable asset to daily life, for it has led me to a road of keener understanding. Indeed as Robert Frost in giving his definition of poetry said: It is a reaching out toward expres- sion, ' An effort to find fulfillment, A complete poem is one Where emo- tion has found its thought And thought has found the words.

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POETRY ISK where yon find it! Sandhztrg found it in a copper wire and in the pzdying city of Chicago, Kilnzer, in a tree and a deli- cateften chop, Keatx in a grecian arn and in the lilting tune of a nightingale. One poet called it the ntnfic of the Joztl, another defined it as the tynthefif of hyacinths and hittztits. What it poetry? I don't think anyone can really define it hut through poetry we can vifztalize more fully the Jignijicance of the conzinonplace. For a brief nzonzent it may tahe uf soaring up in the cloztdt, or it may open our eyex to oifionx girt with wonder ,' ,foinething 106,116 loohed at for yearf yet never teen hefore. Whether the inzinortal Shahe- Jpearian :onnetx or the jolting line of Whit- inan, poetry if alive and it if good for thofe who with to he alive! PATRICIA LYNCH ON THE BRIDGE

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MARY EGAN THE SOUND ot the train Whistle slowly died away as the train disappeared in the distance. As the moon peeked down from the foggy sky, a young man could be seen walking with his hands in his pockets towards the town. He pulled his collar up higher around his neck, put his hands deeper into his pockets and quickened his steps as the rain began to fall. With- in or few minutes, the lights of the town became visible. The noisy turn- ing of trolley car wheels, the loud tooting ol automobile horns, mingled with human voices was very unusual for such a night. He stopped a moment, looked around and let his eyes rest on the dumpy looking figure of a man standing under the corner street light. He looks familiar to me. Theres something about the way he stands that makes me wonder. No, l must be mistaken. With this, he walked on. Al, Wait a minute Al. Al stopped, looked all about him, but there was no one in sight. Strange, he murmured. By now his steps had taken him to a more desolate part of the town. He slackened his pace a moment as it to get his bearings, then with a lithe step, he mounted the stairs to a dingy brownstone house on which hung a sign, Rooms for rent. A heavy push on the doorbell brought a middle-aged woman to the door. Well what do you want, she re- torted? A room, was the reply. Come in. What's your name? Why er, it's Mr. Nage. Al tor short. Upon entering the house, they were greeted by loud police reports, over the radio, of an escaped maniac, a Pete Lizingo. A pale pallor seemed 8