Mitchell College - Thames Log Yearbook (New London, CT)

Page 137 text:

For A. Not really worldly gifts what count But will your heart you give? I answered yes and gave mine thrice And more - Seems it opens up the door to my mind,s paradise. . ' Susan Janice X Harlot In endless strings of time Stalking night, - Ignorant of day, seeker of, yet so much sought, Then falling back onto her bed of loveless love Sharing hope of none, and dreams dreamless the nightmare of a harlot. A ' Susan Janice

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REFLECTIONS ON THE LIFE OF A SNOWFLAKE Speak to me sweet snowflake - lovely, lacy snowflake, ' silent, soft, and ,peaceful drifting down +- down - I . ' 'down - Born above, beyond me by nature's glorious wonders. You joyously burst to full life and skyls dreary darkness drown. Tell me of your journey - was it far from heaven? ' How fare all the angels? - On you they'd cast no frowns. How I love to watch you, be ' gently tumbling toward me. Intricate - yet simple, One true pleasure- have I found. ,I Precious little snowflake, I so much long to hold you. If one touch you'd afford me Oh, my heart would glad aboundl. But now, farewell dear snowflake fast the target youfre approaching, p And high spirits quickly dwindle ' as you melt into the ground . . . I Lorrie Kern 1 .

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I3 6 Sitting in a Smoker . by Harry Phillips ' p The scratch of a match against a striker, a puff of smoke, and a hearty high-ho lung full of cigarette. A smoker is a place where 'people smoke. Students come, students go. The hazy smog, however, remains behind as a plague to sting the eyes of the uninitiated. A sign on the door as you walk in reads: SMOKING LOUNGE - 6 PERSONS ONLY. Walking inside . .I . there are eight. ., ' You sit down on the rustic cushioned seats, the ones with the cigarette burns in the, and . . . what else? Light up. Someone gets up to leave and the door slams behind him. Three people try to get in . . . But you- are safe and have nothing to worry about. You are firmly entrenched. You're occupied position is conve- niently near an ashtray, as if that really mattered. You are also near a closed window which fyou swear over a stack of Punch magazinesj is not perform- ing up to par in its function of keeping in the cool air and keeping out the cold air. In other words, it's cold in there. Intermingled with the draft fno, not that draftj is a blast from the radiator which warms the body, kindles the soul, and burns the ankles. Truly a salt and pepper arrangement. - ' The ashtrays. Yes, the ashtrays. Those hugh, archaic, hollow aluminum jobs. When they go, brother, you can hear them all the way over by the magazine rack. Actually, though, it sounds like a low-keyed rumbling from beneath the inner sanctum of Limbo. y I Somebody just told a joke and the whole place is in an uproarious uproar. One of the librarians Cnearly tripping in her hastej comes rushing over, sticks her head into the room and gives the age-old warning, If I hear any more noise coming out of here, I'll throw you all out. However, the next time it happens, there's a whole new crowd in there and the trips back and forth from the library desk to the smoking room and the warnings go on ad infinitum. Students bring books to study while they are in there. But not too much studying goes on. Usually one is duty bound to lend a sympathetic ear to a friend's aimless chatter or to engage in polite conversation with a member of the opposite sex. For the lack of. anything else, some simply stare out the window. The Mitchell College smoking room has something to offer for everyone, but usually not enough for some. Call it a meager respite in the busy schedule' of hopping, skipping and jumping from nowhere to nowhere in the wonderful world of higher education. Call it what you will. But donlt go in there to get an inspirationto write a poem. That's what I did, and look what happened.