New Utrecht High School - Comet Yearbook (Brooklyn, NY)

Page 13 text:

And it's sitting in the library on a Friday afternoon, an airplane droning overhead, and you look up from the magazine and the boy across the table is staring at you. You got excited while you were writing it, the next tluy you read it hefore the class and they were ull quiet after you'd jiniihetl and the teacher looked at you u little Jutlly and Jutltlenly you were Jorry for her. And then one day you realize that time is passing and you say, Gee, I'll be getting out soon, and you wonder how it all Went so quickly. Then the days slip by like sand in an hourglass and finally it's the last day after graduation and you stare up at the building and it all wells up in a tide and you stand and look up for a while and then you go home. They Jtuntl hefore the Jehool on u wtzrrn Septenzher morning waiting for the gates to open. They tulh iznzong thenzieloey anal the uuturnn utr rustlef softly part their cheehr. Over thenz hangs u heavy sonznolent tirneleifners. Pydyey By E. L. Atkinson My heart is not the flowing cup Which held beauty and poured out pretty words. My heart is now a sea of pain, Rising and swelling and dashing itself against rocks And crying out its sorrow. I found beauty in little things A silver thread of cobweb Shimmering in the early morning sunlightg The sudden hearty peal of laughter From the lips of a young boyg The great blue depths of skyg The warm rich earth itself. These are not beauty now, A cobweb is not silver--Itis a web Spun by a black, blood-sucking spider. That laughter has turned raucous. It has a loud and cruel note That tells at once Of hatred and of fear The sky is not the sky- It is a great and hollow drum In which the echoes from a million cannons Sound on forever Oh, yes the earth is warm, Warm and dark with the blood of men. Oh God! What can we give That earth may once more know what beauty is. Eleven

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F By Gertrude Ezorsky It's all the days, Monday to Friday, that pass one into the other, and it's all the books you ever read, and it's waking up each morning and going to sleep at night. Softly blows the breeze on n Jnnznzer afternoon, the teacher looks ont of the window and ine rtnaientr stir rertlerrly. And itls the first day when you thought it was going to be like the Andy Hardy movies and you watched the seniors and then went home to buy shaggy sweaters and charm bracelets and little white hats that sit back on the head. And it's your English teacher who carries a pipe in his pocket and knows how to read poetry and all the girls quiver when he passes their desks. All night yon lie nwnke, mzring into the dmflanerr, the fnncef dripr in ine rlillnerr nnd yon can hear ine zfrnnzpeff playing. And itls going to the movies straight from school and sitting unblinking, clutching your books, watching Rosalind Russell slink across the screen and then rushing home through the night because there's Advanced Biology and Civics and Latin translation and a compo- sition on Why We Love Democracyf, And it's the sudden joy when you're walking through the halls and you look at all the students going past you and you swell up with inexplicable happiness and your heart beats in fast thuds. Itis the time when you walk home with a group of boys and girls, joking and laughing and you wonder: Why can't it always be like this, why can't people always be happy? But also it is the time when you ride home on the El , your tongue like sand and you stare out at the dirty billboards, the train rattles on and your heart testers with doubt and worry. Ten

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owfegicior PIIiZC Winning P06111 By Ernie Grossman Twelve the w1nd still stirs the sleeping waves, At night, III And the oon god still bathes your now silent island in a labyrinth of moo11 beams. And there's still just a trace of your blood in the pu ple sky. if time can be measured r There was a time, a by the be t of a clock, when your white walls were a symbol of man's faith and your stood like now blackened guns silent sentinels silhouetted against the sky. Yours was not an easy death- But who can say if death is ever easy? Can the wail of a hell-bent bomb be a seda lend itself tive to .an easy death? to peaceful dying? e marching feet of the yellow men Does the mud and lice of a foxhole ' h h e proper tune for the funeral march? And did t beat out t You were young You were brave You were strong. From the salt flats of Utah, the black earth of Alabama, the sandy coasts of Maine You had 13011161