Sir Adam Beck Secondary School - Lacedaemon Yearbook (London, Ontario Canada)

Page 75 text:

HAIKU i Haiku. • Haiku is a Japanese verse form, three lines. Because of its length it is very- compressed and expresses a i single thought to arouse ' a dis- jtinct emotion and suggest a ■ specific spiritual insight. It has [been said that a good haiku can I be written only in Japanese, but | we who have English as our ! native tongue try. yi Mg jL itt $» % HOKKU So short you whirled o ' er the heath Vanished And became the grass. Small toadstools growing in a circle around me. I wait for you there. From my windows I can see the mountains Today I shall not climb them. HAIKU 2 HAIKU 6 A long dress with lace Rustles as she passes by The lady is old. The dawn comes early Visits me in a golden dress And hurries off.

Page 74 text:

Uneasily he motioned her to join him on the porch. And yet the silence lin- gered. Even after they had taken up position on the swing the sickly noiseless- ness continued. She didn ' t want to speak, for one speaks only when spoken to. Nonetheless his blank look indicated nothing was forthcoming. Curiosity finally took the place of refinement and rather timidly she introduced herself. He had nothing to say. He had had nothing to say for twenty years or more, and for this reason he sat there, just sharing the silence with her. He longed to look at her eyes again, but a quick glance would be worse than not seeing them at all. He would have to study them, and that would seem like staring. No, that wouldn ' t do at all. He enjoyed living alone too much. And so he gazed over the hill, contemplating, enjoying secure. And then it was all shattered. The girl had found the gall to destroy the silence, to upset his delicately tuned ears, and with nothing to say. It was only I ' m. . . followed by some gibberish that must have been her name. Maybe it wasn ' t quite so unimportant. He had yearned to talk to someone for such a long time; now here was the chance and he was passing it by. What a fool ! What to say? She had told him her name, it seemed like the sort of thing one does. Now his name, his name. . . The words stumbled off his tongue. He hadn ' t heard his own voice since. . . The first rapids cleared, Yvette was in mid-stream. Like an archeologist with a frail find she gingerly began brushing away the mystery with gentle questions, receiving at first rather curt answers. Nevertheless, he slowly opened up into a torrent of thoughts and words, slightly garbled, but comprehensible. She was asking questions. He didn ' t like that much at first, but as he felt her seeminly genuine interest, as he enjoyed the pleasure of having someone listen, he babbled on, telling her about the moon, the sun, and most of all, about the valley. His th oughts came faster than his tongue could follow - twenty three years to be relived before sundown. Finally he surprised both of them. Where do you live? He had no idea why he had asked it. He really couldn ' t care less where she lived; the fact that she was there, with him, should have been enough. She too was startled. No one had ever really cared where she lived, even enough to ask. She answered and the monologue worked its way into a conversation. And the day wore on. It was likely a mistake, he knew that and yet he didn ' t care. He hoped she wouldn ' t give him over to the world. She was different, as was he. She bore no resemblance to those lonely old women who used to come around with their unfail- ing smiles, their Important Things to Say, and their total incomprehension. She smiled only at the right times, and if a point was unclear she would look puzzled, and he ' d explain. Maybe, maybe she was interested. The afternoon fled before the night, and still they sat. But she had to return to Liana, and so he walked her halfway down the hill, as far as the rabbit hole, whence she faded down the moor, and disappeared into the lowlands. She had asked him to come visit the next day. She would show him Liana, and give him a chance to see the changes. He had never seen Liana and was certain to be unimpressed by any change. Nonetheless it would please her if he visited. He slept little that night, debating, wondering, worrying. Had it been a dream, or worse still a bad joke ? Nothing was clearer. He was still muddled. And he was still on his way to town, timidly unaware of the human race he was about to discover. He was off to make his visit. And that was all. Paul Davidson

Page 76 text:

FIFTH REPORT ON GRIEVANCES By Gord Bagley Standing starkly On a darkened shore of despair. Watching, afraid and lustful; Time scumming towards eternal fires. Watching sadly, as the hills Of nothing scrape the cancered Brains of decay. Blindly I cry, while Curdled ears slither stealthily Past the meaning of oblivion. Walking silently, superficially, Laughing, at comical sighs of love; Staring at the claws of society Scratching into the cavernous depths Of what the world has meant. Listening, quietly crying At the cascading sounds Of anarchy and death. Watching, while they pour Filth onto the pornigraphic pumpkins That lie rotting on the borders of war. Tear ing tearfully, Flesh from the ravaged skeleton Of a tarnished eagle. Where has the glory gone? Apollo has deserted the Smelling gardens of God. The children are growing in the ways of Hell and Lucifer smiles. Standing starkly, deftly mute; Sounds are silence to my sodden ears. Downs of stoney Mondays in my mind, Outside, the great chase slackens on.