St Johns High School - Torch Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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THE UPROOTED TREE THE UPROOTED TREE First Tannis Bass An uprooted tree lay cast on the shore, A phantom of lace, a tree no more. The wind furrowed the smooth warm sand, But the tree could not wave its stiffened hand. No longer living emerald gems, Dry quaking leaves clung to their stems, Rising waters reached the gaunt tree, And tried to drown its memory. The wind blew cold through each skeleton claw, And scudding pitiless clouds saw The shiv’ring tree lift gnarling hands to pray While the waters rose where forsaken lay. A few faithful leaves still clung, Quivering and expectant where they hung, Dreaming of faraway days long past, Shadowed memories of dreams, at last, Its heart shrivelled on the hostile shore, A phantom of lace, a tree no more. O FOR THE SIMPLE LIFE Second Joan Carol Bercovitch O, FOR THE SIMPLE LIFE ! How sick I am of gleaming stairs, Of silver spoons and precious chairs— Of winking glass and chinaware, All things superior and rare! Untouchables have ways with me Of defeating and dazing me. O God, I miss the humble stare Of battered jug and broken chair! TOWERS OF DESPAIR Third Tannis Bass TOWERS OF DESPAIR This ecstacy cannot exist in life Therefore we must live in death. The fleeting pulse of an aeon Is expelled in but one breath. The stars they flicker—some stars die, Lost in an ebbing flow of light Careening drunk across the sky To fall into eternal night. The pale wan sorceress of night. The calm consorting moon is cold; Calm or cold lifeless hearts of stone Lost forever, never grow old. The moment we share in our short life Is ancient as light from a long dead sun. Our lives are lost when we find them Stumbling blind down paths long begun. Silvery phantoms that flee the day, Our aged souls will roam this air . . . Whispering a tale of long gone life Fragile as towers of despair. 47

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FIRST TWO STORMS HILDA GOLDBERG It is a summer evening, and twilight has just descend¬ ed. It is that time of day when a feeling of languor and ease should settle over a city that has worked hard for twenty-four hours. Instead, tumult and strain pervades the atmosphere, as though a catastrophe was about to occur. The skies are sombre with ominous threatening clouds. At intervals, jagged streaks of lightning tear the fir¬ mament in tow. Through every nook and cranny re¬ verberates that distant peal of thunder. The very birds that brighten the world with their song have disappear¬ ed, and hidden in the wake of the storm. The streets of Paris are still damp with the rain that has fallen this morning. Little streamlets from the garbage heaps beneath each window, wind their ways around the cobblestones to the gutters. From these arise the reek and smell of rotting filth and smile nire. The streets usually teeming with people, are deserted. Not a soul is to be seen. The old cronies that gather on corners at the end of the day to discuss politics aren’t there. The gossipy women that chatter over backyard fences are gone. The gaunty urchins that roam back alleys for scraps of food—even they have disappeared. It seems as though beyond the cold, massive walls of the crowded tentement houses they have remained to face the storm. From the distance comes a sound, the commingled noise of human yells and screams. Gradually they din closer and closer, the noise louder and louder. Crash! The heavens issue a deafening roar of thunder and bril¬ liant flash of lightning. The momentary light reveals a crowd of people, armed with sticks, knives, bayonets, and farm tools, storming down the street. Frail men with wild rage in their eyes, gaunt women with hysteria in their voices—a motely host as ever was. They sweep past, a sea of human faces, on to their destiny. Yelling and screaming, stumbling and rising, the crowd moves on. The peals of thunder become louder, and the flashes of lightning more frequent. Even a few drops of rain have fallen. But the men, rush on, heedless. Their passionate fury is further heightened by the sight of an enormous building that has loomed before them. They cannot wait to reach it. They run. At the exact moment they flow through its gates, the storm breaks. Torrents of rain gush down on the human mass but they, exaltant in their joy, do not feel it. They have liberated a nation! They stormed the Bastille ! ! ! 46

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LEN FREEDMAN WINS TORCH ART CONTEST The judges in the ’51 Art Contest had a very difficult time in arriving at a decision. After much discussion time is was decided that Len Freedman would take first prize. The pen and ink sketch was said to have been very “sincere and interest¬ ing—the line work good as well as the perspective and light.” Second prize was awarded to Virginia Juzak for her self-portrait in water color. “The head was well drawn and painted for a water color picture of its kind.” Third prize went to Don Bergman for his very odd yet very smooth pencil sketch. “It was well balanced and showed the knowledge and use of light and ‘color’ in pencil work. The movement in it was its winning feature.” Sid Radinovsky and Richard Bernhardt tied for Honorable Mention. Sid’s pen and ink sketch of Gimli was very original and showed “good contrast in light and dark.” Richard’s sketch was highly imaginative and displayed fine pencil work. This year a special award was given to Randy Klassen. The judges, Miss N. George, Art Supervisor of schools; Mr. W. Christopherson and Mr. B. Metcalfe from the Tribune and Mr. P. Kuch from the Free Press, felt that Randy was too far ahead of the other students and that he should have a special award in the contest. His oil painting of the “Jackpines” was judged as the most noteworthy. Very few entries were received this year although there was a great deal of good talent in the school. It is hoped that next year will show some improvement in the number of entries submitted to the contest. Special Award “JACKPINES” Randy Klassen — XII-37 48