United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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STREET SCENE A PSALM By Bob Munson By Marianne Forsyth Old man dying on raw-new street Old limbs shook with effort Blue tinge on wattled throat and Life ebbs. Mrs. Fitz-Smith walks down the lane Her bright new Easter bonnet drippi ng red Garish tones of misplaced colour Bird-like face and Skinny body Stop. “Disgusting. Drunk!” Mince past, thin nose proud in crisp spring air Sound of retreating heels on wooden walks Reverberating sharp there Gone. Two elderly ladies starched And plain in gray and black Wisps of hats with yellow feathers En route to Church. See old hulk prone And walk to other side of street exchanging Significant looks and nodding Parched white heads Disapprovingly “Tsk!” The street is still. Small boy skips lightly, easily, airily Over the ditch and across the street Bending his body low, as he rushes Bright eyes shining He stops. Prods body and Darts off, all laughter gone. A crowd of people soon comes round From nowhere, eager faces trying to Keep solemn expressions Appropriate “Who? Why?” How. Vacant faces striving to busy themselves with Appearances of intelligent interest Rubbernecking. “O shame. Poor old soul.” Mrs. Fitz-Smith who Gives cookies to small boys clucks Solicitously And Soon the crowd disperses, files Away to Sunday dinners waiting, talking Several minutes and deploring Such conditions Too late. The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handiwork; The purity of the violet in dew-time is his, and the ulcers of the scissor-legged paretic; He formed the perfection of the athlete, and the twisted defective is of his hand; The calm blue of birch-locked pools and the glass wobble of insane eyes praise him; His are the children of love in their homes, and the unwanted children in the institution; Life-will keeping frail bodies in being and self-created death go in awe of him; The music of the symphony lauds him, and mad laughter and inane mutterings. We set silly standards of success for ourselves, and in the wisdom of God are mad and sinning; The distance from first to last is so slight that perhaps even God cannot measure it. Let us then praise Him who has saved us, drawn us from nothing to be His Sons! Lament for a Lost Airman By Wilda Reynolds Your silver hawk has vanished from the sky, And we, your comrades, comb the icy cirrus And search the deep and thundering cumulus towers, All in vain. Flat plains of earth stretch endlessly below From which we spring, and broken will return Some day — your day came far too soon; Primordial earth receives your crumpled form. To those who break the barriers comes this violent return, But is the flight not worth it to the seeker, When mach-numbers mock the more pedestrian pace Of plodding earth? When you sped like a bullet through the canyons of the clouds, You broke the final barriers yesterday And passed into the freedom that is space. 18

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THE PRICE OF A LEMON By Deby Miller He closed the front door behind him, tucked his scarf under the lapel of his coat, and hurried quickly down the street. “Ach, such a cold day,” thought Mendel. Echoes of an argument rung in his ears, and he could still hear Rachel protesting. “But Mendel, you go to the hospital every day, and always you take a big bag of ‘presents’ for all those strangers. You are an old man now, and it is time to forget such foolishness.” As she spoke, Mendel’s wife made neat, tiny stitches on a piece of white cloth, and as her anger mounted, so did the impetus with which she attacked the task at hand. The needle jabbed her thumb, and a tiny droplet of blood appeared. She winced, and Mendel looked away. Her voice grew gentler, as if understanding had grown from the pain which she had just experienced. Almost pleadingly she added, “You could go on Sunday for a while, but during the week you should stay home and rest. Don’t you think that you have already repaid the price of a lemon?” Mendel did not heed her entreaties. For the hundredth time, (or so it seemed to him) he ex¬ plained to her that sick-visiting was a “mitzva”— a good deed. When he left, she was still sitting in the same position—cloth in hand, needle poised, look¬ ing at the blood-stained cloth. He was sorry he had caused her pain, and the thought occurred, that in all the years they had lived together, he must have hurt Rachel many times. The air was sharp and the biting wind chilled the very marrow in his bones. The old man shivered, and clutched his paper bag tightly. He thought that in one respect at least, his wife had been right. He was an old man . . . Around him, red-cheeked youngsters playing in the snow were unaware that a little old man had stopped to catch his breath. Mendel shifted the bag in his arms and walked on. There was a day, he mused, when he too was touched with the bloom of childhood and innocence. He could not recall having played in the snow, nor had there been a shiny sled to be pulled about in. He could remember isolated incidents—the time his mother died, and he was found peering under the sheet that covered the mirror in her bedroom—the time he threw Avrumel, the rich man’s son into a mud puddle, because he had flaunted his shiny boots before them—the time they barred the synagogue doors and prayed that the enemy would get sober quickly—and the “time” on the boat . . . The other inci dents, he would sometimes forget, but never the one on the boat . . . It was such a long time ago! At the time, he was a mere boy of fiften or sixteen. The ominous threat of “pogrom” was present everywhere. He was going to work in America, and then bring over the family. The anticipated pogrom came more quickly than anyone had expected—and the plan never material¬ ized . . . The boat was very crowded. Mendel had never seen so many people together at once—and all were so very sick and unhappy. He too had been sick, and in later years he used to joke that sea-sickness had been a god-send—for he could not have afforded to buy food anyway. During the day, he leaned against his knapsack, groaning inwardly. At night, when all were asleep, he allowed himself the pleasure of a hearty moan. With each rock and sway of the boat Mendel had prayed for death to reunite him with his family. But he did not die. In the blackness of the night, a stranger, whose face Mendel never saw, produced a lemon from a large paper bag, and gave it to him. Mendel winced as he sucked the sour fruit, and fell into a deep sleep, clutching bits of rind in his sweating palm. The next day, he felt as good as new again. . . . There must have been some reason for God to have spared his life—and with a lemon, at that. Mendel knew that he would never be able to repay the debt—the debt of his life. In spite of this, (and perhaps because of it, for he was a stubborn man) Mendel was determined to show his gratitude. Every day he would visit the sick at the hospital, and in their homes—-always carrying a big paper bag. He made an odd picture—a little old man with a graying beard, clutching his bag, and panting a little . . . He remembered his wife’s lamentation. “Such a man, such a man . . . for the price of a lemon!” She had a way of shaking her head that made an angry utterance become almost an endearment. His fingers were numb, his cheeks stinging with the cold, and the bag weighted his arms heavily. He caught his breath, opened the heavy hospital door, and smiled at the heavily-skirted nuns who greeted him familiarly. 17

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By David Blostein I saw the Last Supper in King Edward park: In spickled amber by the elm twigs umbered Four clumps, sore lambs, unleavened humans slumbered, A querying flock; all brushed through one rough arc By Vinci’s into Bethlehem’s secret son; Who asked (.their one face darked in quivering shade): “He that betrays, to us who are betrayed — He that is many, to us who yet are one — Speak.” I saw a painted desert bear Glassed tombic towers; smoking pillars builded Of blood red brick and bone white marble, yielded The sands’ womb; hosts with inundated roar Flamed blackly forth; that echoed in one foul cry The voice of the twelfth apostle shrieking through the sky.