United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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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.

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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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