United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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s. now The wind howled around the door today trying to enter; I didn’t let him have his way so in defiance he swirled the snow against the pane in tiny whirlwinds of white; he piled the snow up high by the barn and dressed the fences in damp white lumps of wet snow, and all the while he fought the pane trying to get in at me, trying to get in the cabin, but I out-foxed him — I burnt the cabin down. —Valerie Isaac He exists In a cardboard shack, With a broken window Stuffed with paper; Waiting for death. Here, In his narrow world He is free from everything. The people that despise him The taunting children And the world that passed him by. Not dangerous, Nor obnoxious. Only, A hired man Not worth hiring. —Dempsey Valgardson —Keith Black d Lost W)o IQovnovnbor Upon the ridge, the sun its fingers drew, At men who on this day were going to die; While in the valley, hidden still from view, The foe lay waiting for the battle cry. And as the sun continued ’cross the sky, Th’impartial earth lay waiting tense and still, And then the heavy shells began to fly, While man in ignorance dug in for the kill. Now years have passed, and on that very hill, The daisies grow where man once gave his life, And yearly now, the world remembers still And nurtures yet the hate that caused the strife. For man in all his strength has not yet learned To fight the cause, the effect of which is spurned. S, OCl !ety yninns O no Cramped On a metal cot His thin body Looks jagged and broken. His face, a time-worn map Of blotches and a thousand veins. Each blotch a drunken battle lost Each vein an empty bottle. He sleeps, And when he doesn’t He works, Just long enough For the price of one more drink. 28

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Olie dlt u fc An elbow jostles, and a scowl demands a seat on a bus, And people scorn a laugh at a restaurant table, And a day is lost if the toast is cold at eight o’clock, And the evening too if the picture tube is weak . . . Yet, the fleeting glimpse of a smile in a crowd Is reflected on my face. Viewed from above, the pawns slide past As an escalator in a department store. The sides are steep and smooth, discouraging all but the few Who appear as dust of gold among grit of sand. Piercing voices echo over the dusty yard And the overturned garbage can. Yet, the western blush on the sky at night Fills me with unspoken joy. The pawns fo rget all but Self, their god, Working like drones to achieve the twenty-one inch screen, Or the two hundred dollar fur jacket. Individuality is the Big Sin; People must catch the same bus At the same time At the same corner To get to the same office To do the same things —’Til coffee break. Yet, a child chuckling over a baby spoon Makes the day slip by in peace. To slide to the bottom is so very easy: Where one is swept up in hate against a reformer or anyone who prods an inert conscience, Where a clean little shop is ignored because its proprietor’s English is not too good, Where a lovely orange jacket is only fifteen dollars, (And besides, all the other kids are wearing them.) Yet, the fleeting glimpse of a smile in a crowd Is reflected in my heart. —Keith Black 27

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ecem I was walking home in the sunset, I was walking west. I felt the breath of Christmas come, Come lightly over me. I had sifted the other seasons That were sodden saturnalias, I had stared at the tinsel lights Making the darkness dark. I remembered the sugary scents Of succulent fowl and solid puddings requiring fat sofas. I heard the songstress sighing Dying carols on the screen. I knew them now for seances Of slumbery satiety. My step sprang softly from the fine snow, My breast heaved with new life from the cool air, And the street lamps shone with significant light. I looked up to the bare branches of the elms Which veined the lower reaches of the clear sky Like Shakespeare’s ruined choirs. The organ psalm of the sparrows and the westering hum Entranced me. Currents of sound and light and song Lifted my gaze to motions higher, Higher above the rooted choirs To the cloud windows in the west Streaming with lights of dusky mauve, Panes of translucent yellow-blue, Fretted with scarlet gold. On higher yet, supremely higher, Beyond the golden fire, My sight is borne and fixed In perfect adoration Before the beauty of the baby Moon, Alone, not ready for attending stars Or angels’ jubilation, A lambent silver Arc, Laid upon mildest blue, Signal of things to come anew. —A. E. Spalding 29