United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

Page 32 text:

I stand on an abyss and scream into the silence; if only someone somewhere would turn and listen try to understand the tortured agony that is tearing me in two; but there is no hope, there is only dread and the tortured tearing certainty of another day, another round in the interminable cycle of life which runs around me as I stand still in the silence trying to fight free but! it’s no use for the cycle runs around me quickly surely for it is so very much older than I; but still I stand trying hard to stop to reach out and grasp something certain yet not stereotyped and stamped by a decadent society a grotesque civilization repulsive in its very civilized existence; the abyss stretches before me and around me a yawning tantalizing cavity which arouses in me a curious demanding dread to know what it would be like to slide down its sides forever and forever; to feel the smoothness rushing past silently like the sound of hummingbirds’ wings beating against threads of air; this curious dread makes me scream to know but it’s all silent and there’s no use for the cycle circles slowly and certainly preventing me from taking the step that would send me hurtling down into the depths of hell, but still the curiosity consumes me so I scream, wanting to be stopped wanting to be driven to the final step without, the courage to do anything but stand screaming on the edge of Time. —Valerie Isaac Jliac Cgregor Scattering 9 s In distant, blissful Eden, When the Lord created man, He set his heart aforetime On a certain chosen clan; But as Hebraists could assure us, The Lord had second thoughts, So destiny descended On the immigrating Scots. You’ll find them on the seven seas And the Road to Xanadu, ’Mid frozen wastes and burning sands (Winnipeg or Timbuktu!); Like sand by the sea for multitude, Outward from John O’ Groats. Some call them immigranites, And others call them Scots. Where the great Mackenzie River Goes meandering to the sea You’ll meet them speculating In some Indian teepee; They’ve had Mohawks for half¬ cousins, Even in-law Hottentots. Some call them immigranites, But others call them Scots. Though they doff the kilt and sporran To don despised troos (Tell it not in Gath or Glasgow), They still mind their P’s and Q’s; They’ve been known to cross their bridges, But never burn their boats. Some call them immigranites, They call themselves — the Scoats. When Gabriel sounds his bagpipe, And they throng the golden street; When the pearly gates are opened And brithers brithers meet; When the sheep are all admitted And they’ve weeded out the goats, You’ll find the new Jerusalem Populated by — the Scoats! —A Scot 30

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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

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9 ?aoi The static fills the airwaves and the swish of tires Marks the approach of cars. And the rain is tears, and the tears are rain, And the feeling wells and blossoms in the shower And the room becomes misty and close. Ages ago, in another time, the smell of a house Struck the nostrils and left no impression, Only to become a haunting odour in a foreign place. The familiar smile and touch become fresh and yet unnatural, As if dropped from the clouds with the moisture That calls up the dream. The house and the street were boring and unnoticed And yet they become the dream, and the traveler Remembers . . . and despairs. An unreturned courtesy or an unwalked mile become An insistent murmur in the rain, And self-pity turns to anger and frustration. Some day the clouds will pass, And in the new day the old dream will come to life, And then the traveller might appreciate The loneliness of others, And the things which comprise happiness will be recognized As the monotonous and mundane tasks Of being a cog; a cog which becomes the wheel And the cycle of life. But now, as the husky voice sings of the blues, And the trumpet becomes a knife; The smatter of rain jars the smug and the complacent, And the feeling wells and blossoms in the shower, And the room becomes misty, and close .... —Keith Black 31