Wakefield High School - Oracle Yearbook (Wakefield, MA)

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BRAVE AND FREE VERSE If you kicked me oJjliquely unanswerable and sent me skyward, bluely careening, with a diabolic grin, that, to me, seemed like the heat-lacking blast of Boi ' eas; what would my unproportioned thoughts of you, satyr, be? I a sonnet would styl on paper, clay or column, these thouglits, which, tongueing their way — At this 1 lied, fearing for my reason. Tliinking myself safe in paying a visit to one of the honorable ushers of the local theater, I entered the parlor of this, my poor friend, and heard these words: Weasle — measle; Measle — weasle; a perfect rhyme! Earnestly I tried to persuade him to leave, for the present, his lyre, but to no avail. After some teasing, he resorted to blank verse, declaiming: O Thou, Whose judgment rules the Universe ; Who watchcst o ' er the destinies of men. Tell me if e ' er l)efore in hist ' ry ' s scoiie, Such deep and boundless ignorance hath been Incorporated in one cranium As has been bottled up within the skull Of this misguided fool? I stood aghast! To think that this hard- hearted soul had succumbed! Wearily, I traced my steps homeward, hoping to find solace in the study of Muzzey ' s History. On the way, Avhom should I meet but the history teacher, himself I He blushed coyly, and handed me a paper with these words written upon it: Boll on, thou pretty dark blue ocean, roll! Thou art not for an age, but for all time. Doomed to Reave and settle here ; thy goal Only to rise and fall. What crime Is here, that thy poor soul. Must sink and find its grave in slime? Poetry can go too far! MAUEICE A. HATCH, ' 27, MODERN VERSE AND WHAT IT MEANS TO ME When I am tired and feeling blue, I tuck a volume of Rupert Brooke ' s poems under my arm and go up to my room to read. I seem to see the picture of Brooke come upon the page and explain to me what the poem meant to him aud why he wrote it. My favorite of all his collection is The Soldier, the poem in which his whole soul seemed to reveal itself. Of course there are others as good and prob- ably more interesting to other readers, but this just happened to strike my fancy. It seems the most like my imaginative Brooke. On a wild wet day, I think of Fannie Davis ' poem, Wild Weather, and wonder at her skill in being able to paint such a vivid picture in so few words, and yet have such a clear ' and wonderful poem. Naturally it w,ould be hard for any of us to try anything so mar- velous as these, but I can tell you that it isn ' t necessary to be a genius to appreciate poetry. If you hold your cat to your ear, perhaps he will tell you the story that Arthur Guiter- man ' s cat told him; later, when writing of it, he called it Etiquette. Don ' t drop the cat when you begin to laugh. Of course we all feel humorous at times, so when you do feel like that, read Etiquette and get as much fun out of it as I did. Have you a friend or relative that went to war, never to return? Amy Lowell ' s Bom- bardment and Joyce Kilmer ' s A Soldier in France will make impressive pictures on your mind as they did on mine when I read them. It amazed me that a woman could write of such horrible things as Amy Lowell did and do it so well. In Flanders Fields by John Mc- Crae . is a different sort, although it showed what our boys went through for the sake of us folks at home. Perhaps you have lost a friend recently, or someone dear to you is ill, and you wonder at the silence of the great things Beyond. Edgar Ijee Masters often wondered, and at last wrote a poem which he called Silence. It seems to fathom the silence of the dead, and things that another could not. If you need the right kind of friend, per- haps Henry Van Dyke can help you out with A Mile With Me, a poem in which he dis- cusses our friends; those that soothe our feel- ing with silence and those who use eloquence. How often we are in need of a friend of that sort ! The fog interested Carl Sandburg and, get- ting out his pencil, he wrote a poem called Fog, very short, but full of interest. To tell which of these poems I like the best would be impossible, but I do know that I have at least learned to look at poetry with my eyes wide open, and I shall find in it all the enjoyment that I need. MYETLE GROVE, ' 27.

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Leo Beo-ne ar THE FOUR SEASONS Spring When buds peep through their brown jackets, And turn into small yellow things, And then grow into bright green leaves; When birds sing blithely, And fly about collecting straw to build their nests. And the robin sings his cheery song, And everything is pleased to be alive; When young meii ' s fancies lightly turn To thoughts of love, And all the world is aglow with dazzling sunlight ; Then it is spring. Winter Summer When all the earth is clad in green. And apples are forming on the trees. And corn-stalks are starting to bend Under heavy loads ; When boys at evening Start for the ball-field to test their skill And to sweat ; When the days are long and sultry. And the nights are hot and still ; When men toil under the scorching sun. And boys splash in hajjpy glee As they duck a comrade In the Or Swimmiu ' Hole ; Then it is summer. Autumn When, from the trees, briglit leaves, Red, yellow, brown, and green, Fall to eartli and make A gentle swish as we walk througli them; When men hear and feel the call of the woods, And take their guns to Ijring back fatted fowl; When ripe pumpkins are neatly stacked Against the garden wall ; When the corn is tied in trim bundles Waitir.g to be stripped of its remaining seeds. And red, rosy apples give out their spicy fragrance ; When there is the odor of fresh apple-cider; Wlien the air is crisp and clear, And everyone feels brisk and gay. Then it is autumn. When the trees are cold and bare, And tlie earth is covered with a pure white blanket ; When the rabbit leaves his tracks upon the snow, And the lairds have flown to their southern homes ; When the brooks and ponds are hidden ' neath a coat Of flinty ice and fluffy snow, And all the earth is bleak and desolate; When the days are short and the nights are long; When the wind howls and blows in icy blasts, And cuts through the clothes of mau, And chills him to the marrow; Tlien it is winter. PAUL E. BLACK, ' 27. THE GOLDEN AGE OF POETRY Four years ago, there undoubtedly existed, in the sterile brains of the coddled freshman, a spark of poetrj ' , but it has remained buried deep until this year, when the pink and ten- der child has grown into a manly, tough, and terrible senior. Nevertheless, the spark was there; and it needed but the breath of an English teacher to fan it into a roaring con- flagration. That breath has been breathed. The deed is done; and, in his effort to appre- ciate good poetry, the uutrained senior has gone to surprising lengths. To illustrate my point, I relate the follow- ing incidents:— I hied myself to the home of one of my North Ward friends to prepare a debate, and, upon entering his sanctum, liad this bit hurled at me with eloquent and fiery gesture :

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ON THE TRAIN How do you do, Mrs. Carpenter? It is so long since I have seen you! You haven ' t changed a bit, except that your face is a little thinner. Yes. I have gained, but I hope to lose next week. How are the children? And how are you? Tell me all about your- self, do! What a time I had in town today! I didn ' t intend to go, but I had to get a scarf for my husband, because he catches cold so easily. When I got up town I started across the street and a truck came along. I ran, and, you know, I fell down in all that mud! I got Mabel ' s lovely stockings that I was wear- ing all dirty and full of holes. I scraped my knee, too — wasn ' t that awful! I waited for somebody to pick me up, but nobody came, so I had to get up all by myself. Then I went in the store, and got a lovely scarf, but I ' ll never go there any more, because the clerk told me I was too fussy. Then I walked — Oh, gracious me, here is the conductor! What did I do with my tick- et? I just had it. Please excuse me, Mr. Conductor, I always was slow. You know, I didn ' t get my wisdom teeth ' til last year. Oh, here it is! Oh, dear me, no! That is my shopping discount ticket. Oh! here it is in my lap, just where I left it. Well, as I was saying — how are you get- ting along? Do tell me something about your family. You know, I went up to Nancy ' s the other night and I spilled some tea on my love- ly lace vest, and also broke the cup! Do you suppose she will ever speak to me again? Now, tell me about your family. Why are you so quiet? You have said hardly a word. Do you remember the minister we used to have, the one with red hair and long whiskers? You know, I used to tell Freddie about him when he cried. Of course, Freddie had never seen him. Well the other day lie came to call. When Freddie saw him, he just stared. After a while he said, ' Say! Mother used to tell me that your whiskers looked like a New England golden-rod field! ' I never was so embarrassed. Now, I will give you time to talk about yourself. Is Ella married yet? She was al- ways so pretty. Do you remember those black earrings she wore? Well, I got some like them, but John didn ' t like them, so I gave them to Mabel. I have simply got to hear about you. Have you been to, — Oh, wait a minute before you tell me! I have just got to tell you something! It is the funniest thing I ever heard! Oh! I thought I should die! I al- most laughed in her face. Oh, dear, it was when I met — Oh, gracious! here is my station and I must leave you. Next time I see you tell me all about yourself, and I ' ll tell you that funny story! Goodbye. CAEOLYN WOODMAN, ' 28. MINUET IN G All night at the old piano, The master liad tried in vain To catch a fleeting melody, ' Haunting his weary brain. And now, as the r ays of morning Ligliteiied the eastern skies. He leaned his head on the silent keys And closed -his tired eyes. Then in his dream he heard it. Celestial from afar ; The angels in heaven had gone to sleep And left the door ajar. RUTH PARKER, ' 28. A NEW TYPE OF PLAGIARISM Recently there has been noticed a new type of plagiarism practiced by men and women who, consciously or otherwise, borrow melodies from old music in order to make up a popular composition. The reason for the popularity of Yes, We Have No Bananas is very evident when one considers that it is taken from no less than four well-known old tunes: The Hallelujah Chorus supplies the first part; then follow excerpts from Bring Back My Bonnie to Me, Seeing Nellie Home, and an opera selection, I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls ; again we recognize the Hallelujah Chorus ; and, as an ending, there are further phrases from Bring Back My Bonnie to Me. Although Yes, We Have No Bananas was supposed to be a new song, yet there was not one original plirase in it. The ever-popular Humoresque by Dvorak, the piece that describes so vividly the emo- tions and impressions of the Polish composer and the suffering of his people during a great civil war, has been mercilessly transposed until we recognize its melody again in I ' d Climb the Highest Mountain. Even sacred church music has been reno- vated to suit the popular taste. A very old Andantino that is frequently played in churches, by the manipulation of some com- poser has produced Aloonlight and Roses. Kamennoi-Ostrow or The Angel ' s Eev- ID