Yeshiva University - Masmid Yearbook (New York, NY)

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M A S M J D poet in the unpoetic world, with the refrain of the dead echoing along the cosmic cliffs, rotting with the moss of age, Come let us bdthe in the sea . . . perhaps we shall drown in eternity ' The lonely song of the youth, asked to hope, asked to believe, deserted by those who wrote the negative and song of the sordid, but those who sat atop that muck heap, five poetic inches deep, some chose to call — artistic creativity — confusing libertinism with liberty. Fed on a diet of slop — do you ask us to be strong? nursed at cancerous breasts — do you ask us to be fine and pure? Yet on the disillusion we shall build a hope; on the fear, a stirring certainty; no need for unreal slogans with real bread for the free. We shall know our friends, seek the trust and the faith in the blood that has been shed, discard the catch-words of the past, lead — where once we were led. Given the fragments of a world, we shall melt and mold them into one with the fearless heat of man ' s new sun. Twenty

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M A S M I D And Haber synlhoM od aininonia and the bomb sidled slowly from the rack. And others spoke of I ' art pour I ' arl , building on the non-entity; there in the stagnant night the cobwebs of aesthetics cluttered a symbolistic mind when Paul Verlaine polished his verse and Rimbaud sought the terse, pregnant phrase and decadent ways of achieving form in the mold of le mot juste , as ponderous-phrased Proust and the soulful stream of time did sleep and dream in a cork-lined room, as Hypochrondria and Lesbia did groom their pervert selves for the literary strip-tease; but life is broader than Marcel Proust and the earth does not revolve on the axis of le mot juste . And the old man Sigmund died in London, whispering of Ego, muttering of Eros, and the old man Walt died in Camden dreaming of Peter Doyle and the cosmos delights of the joyful comrades. And in this still, still night the warmth of the waves on the cool sand shore found me chanting with the singing sea, and the song I song was of the dead poet and the dead world, world in the poet —

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T j- roniLsc vnl by DAVID MmSKY So you think it necessary ? Absolutely I And the sooner the belter I That ' s what I thought, but I felt it would be better to ask your opinion. How noon will you be ready, doctor ? As soon as you are. Fine. I ' ll take care of all Iho arrange- ments immediately. Look at those two guys. Talking about me. What do they think I am, a baby? Funny thing about doctors. Never tell you what ' s wrong with you. Hell, who ' s got a better right to know. Well, and how ' s my patient today? Feeling better I hope . And all the time he knows you ' re ready to kick off. Ah, what ' s the difference. They mean all right 1 suppose. But still. . . . That guy with the trick mustache looks like the sarge that signed me up. Geez, seems like a lifetime — only a year and eight months, no nine months. . . . Dark in here sort of grey- like — like when I used to wake up in the jungle, the rain beating down through the trees; lying in mud, oozing and squashing around to get comfortable; gotta keep the rifle clean. Never know when some lap ' U pop up. Lousy Japs. Sneaking around with new equipment, plenty of ammunition, try- ing to plug a guy. Well, I showed them. Yesiree! They won ' t forget John Masters for a long while. Not on your life they. . . . Just lie still. This won ' t hurt. Hello, beautiful. A few more nurses like you and this joint would be O. K. Jabbing needles into you all day long. They certainly dope you up around here. Don ' t want a fellow to know what ' s going on. Well, it ' ll take more than a little shot of stuff in the arm. ... the left arm. Glad the right arm don ' t bother me anymore. For a while there I thought I was gonna go crazy from the pain. Like when I burnt myself there at the bonfire. Boy I musta been some kid. Always getting into trou- ble. Getting burnt, busting an arm, a hole in the head, trying to become an acrobat. Boy, those were the times. If only I could be a kid again I ' d have a swell time. Hang around with the old gong, ploy all sorts of crazy games and gags, only this time. . . . Hell! I hope that attendant ain ' t wheel- ing that table in for me. . . . Sorry, fella, gotta get you on this thing. If you ' ll just slide over a little bit. . . . Sure. Why don ' t they leave me alone. All these doctors examining me, throwing me around from place to place. Why don ' t they leave me alone. It ' s like the jungle. Pushing through all those trees and bushes and rivers. Keep going all the time. No planes, no artillery, no guns, no ammu- nition, no quinine. Nothing. Only the jun- gle, and the rain, and the heat, and the fever. And those slimey yellow guys Creeping. All the time creeping around, trying to plug a fellow. . . . Rolling along on this table. No pillow, head all the way back. Can ' t see nothing but the ceiling. Don ' t know where you ore or where you ' re going, or what ' s coming next. Nothing but the white ceiling and those lights up there. One, two, three. . . . Cut it out Masters. You ' ll go bats right away. ... I guess this is the elevator. Yep! There ' s a guy in a nice white uniform. My uniform wasn ' t sc clean. Not by a long shot. Dirty and torn; full of mud and filth; crawling with all sorts of bugs. Boy that jungle gets on your nerves. Plowing through till you oan ' t keep your eyes open and your feet just won ' t lift. Masters why don ' t you lie down and forget about it. Give up! Get some sleep. ' Yeah, you think that way often enough Txcentv-one