RECE\VE O S PELLM~\N UBRfl.R'/ !Mi.R 2 8 i~oo MA,~ IS { COLLt.GE PO U GHt<.EEPSIE., N. 'lo MARIST COLLEGE LITERARY JOURNAL WINTER 1966 EDITORS ASSO C J A TE EDITORS C O N TRIB UT ORS C O VE R F ACU LTY A D V I S OR STAFF P e t e r Maronge Willi a m J. T ownse nd Ri c h a rd C arn B ro . Mi c ha e l G o ldri c h, f.m. s . Fran Murphy B ro . John Sullivan , f.m. s . Jam es M. Crot e au B. Fall a cy Bro. Pat r i c k F o r s yth, f.m. s . R. A . Gla ss B ro . D o nald Hau g h e y, f.m. s . Bro. G e rald Mill er , f.m. s . Br o . Th o m as Ng , f.m .s . P e t e r P e tro ce lli Bru ce Ma g ner Mr. R o b e rt P. L ew i s J. MR. JONES blue and gray blur, brown bat crashes • · i'm down hollers, s cream s; jea ns , s neakers .. being beaten by martian s in white mm,ogrammed helm e t s who are under order s lik e eichmann and goebbles walk -· we s hall ove r come .. sirens, two wheeled monsters roaring, bumping through our lin es. brot her, •· you're frightened •· darn right. i'm frightened but: will not fight back. why? a s ked the judge -· babies having the flesh torn off their c harred brok e n bodies .. my christian nrighbors by dropping napalm bombs on s h adows m e ltin g int o a jungle e limin ati n g '<l whole village . ca t ca ll s and boos •· a gall e ry of other christ's? H e ll -· i wa s c arried from the train tracks to a sc um wagon ·· thrown against its meta l bench herr i am no w • · your honorless -- and you ask why. blue grey uniform s jeering and beating peaceful men -· onward chrstian so ldi e r s marching off t o beat and ki ck crazy kid s who march to co urthou !-es 1 ik e thi s one all ovrr the co untry. we s it, s ing and are abu se d, arrested. disturbed you s ay--you don't know what' s happrnin g Mr. J ones o ur s i s a war o f peace not a war for peac e Mr. Jo n es . P. MARON GE II. Observe, my mind decays in muddied facts And fights to stay alive above the mire. The leaf of learning actually contracts A blight that eat s the plastids of desire. Forget you monsters all your methods new For they are leprous as the sore s of old -- And all the soaring heights of mind con s true Your failure in fetching for a life of mold. I bathe in the cleansing waters of the lake, · The fi s h s o simple in theh life of ease -· Contrasted to the webs of mud that make The stream of knowledge dam up and freeze. Leave me alone you men who think A thought, I feel, is the chain and not the )ink. P. MARONGE C HILD DAY S W h en I was a boy I pa ss ed hour s Out in t he hack a ll ey . Th ere wa s n't much t o am u se Wh il e o l der k id s were away a t sc hool. Ju s t tim e to pa ss . Of t e n I wo ul d pick th e mo rtar o ut From betw een th e bri cks Of th e garage . Or ma k e a f or t U nd e r th e porches With o ld wood. Sometim es co ll ect va l uab l e roc k s And s tone s from t h e a ll ey An d hid e them away so m ew h ere . A lwa ys on th e l oo k- out for R ex, Th e German s h ep h e rd w h o roamed in thP a ll ey . Th e a ll ey wa s mo s t l y Br ow n paint and grey fenc es Di rty bro k e n cement and a l ot of mud No garbage and no c at s . Onl y R ex a r ound !-Omew h er e . At o n e end my r iads of good tasting peppermint p l ants Gre w wild in the dirt patches next to the Gara ges. For s hort wee k s in the Spring Th e r e was a l i l ac bu s h-tre e. Every Sp r ing it came . lust b ur sting a ll ove r the p l ace with Th e heavie s t bun c h es o f g rap e -fl owe r s . Ri ght across from it And down a · way came ro se When th e lil acs we r e gone. Swarm of roses al l over the p l ace . Cl i mbers th ey were, b ea rl y hanging on To a once white t rest l e at R ex's house . On ce , when I was a boy We a ll pl an n e d a day at th e ocean . .- \.II week l on g we planned And waited fo r Satu rday. L unches prep are d th e nigh t b efore Tow e l s , Suit s , L otion, Blank ets, R adio, Can opene r , S t ove and C har coa l a nd M a t c h es . Weather m en agreed : A perfect day . Everyo n e all se t. BRO. MICHAEL GOLDRICK, F.M.S. T H E VA L UE OF ID LENES S - T H R O UC H A PP REC I A TIO N H e wa s wa l k i ng dow n th e s tr ee t. Th e day wa s go o d - - h e f e h co n t e n t. Hi s han d s w e r e fr e e o f it e ms and were fo un d in h i s po c k e t s ; h e c o uld turn h is h ea d fro m s id e t o s i d e w i t h o u t t h e h ind ran ce o f a co llar t o d i s t r ac t hi s att e nt io n . T he d ay wa s w a rm , a s o n e wit hout t e mper at ur e . Hi s h ead wa s clea r --vi s i o n, s ha rp. Thin gs t oo k a d e finit e form a nd h e was a Ll e t o l o o k a t d e t a il s a nd think on th e m. Hi s mu s cl es , h i s e ntir e b o d y wa s lo ose- -hi s eve r y mo ve ment mo v e m e nt e a s y an d fl o wing . Hi s h air wa s b ac k - fr ee o n hi s h e ad a nd h e f e lt a s fr es h a s th e s h o w e r h e had ju s t t a k e n . Hi s fee t w e r e li g ht ; w a lkin g c am e na t ural , without ha v ing t o w ill it. Thi s d ay h e wa s mea nt to walk , as s ome d a y s h e wa s m ea nt t o s it a n d think- a n d h e w a s w alking . Th e s tre e t wa s fr ee fr om p e opl e - so h e c ould b e n a tural a n d n o t w orr y ab o ut both e rin g o th e r s o r b e ing b o th e red them. Hi s dr ess wa s th e u s ual--but--cloth es se em e d t o fit th a t day s o th a t h e didn't eve n f ee l th e ir wei g ht or pull o n him. H e kn e w th e h o ur wa s e arly and th e da y w o uld be long a nd full. The s l o w co ol br e e ze th a t wa s th e br e ath of the day brought o nl y a cl e an, p ure s m e ll- -a s m e ll th a t wa s th e a b se n ce of odor , and it w as goo d becau s e it wa s n't foul a s it so metime s was. Th e r e wa s n ' t s omethin g m o r e in th e e l e m e nt s of the day. It wa s o nly th a t it wa s fr e e o f th e thing s that might bother him. A n o th e r day h e mi g ht n o t e njo y th e cool br e eze because hi s f e el hurt a s s om eo n e e l s e t o day mi g ht n o t e njoy that s ame coo l br e eze. But thi s da y th e thin gs that ar e tak e n for grant e d weren't t a k e n fo r grant e d. All th e s e wonderfully s impl e thin gs w e re pr e s e nt; but w h a t w as m o r e , he knew the y w e re present; he wa s aware of th em and h e appr e ciated th e m. H e lift ed hi s h ea d, lo o k e d up, hi s hand s st ill i n hi s p oc kets and just s aid thank s , l a u g hed , and th en walked on . Thanks b o th for th e day wit h it s beauty, but a l s o and even more for th e abi li ty to se e and f ee l and know thi s b ea uty. He wa s very h ap py t o b e a li ve. So h e w as wa lki ng then, enjoyi n g him s elf a s w e ll a s en- joy in g th e d ay. H e was walki n g, o n o n e si de of the s tr eet , an d th e n s t o pp e d. It wa s n't a s udden s t op; he j u s t stopped walking, a s h e h a d been walking, without any th o u g ht of wa lki ng. So h e stood th ere without an y thou g ht of s topping. Th en h e de c id ed t o cross th e s tre e . Th e o th er s ide wa s the sa me, had nothing mo r e t o off er, there wa s no lo gica l r e ason to c ro ss, but then ther e wa s no l og i c a l r eason t o be walking e ither. So he crossed the s tre e t. H e cou ldn 't tell him self why h e crosse d. H e only knew that h e felt like it. Th e n h e wa s glad h e wa s able t o do what he had felt like doing. Then h e wa s very g l ad. And h e k ept on walking. W e are the s on s of s moke and fire, W e s hun o ur blackened co gnomens, We hav e o nly thi s moment, a n in s tant Trapped between a s he s and the s tar s Lik e a wi s p o f s m o k e li ngering Be s id e a half •ope n e d window. Ours may b e the rare glimmering o f day to pi e r ce the ve lvet mask, T he first ray of v e rnal s unli g h t T o nutur e fallow pa s ture s , The l as t s un se t to paint th e s ky. RICHARD J. CARN PETER PETROCELLI TWO ONCE LOVE The soft Autumn s un Cast it s go ld en drops Through the yellowed Leave s of Summer's lif e, And so ftly made li ght Of two once love. Touched by the honied rays, Shadowed by the fa ding trees, They see med unreal, Captured in a dream, Two hearts On a velvet carpet, With Summer's l ast flower The on l y eye To s ee. They l ifted a so ng Both sad and sweet, That faded into the J . i ght coo l breeze, Caught in th e breath Of Summer ' s waning. But s l ow l y Th e s hadow s grew longer, And the s un Began to s li p Beh . ind the darkened trees; Summer's last flower Fading into the s hadow Of a passing cloud. · They stopped And l oo k ed up; And a co ld wind Touched their face, Ch ill ed deep Two heart s , Who had once love, JAMES M. CROTEAU MY L AS T FALLA CY Lord, let me say thi s be th e la st fallacy This in since rity, That uncharity, My b ana lit y . But L ord, let me say this be The La s t... . For s u ch i s to co nquer in def eat. B. FALLACY THE COC O NU T P J \LM ] la ve> you ever s e e n a coco nut tn ·c, H e r s l e nder arms Embra c ing th e ge ntle breeze? Lo! Th e lofty height s a tt a in e d, Th e o ce an wind whistle s pa s t lfor wai s t. lla ve yo u eve r see n a coco nut tr ee , B end ing h er s lim body T owa rd s the rocky sea Where the s urgin g foam Ki sses the s andy bea c h. Start l ed Wh e n a fi s hmon ger <lrop s by With a flurry s queak? l l ,w1 • yo u se en, to, a coconu t tr ee , Cas tin g h er roving g l ance Upon th e kid s Th a t dan c e aro und her with Tlw n w rry beat s : "Cce-0-Ce e -O-eN-U-Tcc"'? - T o iling under the roa s t ing heat , Grimming when offered the cool and delicious Coco -jui ce. Of these th ey s in g a n d mor e . B e h o l d th e greedy littl e pi ggies, We ll -fed and health y, Grunt in j oyous content And s niff for more c oconut food! Th ey s ing, too, in tones m e l anc holi c, Of th ings di s tre ss ful and unhappy. Of naughty monkey s jo un c in g up and down their arm s R e nding off their littl e ones t o da s h them to th e gro un d. And finally, o f hi s tory pa s t, Wh e n Fran c i s Xav i er c ur se d the tip s y Indi ans Who drank o f the arrack, Th e toddy made from coco- s ap, And cas t away th e co mmand s , a ll ten! Night is nigh and fast blow s the wind, In ceaseless gossips and multiple gestures; The coconu t palms Stand Their ground. BRO. THOMAS NG TE DEUM The twig and the acorn * Prai se You. The s tone s and oceans * Praise You. Two human being s In lo ve too. But that man with a gun- Who makes blood run red - Who re ce iv es hi s worship? I s it a s ilver eag l e and E Pluribus Unum?-Whose Banner to o run s red- Striped with the blood of men. Up then twigs, acorns, stones, Oceans and l overs - s ave him From an unworthy god. BRO. PATRICK FORSYTH , F.M.S. RAIN The dull roll of thunder, the cloudburst- Pe lt ing rain And I am driven back, And I remember When thunder and lightn i ng, And rain and rushing torrent s S ee med the most powerfu l Forces in the wor l d. And I remember t h e Victorian armchairs and the Upright piano, and that box Of playthings-companions m Those ear l y years, those L one l y years bu t bea u ty-- Filled, when each new day Spoke of new life And every object in sight Shone l ike a l ea f of ivy, Still wet with drop s from the storm, O r g l owed like a Rainbow, stretched over the Hou s etops. And I remember others Who l oved the r ain; Who s hared with me These moment s ; And , perhaps, they still Love the rain, And, perhaps, they see And hear and fee l it As I do now . The clouds pass, The sun emerges And drie s the earth . "And what i s so rare as a day in J u ne?" What i s so rare, what is so rare? Perhaps a yellow-red day in October, Or a b l ue-gray day in November? What is so rare as the l onging For l eisure and re s t and for - for what? For you, or for someone who knows What it is about October and November, when the world dies and Leaves me with only - Cruel remembrance s of summer p l easures Shared with those who knew? With those who knew, With you . BRO. J. SULLIVAN, F.M.S. r he may express will in th e course of tim e be reject e d . A work of ar l mu s t be a genuine product of th e c reator' s soul. Only then will our arti s tic awarene ss be activated. We r espond to the spiritual quality of 1h e work, it s forms, it s s trokes and its ge nuin e rea son for bein g. 1t i s thi s inter s ubj ec livity of the ar li s t that r e l ates t o th e v i e w e r. Each man po sse~sees thi s "inner )if e " , and a s man c omes int o con ta c t with th e expres s ion o f a n inn e r !if e in visib l e form , h e re s ponds in an e motional way. Often when the arti s t h ears s omeone s ay, "I c annot relate to any abstrac t paintin g", h e ex p er ience s g ri e f for that i~di - v idual. F o r thi s individual ha s never tak en tim e out to lo ok into hi s ow n b e in g, l o see k kn o wl e dge o f him se lf. A man s ensitive to his own being, lo realit y around him and to the experience o f others, ha s l itt l e, if any diffi c ulty, in r ela tin g t o abstract art. "Nothing c an contain more clari t y, harmony, and u n ity than a work that i s th e o ut co me of co ntemplation, for co ntem• plation i s not in extricab ly b o und to tp e physi ca l a s pects of thin gs. " A work of art i s the fu s in g of sen s iti v ity t o phy s ical r e ality and the involm e nt- -co nt e mplati on of the "image-within -him o f t h e C reativ e Cod." Thu s : the sp lendor of truth. The tru e arti s t i s frt>e! He ha s mad e him se lf free , not b o und by conven ti ons a nd preferences o f th e world, but by truth and him se lf. H e rein lie s hi s fre e dom •· truth to self ! He li ve~ to thi s point. Hi s inn e r world ha s lib erated him from mythi c al notion s o f r ea lit y , tho se noti ons th a t ha ve b een d e fined, delineat e d and died. H e g i ve s th e world a s piritual-p e r so nal v i s ion through hi s art. It i s h e re, in th e dept h s of hi s _ being that th e artist is able t o balance th e i nner world of ex perien ce with the out e r world of reality ; it i s th ro u g h thi s my s tical ex p e rience that the arti s t ex pl odes on c anva s , to e xpo se him se lf to the world, in order that hi s work may in time exper ience truth. BRO. OONAl.0 HA UGHEY, F.M.S , A C HILD My dream s are pi e r ce d by a crying c h i ld, and I in terror, wonder if I am that child, A lo s t c hild, trapped between th e ear th a nd s ky, ca u g ht b e t ween th e night and day, touching both, ye t tou ching n e ither. C ry not c hild! Leave t o me my pea ce. I f ea r you, fo r yo ur c ryin g s tir s me . You are I - a nd yo u vo ice my fears: th e fear of tou c hing o ther s a nd o f reach ing none; and that of b e ing trapped - ca ught within my s elf - alone. I hear yo u ch ild. I h ea r your crie s . But I impl ore yo ur pity. L ea ve m e be, l est I cry a l o ud th e torment that i s you - for you are I. R. A. Guss REFLECTIONS I. We sit and talk Of nothing. Time passes. Years pass. Now I walk a l ong t he river-- And think Of that nothing. So important now . II. Security is something That tells you Peace is within you . And peace is nothing More or le ss Than going in the right direction. III. Vermont s umm e r s co me by in my mind again . They always seem to pop up when I'm happy (' s funny . .I always seem to be happy when they pop in) An yway, I j u s t wanted to say H o w nic e are Vermont s um mer aftetnoons . Why? Fo r no saya ble thin g . Somet hi ng there i s that doe sn 't l ove a wa ll. That want s it down. It i s tru e . An d good wa ll s , as every b ody kn ows, r ea lly, D o n't make goo d neighbors. Ce rtainly. But so m e thing th ere i s about th e o l d, old stone Ne w Eng l and wal ss Tha t wants th em ju t the way th ey are. No t as barriers to th e meldin g ex peri e n ce But, well, ju s t a s crazy lin es drawn a l o n g a s urfa ce o f ground. Lines o f individuality. ot a fen c ing in or a fen c in g out; n o division s h e re. Ju s t lin e s . H e lt er-s k elter, wandering lin es . Line s of s pontaneity. (Not p l aced thu s wi se but rediscovered so .) Bno. 11 CHAEL GoLDRICK , F.M.s. Well, it was a horrible day, that day, Except for counting the r abbit s along the parkway And save for t he unexoe c ted thunderstorm l ate in the day That threw a ll our preparations to the wind , And sent u s fleeing from frothy breaker s Grabbing out at our little squa r e plot of picnic. When I was a boy, 1 saw T wo rain drops Racing each other Down a window pane. H alted by dust The left lagged behind. As the right merged with another And ru s hed on down to the finish line. And became a drop l et no more. But now a puddle. COUP D'ETAT When I was a boy, I saw a broom stick stand ing in th e snow . A now man's scepter. It wasn't doing anything, It wa s ju s t s tanding th e re. I kicked it o v er. Why, because it was n't doing anything, I t was just standing there. KNOCKING Along Broadway, milli o n s of apartm e nt w ind ow s light, And I wonder .... How does each man know which door to go to - How doe s he k n ow there will be room once open? BRO. MICHAEL GOLDRICK , F.M.S. GERALD MILLER PRAYER FOR AN UNBORN SON One of u s , God willing, W ill liv e t o see The year two th ou s and, \'X 1 ith capsu l e food And pla s ti c tr ees , Metalli c wom b s, And synt h etic god s . One of us, God wi llin g , Will die t oday. SCHOOL BUS Ye llo w Cate rpillar C r aw l ing on yo ur way Mu s t you s lop t o gobb l e kid s For s u c h times as th i s, we who ru s h to punch Th e do c k, mu s t s top. LO VF. - Our l o\'e i s not a gent l e l oYc, Fawn-like in it s capaci t y F«-,r tenderne ss , a lt hough thi s is. It ' s rath e r, rock- l i k e in its s trength. It' s h onest as the farme r' s swe at , And fre e as o nl y fr ee can be, And d1,manding nothing, it gives a ll. BEAUTY - Man, the moral cripp l e searc h es blindly. Endless hours in searc h of go ld e n l adders . A lone a blind man s p ea k s, "It i s not good that man s hould be a lon e . " And a le g l ess l eper rolled over t o him I n clum s y e l oquence -tr.e y clamor upward For only they can walk and see. I NTROSPECTION - I l ooked within myself And th e carniva l stopped l n the m i dd l e of a rid e. - GENES I S A boy P l aying with a g un, In wartorn Normandy . Surprise! a s kull , s till th ere! H ow hollow was his yo uth. H ow rea l his tears b ecame Through t ears, a joy un kn own to him. Throug h joy God pr ofo und. From Cod, through joy throu g h tear s, A man. FR AN MUR PHY STILLNESS - When you lose the sense of time, Yet, there is no dread, Just an unknowing . ll,ssimilation Into all live s and die s, Place soon disintegrates too. You miss a po sition le ss , As you s lip in a si lv er of breeze To land encased in greeness. Then, comes a song from the distance, But no one is near And yet you hear The throated melody. You sigh and realize That your place and time are now But no longer Here. WILUAM J. 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