Puppets

MAURICE JACQUES VALENCY

College of the City of New York

"Tis a weird procession, dearest,
That is passing by his throne -
How he chuckles at our capers,
And we think he hears us groan.

Oh, they make him shake with laughter-
'Tis the only sound he hears —
The grimaces stamped upon us
'Neath the burning, bitter tears.

Poor and puny little devils,
Hemmed in by his mighty lore, -
Those behind are pressing on us,
We must press on those before.

If the game that he delights in
Lies in making such as we-
Puny, miserable puppets,
What a puppet he must be!

"Tis a dark, dim path we follow,
And the millions that precede
Wear it deeper in and deeper
We must follow where they lead.

And the motley's graven on us -
Caper, laugh! On!-play your rôle,
And when endless time is ended
Fling him back his wretched soul.

The Prospector

WILLIAM ELLWELL ONIONS

He stands,

University of California

His wistful eyes under his knotted hands
Watching the glow of the golden skies.

The slow wind croons to the barren dunes.

His beast

With drooping head faces the gloomy east.
Watching the ridge of the hill-tops red,

And the slow wind croons to the barren dunes.

He stands

And the glory dies. Cooling the burning sands, Over his shadow the mountains rise.

The day is for quest, but night is for rest.

And beast,

And weary man turn to the simple feast,
Fitting the immemorial plan:

The day is for quest, but night is for rest.

Packing House Poems

RICHARD MORROW STEINER

Grinnell College

THE KILLERS

Beef sluggers, pig stickers, slitters of lambs'

throats;

You with your leaden conscience!

Do you see visions of pastoral peace?

Do your nostrils catch the warm sweet wind
Blowing over acres of blue grass

And closely matted clover?

Or are your imaginations dulled

By the grim reality

Of lowing cattle, squealing pigs, and silent sheep?

SHEEP

Silly creatures crowding to the killing floor,

Led by one black sheep

To the never-ceasing slaughter.

Led to your death, by one trained to the task. Oh, how like men you are!

QUITTING TIME

Stockyard streets,

Glassy in the torrid sun,

Habitat of vile sights and viler stenches,
Suddenly filled with old men,

Young boys not yet begun to shave,
Stenographers, lips one scarlet scream,

Big, burly negroes, doffing bloody aprons,
All, all bound in one mad, crescendo rush for
Home!

FROM A SHEEP SKINNING FLOOR

Hey ho! A grisly job is yours,

Stripping the skin off small lambs' backs!
Slitting and slashing with short sharp knives,
Keeping apace with the moving racks.
Singing a song with a darky strain,
Whistling a tune from a musical show,
Dancing a jig on the bloody floor,
Crooning a lullaby, soft and low,
And still you slash, and still you rip,
Stripping the skin off small lambs' backs!
Hey ho! A grisly job is yours,

Yet you're merry beside the ghastly racks!