CONTRIBUTORS TO THE OCTOBER NUMBER EDA LOU WALTON resides in Berkeley, California. ARTHUR R. CURRY is a graduate student in the University of Illinois. DELMAR GROSS COOKE, L. L. CLICK, and STANLEY ROYAL ASHBY are members of the English Department of the University of Texas. J. F. SCHELTEMA lives in New Haven, Connecticut. CLARA M. PARKER is adjunct professor of the art of teaching in the University of Texas. J. FRANK DOBIE is engaged in business in San Antonio, Texas. VERSES BY EDA LOW WALTON Into the Stillness of Your Grief Into the stillness of your grief Tracing in wet gold a leaf Against your window pane. Look up, for all of space is filled With mist of me. The lane Brightens from quiet emptiness Hands Cool hands, long fingered, Like pale lilies drifting across my weary eyes, With petaled water bathing My tired throat free from a million lies, I have known you, cool hands. Strong hands, thick wristed, Like steel wires steadying my awkward soul, Wrenching me back from tottering To stand erect and firmly whole, I have known you, strong hands. Tense hands burning Like red coals of thin-shingled pine which turn Quickly to ashes blown out by the wind, My cluttered leaves of thinking catch and burn Remembering you, tense hands. They Have Built Them Many Houses They have built them many houses Fat, red houses, squat, brown houses, Pushing and crowding toward the sun-lit bay, They have built them many houses And at night they light the way Backed by the shadowed forests, With fat, red lamp-lights, squat, green lamp-lights, Qualified lamplights hidden away, With bold white lamp-lights, pale, gold lamp-lights, Flickering out in the purple bay Under an Umbrella Thick drops whispering about me Rushing gutter streams which skelter, Thin thoughts whispering about me Slushing at my feet I see Shiny rubbers, shoes that pelter Spats of oozy mud on me. |