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BISHOP'S UNIVERSITY NEW MITRE STUDENT PUBLICATION 74/75 LENNOXVILLE, QUEBEC EDITOR: Richard Price EDITORIAL BOARD: Herbert Bailey As a result of problems of finance and of length, the publication and release Andrew Bank of this issue of the NEW M ITR E has Doug Buchanan been delayed until now. The editor David O'Rourke sincerely apologizes for this excessive Richard Price and extraordinary lateness. It is hoped Ian Stephens that the material herein will provide a small compensation to those who have been either upset or bewildered by the BUSINESS: Paul W. Trollope situation. And to the people who contri buted material and, in darkness, have ADVERTISING: Paul W. Trollope been forced to wait to see their work Richard Price in print: thank you for contributing, and a special apology. GENERAL Richard Price ASSISTANCE: Susan Kayser Alan S. Atkinson DEPOT LEGAL - BIBLIOTHEQUE NATIONALE DU QUEBEC This issue of the NEW MITRE is dedicated to the memory of DR. RODERICK P. THALER and THE REV. SIDNEY JELLICOE the NEW MITRE: $1.00 per copy 1 CONTENTS Poetry Prose alan s. atkinson / 60-64, 67 ralph gustafson / A NEST OF ANGLOPHONE BIRDS / 69 herbert bailey / 42 david o'rourke / PHONECALL / 37 eva baldwin / 55-56 david o'rourke / THADDEUS / 29 andrew bank / 40-41 ronald reeve / THE SPURIOUS COONERIST / 27 leah bradshaw / 56 doug buchanan / 6-9 malcolm curtis / 53 nelson gonyer / 51-53 ralph gustafson / 83-84 Photography / Graphics joan hanson / 10 george a. browne / 14 john hanson / 55 Stephen cunnane / 57 lucy doheny / 13 brenda hartwell / 10 cathy echenberg / 48, 81 Catherine isely / 59 heather husolo / 4 Catherine isely / 65 doug jones / 49-50 susan kayser / 58 robert macpherson / 16, 24, 28, scott lawrence / 15 43, 46, 47, 76, 78 james messenger / 26 jon morel / 54 david o'rourke / 31- 36, 38-40 lee pomeroy / 44-45 rick rhodes / 66 lynn pageau / 5 laurie waller / 72 richard price / 17- 23, 25-26 linda wing / 68 ian Stephens / 11-12 2 3 THE OLD MEN Whirling eddies of November leaves whisper about their feet. They shuffle through them alone go towards empty flats with their beer. Sometimes they meet, chat in lobbies then take the elevator, the old men. lynn pageau AFTER THE SN O W STORM Whipped by a riotous wind, shoals and eddies edge a wild, frozen sea: delicate curves of light and dark revealed by bright sun. A bird hops the crest of a frozen wave. A hard, white expanse exhibits a line of dark trees sharp against a brisk sky: snow-blown fields after a wind-blown storm. dedicated to Claudette lynn pageau 5 WINTER and snow drifts flamed in the night. Then the prayer was answered It was a hard winter. in her presence Ice froze in troughs and under eaves. and the beasts Mysteries moved moaned in their shivering stalls. in the still of the trees Over iron hay and stone and the straw barns, she stepped and the owls kept the cold to where she melted into words in their icicle-omened feathers. by his side. There, the man kneeled on stone In the slow, cold fire and called the flame of love she melted. but the fire broke hard by the iron wood, The night settled its weight and all the clear birds of the wood on stone and ice, listened at his stone, cold gate. and his breath was as pale as the ghost of snow. His skull was full Cold of the flurry of wings, of birds shivered under the eaves. splitting the air like flames. And a single set of footprints On the floor among ice, marked out a crazy path he called out to the birds over a season’s horizon. and the beasts in the slow fire of the woods. The birds and the beasts Branches snapped in their sleeves froze solid and cast white shadows in the ashes of the wood. on the woolly cabin roof. douglas buchanan Inside, his dream was born in pain. A prayer: CAM PING to the flying birds and curling fire smoke, Carefully to the breath in the wind we move through the trees, and the shadow under snow, taking care where we step. to the warm blood huddling Around our heads under the window skin. branches play cruel, grasping games, revealed Then, in a heave of light, even through the skin of leaves. the snow brought forth miracles of snow. In these parts, Ghosts walked the white paths the trees become 6 7 coldly aware RETURN at dusk. I could tell you more The sun rising but the fire gives out. out of broken, white I hear the sound eggshells, of approaching birds. climbing over the dusty ledge They have beaked thoughts. into the window; leaving the table covered I will withdraw with crumbs to my nylon stockade like a violent relief: and hope that the coming sunscape. storm deals only in rain. The clock ticking at time, douglas buchanan cats rustling softly over the dirty floor. The room as you left it. The sun rising, THE END the preparation of food (through engorgement to excretion) Buzz of flies processes to complete. in this room make it late afternoon. The knock on the door. The sun begins to warm a uniformly cold day Spilled coffee but the shadows are already long. dripping onto the dirty floor, In the woods the cats crouching in fear is silence. in the dusty corners. Lone geese pass overhead avoiding the building. I advance to the door, You can almost hear revenge the leaves turning red in my hands; yellow and brown. but your face is obscured If one was to write by the sun. would that be the only important thing? The shadows are already long. douglas buchanan douglas buchanan 8 9 I FRAGMENTI NIHILIST I was so happy when you said that you write poetry. I am a passing cloud It made you seem a little more like me, to You the Sun And that is something that I at last can deal with. I will take the blame • • • for rain The shadows creeping stealthily across the wall Tell me that you should have been here long ago. You will take the credit • • • for flowers I awoke from my daydreaming to find the day gone, and every The sun cut loose, drifting, floating away, sun tan Sliding down its color-river, in Miami. Sinking slowly behind a great wall of dark trees. My coffee grown cold, scraps of song scrawled here and there, ian Stephens Lay forgotten as I sat and wondered— Will I ever see you again? • • • The houses crouch contentedly on the hillside; Yellow squares mark habitation. I like to peek inside the uncurtained windows As I saunter past. Saturday Eventide joan hanson and I’m missing the cast party and the dancing kisses beer, wine, etc. joints of marihuana Drugs RAINY SPRING WALK and kicking greasers outa ma way and with this blond baby the wet road reflected sharing my armpit tender-leafed trees, fluffy bloated clouds a cigarette dangles from her lips and a she’s tough red-breasted robin she’s with the boss with a worm dangling. ian Stephens i stepped on them. brenda Hartwell 10 Really don’t feel like a million dollars today tonight New Year’s Eve alone watching Guy Lombardo usher in another and another and another all over again. ian Stephens Oh yes it wasn’t too long far back in time when in the dark we traded cold kisses in the snow below zero drunk knowing we’re through ian Stephens 12 7 QUESTION If I approached you and told you how often my nightlamp has been asking about you Or how intensely it pleads to become acquainted with your tiny inquisitive breasts and taut pompous buttocks Or how urgently it awaits the opportunity to absorb your conversation as well as your silence Would you imagine that a complex scheme was being enacted with you as an unfortunate element in its shrewd machinery Or would you admit that you are sitting single in a black and hollow room shaking scott lawrence NIG HT POEM A symphony of nightbugs chanting anthems to a Silence that satisfied lovers protect like a tear scott lawrence 14 george FIRST ENCOUNTER: FACE TO FACE You flatter me terribly. You open your stable, Bring out a horse — Black, three heads, Big as a dragon — Say: Ride! Ride this Twice around the field And my orchard is yours. We don’t even know names; I have still just arrived; And I think there is some mistake. You see, dear lady, I’m working, Working my way up North, Building fences, building walls Of invisible stone and brick. richard price A POEM FOR LONELY HOUSEWIVES the day you prayed against has come to the door a little man capped with a memory for you, lady the wind sucks at your eyes pulls at your ragged hair your shoes fill with water rise now I tell you go on down to the station catch a ride to the coast where the ocean slobbers and roars for your soul like Leviathan drunk on a Friday night get along to the coast to the beaches, to the waves where your body will turn STYLE rise and spread a flower on a wave crest again and again Is it sincerity till you’re a carpet that makes me write, and cover the water I still love you? can be walked on Grew tall toward richard price the sun, with the light reached for a noticeable life.

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