Willows Revisited

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under the chin as he did so and said, "Honey, you dont know yourIndians." Moreover it has also been pointed out that there was no birch-bark in Saskatchewan and that the baby's pants would probably have been made of Hudson's Bay four-point blanket. Nevertheless, it shows the mothers concern for her child and together with Sarah Binks "LlTTLE PAPOOSE it has been included in the school readers of Saskatchewan.MOTHERS SONGBlessings on you, little man, Born complete with coat of tan, And that's a blessing for me too, For now you're Piegan, Cree, or Sioux � Unless you fade by any chance, Barefooted boy in birch-bark pants.Blessings on you, little son, Shades like yours should never run, Just see they don't, then comes your way Five big dollars treaty day; So blessings on your little head, Barefooted boy �at least you're red!Graduation poems seemed to appeal to Wraitha. At least it was after her graduation dance at St. Midgets when, unable to get to sleep, she wrote TO JOE COLLEGE, in which she visualizes the an future success of some of the male graduates and expresses her willingness not to stand in the way of their careers:Some day, you say, you'll reach the top, Aggressive, strong, conformy, But if you dont, my Sweet, and drop, I'll shed no tears �you bore me.Some day you'll drive a Cadillac, With precious Jewels bedeck me � But get you stroke or cardiac � Well, not a thought to wreck me.You'll be a big executive, Your name, you say, on Wall Street, But if they never let you live � I'm not the one to bawl, Sweet.And though I listen to your dreams, And say, success attend you, My wandering mind must dwell, It seems, On ust the place to send you.
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It was not a particularly popular poem with her classmates whose attitude towards the male graduates, particularly those In Engineering was not the same as Wraitha's. But on the other hand her little poem called DULLING UP which was probably inspired by the course in cosmetology for which St. Midgets is famous, proved to be so popular with all her sorority sisters that they began adding verses of their own until forbidden by theDean of Women;DOLLING UPBlue Is the color of your true love's hair And green her eyes 'are lidded, And red her lips beyond compare, And all her toe-nails �ibid.And n'er was gal for your delight, Adorned and robed, completer, And never star did shine more bright, And never rose smell sweeter:And never lass came more equipped With virgin thoughts to send up, Or all prepared with word and wit To hold her social end up:And yet despite such bright array, So she'll be wooed and wedded, like me best when cats are grey-Alone and bare and bedded.Graduation in Home Economics actually came as something ofa shock for Wraitha and she felt it keenly. Not only was she now to be no longer under the care and concern of deans and demonstrators at St. Midgets, but she was suddenly being thrust into a world in which she had to depend upon herself and make her^own decisions. But, much more than that with graduation came a sense of leaving behind her the springtime of life. It was to become atheme which occurs again and again in her work and its first poeticexpression, although notjas later so explicit, found its outlet in HAST MILK TO SPARE, a poem which definitely enrolls her among Saskatchewan poets;
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73HAST MILK TO SPARE.Hast milk to spare, oh cow, then let The lacteal bounty flow for me, And give In unrestricted jet The vitamines from A to G.Happy and fretless be your lot Nor let your private problems vex, Lest, sadly, C and E are shot � The antiscorbutic ones, and sex.Let never inhibitions fix In you those concentrates of youth, But give them � all too soon we mix The gin and orange-juice and vermouth.Distill each careless day and free, And pass along in white and wet, The A and B and C and D, And so on � down the alphabet.It is a brilliant poem;although some maintain that it is a hard brilliance, an intellectual brilliance lacking any real feeling for the cow. It certainly does not partake of that affection which is so often seen in Saskatchewan poets and which Sarah Binks, for example, expresses when she speaks of the cow as having "a breath like ale" and a nose which is "plush-like and warm But Saskatchewan has come far since those days. The cow has become a symbol, an abstraction, perhaps even a philosophical idea, certainly no longer a living being to be nurtured and petted and enfolded in loving arms; and perhaps except in the case of such humble and simple-minded poets as the immigrant, Purge Potatok, will it ever again be. Poetry too must make its sacrifice to progress. But there is nevertheless a personal sadness running through HAST MILK TO SPARE which, In the end, a cow could share. It is unfair to say as some of Wraitha's feminine critics have said, that it is a mere expertise in biochemistry written from one who has just graduated in Home Economics and that Wraltha's real concern is not the cow but vitamin E. The truth is that^rlghtly or wrongly a Wraitha felt
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that 3he was leaving something forever. HAST MILK TO SPARE Is her clamant call to her departing youth � a farewell to her girlhood. Graduation is always a milestone In young lives^and in addition Wraltha had Just suffered another broken heart. And it is indeed fortunate that at this critical time she had the friendship and good influence of Professor Bedfellow who directed her interests towards poetry and enabled her to recover as quickly as she did. And in spite of John Swivel who regards any suggestion of time's passing as being an encroachment upon his own privatepoetic field and who has stated that Wraitha's HAST MILK TO SPARE is merely an expression of frustrated motherhood, her cow-poem still stands as the finest to have ever come out of the West and is being sung at every dairymens convention from Winnipeg to Vancouver.Wraitha seems to have regarded her education in Home Economics as having opened to her a hidden wealth of knowledge and learning. But she tends to overestimate its Intellectual content. She speaks of powers that might enable her to pierce the veil of truth and "the craftiness of learning" as a burden which she will be happy to lay aside. Indeed in her NOW IT IS DONE she even departs for once from the affairs of the heart and becomes a child of Saskatchewan in that she discovers the fields of wild mustard and the occasional field of flax. These at least Wraitha could always see, even though she could never have told the difference between wheat and barley nor have cared to know;
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75NOW IT IS DONE.Now it ia done � let others oil the turning Of that old wheel of wisdom 'til they die, For me at least the craftiness of learning^ Has turned upon itself �and I am I! And I am I again � the rut and rubble Of that wise world where only sages speak, Is gone �once more the sunlight on the stubble, Is poured for me, once more upon my cheek, The rain, the prairie rain, will beat and bluster, And warm, wet earth will breathe beneath the plough And yellow in the sun the field of mustard, And blue the flax will blossom for me now.But the relief of leaving a world 'Where only sages speak" and where the wheel of wisdom turns endlessly upon Itself is short-lived. She becomes aware of the fact that what she has learned cannot so easily be laid aside and that it has been acquired at the expense of something which to her is very precious and can never be regained �her youth. "Life's only spring" she calls it, And this sense of loss, whether it is to be of love or youth becomes for her a recurrent theme. CLOCK STAY. THY HAND may be her farewell to St. Midgets, but she was to know many farewells, each more poignant than the last. Her poetry henceforth was to be a long pain, and she has an amazing ability for imparting it to her readers. Her heart never completely heals, and she never gets used to it. And we must say this for the sad Wraitha � she never becomes Jaded or cynical, and though her heart breaks as easily now as in the year of her graduation and though for her the clock has never stayed its hand, she remains forever young in spirit.CLOCK STAY THY HAND.Clock, stay thy hand, I have not sought those powers That learning brings to pierce the veil of truth, Or Wisdom's sight �I'd trade it for those hours, You've taken from my own uncertain youth; And now, like birds their distant summers seeking, My simple heart must take its own swift wing � But Time, Oh Time, I'd leave within your keeping, All knowledge could you leave life's only spring.
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Wraitha may remain forever young in spirit but shecertainly has misgivings and occasionally it seems she also hasregrets. Two poems, LOVE CAME IN MY HEART and HO/USE UNFURNISHED, look back with a sad nostalgic longing to some of her young dreams which never became realityLOVE CAME IN MY HEARTLove came in my heart one summer day, And left again with summer's fleeting smile, And Heart, all lonesome, cried aloud, "Oh stay, And warm me with your presence yet awhile." But Love did leave, and leaving brushed my lips, In careless gesture with his finger tips.But Love's light touch has left a deeper ache, Than Heart, all lonesome could have known before, And Heart cries, "love, of heartless Love, to So little gift from that abundant store, So little, who could every treaure keep, Not give at all � and leave my heart asleep."HOUSE UNFURNISHEDwho have always kept Ordered heart, and neat, Fearing Love might leave unswept, Signs of muddy feet, Taking thought lest Love might seeHeart in wild dishevel � .Maiden, let out parting be On the same high level. Maiden, would you now regret Virtue unrewarded, Or let a vagrant doubt upset, A heart so neatly ordered? Love could only leave a card, In house so neatly burnished � Maiden, try now to regardThe place, at least as furnished.Here we have that A sense of complete and utter desolationwhich is carried over into all her poetry. Those of her critics �and they are invariably feminine critics �who say that her hearthas not been broken but that it is merely cracked, and add thatWraitha has had a thoroughly a good time in her day and is nowmerely writing about it by putting her heart in a glass case, are
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77moved by envy as much perhaps -for the good time she is presumed to have had, as fee her talent in referring to it lyrically. But such critics misread Wraitha Dovecote. The truth is that Wraitha actually suffers, and although her distress may, in the accepted sense, be a spiritual rather than a physical suffering, it is no less real than, for example, John Swivel's gas on the stomach. Moreover, despite her still obvious charm, her youth is passing and she is very much aware of it. Or it may be that because of her repeatedly broken heart she regards herself as being older than she actually is and feels that her suffering and experience and not merely the count of years are the measure of her life. She certainly writes more and more as if all her happiness were in the distant past. If she were not actually looking ahead in her poem, SOME DAY one might almost say that she was already old; SOME DAY. Some day I know the time will come to sit, Before the tepid hearth and warm my knees, And huddle close, and watch the shadows pass Across the faded screen of memories And then some day I'll think of you, and know That deep within that desiccated shell There is one ember, yours, that still can glow, And leap to sudden flame and warm It well; And laughing winds of yesteryear will sweep Across the flame, with love's forgotten art � And I, in sweet abandon, once more keep, Some tryst of wild adventure of the heart.The same theme of past youth and happiness but with perhaps more resignation is expressed in the exquisite little verse she sent to her friend and mentor, Professor Bedfellow, last Christmas when apparently her heart seemed to be giving her more than the usual trouble. Anniversaries and holidays always bring out Wraitha's best poetic expresson.
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78CHRISTMAS GREETINGSOnce more the Christmas Greetings greet, Once more the log is on the fire,To warm again cold hearts and feet,That mark the passing of desire,And memories of passions spent, And whispered words again are new, When love, exhausted and content, Enfolds again the thought of you.It is doubtful whether Wraltha Dovecote, in spite of her award of the Order of Merit will ever he enrolled by Saskatchewan among the greats of that province. She has an undoubted poetic charm and her broken-heartedness has a wide appeal, but she is nevertheless too withdrawn. She escapes life, and despite the frequent indications in herboetry that she herself is by no means pure ectoplasm, the sorrows and loves of which she writes tend to be spiritualized beyond reality, or at least beyond the reality of common experience. Bessie Udderton, her fellow poetess, may be lacking in the lyrical quality which characterizes all of Wraitha's work; but whan Bessie belts out the recipe for a new cake or halls the approach of another spring as giving promise of rhubarb pie, she is writing her way deep into the hearts of her countrymen and is every bit as much the voice of her province as Sarah Binks once was when she wrote about The Hired man, the Calf, or the Premier. But Wraitha's weakness lies in the fact that she searches for and finds her inspiration only in herself. As a result she has become that which she has so often been called, The "exotic Wraitha", an artistic conversation piece, who is poetically as she has always been physically, a Pre-Raphaelite of whom Saskatchewan is proud but does not altogether accept.And yet one never knows. It may be merely that with her recognitionof departing youth Wraitha is going through a kind of
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79poetic change of life leading to a calmer outlook and a deeper insight. It may he that as she approaches her thirties she "becomes aware of the fact that that elusive quality of her girlhood may all too soon be replaced by one to which the term haunted as well as haunting can apply, and that her tall, slim beauty may perhaps also very soon be described, as indeed it was recently described by one of her former classmates, as "beginning to "rattle in the pins."It is for this reason that she has her moments of sadness and perhaps even of despair. But it is a new sadness and her despair already carries within it the promise of a new awakening. One certainly feels this in her lovely "WOULD THAT IT WERE FOREVER FALL, in which, despite the fact that she never succeeds in escaping those artifacts brought over from her Home Economics course, the dying ember and the once-tennanted household, her heart at least seems to find rest in fortitude and in the final recognition of summergoneWould that it were forever fall, And these sere leaves be evermore descending, And this grey bleak that hovers over all,And In my heart, be never ending;Let this, the pale, cold twilight of November,Metallic, hard, be cut in steel for me � Lest some day spring may wake a dying ember,Of summer gone, and love's old tenancy.But even more than resignation and fortitude is Wraitha's growing acceptance of love and life as rising above the turbulence of youth with all its problems and disappointments. And with this acceptance has come awareness of an external world, an awakening to the province which is her home. She will never see Saskatchewan in all its sweep and variety in the way which John Swivel has seen it; orcling to its soil with that almost personal affection which marks
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the joy and gratitude of the humble Purge Potatok for his adoptedland. She will never cry out in protest and indignation against its desecration as Baalam Bedfellow cries out in "SEARED LAND, nor will she see Waskana Lake as a great political achievement as throughthe eyes of Osiris Jones-Jones. But the little details, the feminine Jewels, as it were, of that lovely land in which she lives, are becoming increasingly hers, and although the difference between a field of wheat and one of wild oats are still,and will always be, beyond her comprehension and concern, the frost-covered crocus of the Saskatchewan spring, and the prairie rose, hot-kissed by summer, and autumn's deep glowing golden rod, have finally be-come for her "the gifts of love's last going"Where shall we rest, My Love, when love is spent � We who have stood and watched its dawns first breaking, Holding In heart and hand that sweet content. Of only you - and love beyond our making, Filled each with quick and wondering surprise, That things could be beyond all former knowing � We were the first �explorers we, of skies, And earth all new and clean in love's bestowing:Earth was all washed in light, and we had supped A first new gladness there like children playing In treasured field, you called to me, "I've cupped The rainbow in my hand for love's long staying And that first sheen of dew and frost that blows Upon the crocus, and the golden rod's deep glowing, And the hot kiss of summer on the rose � All mine to keep as gifts of love's last going."Alas, poor Wraitha!J
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81BESSIE UDDERTON _ .The Poet of InnernessThere is a school of philosophy which maintains that spiritualhunger and physical hunger are merely two different aspects of abasic urge within human nature striving for security of existence .The process of eating, it is pointed out, is an adjustment which manmust. make upon one level of experience, in order to establish hissecurity upon another and higher level, and in doing so/he lays the foundation for a more complete existence. It is not altogether anew theorem; certainly the idea, often expressed popularly in its crude form, "A man must eat to live," has never been denied by philosophy and has even been acknowledged as having a measure of verity which must be taken Into account in explaining man's relation to the arts. The concession which philosophy makes that there is a close relationship between art and the feeding of the artist has never been explicitly stated. It is only recently with the startling discovery in philosophic thought that existence precedes essence that the significance of man's artistic efforts are seen as his attempts to come to grips with an existence in which he finds no security whatsoever and which he despairs of ever making secure regardless of how much he a eats. Looked at in this new light (though eating may still be regarded as an attempt at adjustment with the accepted fact of existence) food takes on an aura of futility and frustration. In its very impermanence it thus lends itself particularly to a type of nostalgic longing andspiritual hunger which characterizes poetry at its best and which has already been discussed as innerness.In one sense Innerness resembles the Wienerschnitzelgeist of classical philosophy which von Hinten employs with such effect in
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82his critical studies. But whereas the concept of Wienerschnitzelgeist tends to emphasise essence to the almost complete exclusion of existence. innerness also takes time into consideration and recognizes the fact that although one precedes the other they are not of necessity separated thereby. The total reality of food must therefore be faced. In innerness this is achieved. And although it may be going too far to say, as some have said, that Bessie Udderton, the Poet of Innerness, is the Sartre, or even the female counterpart of Sartre, in Western Canada, it must be said of her that insofar asany one in Saskatchewan can ever be a an existentialist, by facingup to the fact of food for its own sake, she has raised itto the point where it may almost be regarded as one of the existentialist art forms. Her literary creed is well summed up in those two quatrains she once wrote in reply, or pehaps in addition to, Jordan Middleduck's "Break Not the Lute," (quoted In the Introduction) in which he raises doubt as to the desirability of poetry produced by the poet when he is starving. Bessie simply states without equivocationthat "starving can be overdone." It is this recognitionof facts as well as her fortitude in facing them in all her poetryis said to which/mark I her as an existential poet;And starving can be overdone, Though pain and grief that poets sing, And frustrate life, may best be won; From days that lack all nourishing; It don't mean that when all is writ, And tears have dried and sorrows cease, She shouldn't up and eat a bit � Perhaps milk, a cold wing, and cottage cheese.However, existentialist or not, it is always in such last lines as those which express her taste in food, the "milk,a cold wing, and cottage cheese" that Bessie stands revealed as the true poet of innerness and It is upon this that her fame and popularity rests.

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