From the Notebooks of Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle, Undated.

–

The telephone: it rings, and when I answer,
Stark silence reigns: a silence like the grave—
An empty grave, with no dead person in it,
So that not even sounds of rotting flesh,
Weak as they are, disturb the lifeless hush,
The quiet of a grim eternity
Of emptiness—and I stand on the edge
Of the abyss, still bellowing my greeting
Into the boundless blackness of the depths,
Where it is swallowed up in nothingness.
But just before I utterly despair,
Light dawns, and hope returns: the universe
Basks in the glow of life: my empty ear
Fills up, and I hear sound—O blessed sound!—
A voice—a human voice—from Bangalore.

From the Notebooks of Irving Vanderblock-Wheedle, Undated.

–

The screaming atoms rushing down like anvils,
Down, rushing down, and up, and left as well,
And even right, and also back and forth,
And in unnam’d diagonal directions,
Collide, and smash, and fuel a million suns
With power more than mortal tongue can tell,
With blazing flares of streaming radiant light
And heat to sear a billion barbecues;
And all I do is fill my Moleskine
With scribbled poems no one ever reads.
O Power beyond power! For one day,
Let me blaze brightly like a rushing atom!
Let my internal light shine in this place
And draw to me at last that unknown one
Who has four bucks to buy a mocha latte.

RUNNING QUICKLY TO the altar,
“Pastor,” cried the frightened lad,
“Gertrude means the whole world to me,
But her singing is so bad—”
Faltering, and slightly dizzy
With the effort of his run,
Still the young man thought of Gertrude:
He would stay till he was done.
“Pastor, Gertrude sings at sunset,
And there’s bound to be a fight.
Though to me she’s like a sister,
Gertrude must not sing to-night!”

“Young man,” calmly spoke the pastor
When the boy had made his plea,
“I’d be very glad to help you,
But these things aren’t up to me.
It’s decided in committee
Who shall sing and who shall not.
It’s been done,” the pastor said,
“So don’t give it another thought.
Soon this evening, just at sunset,
Gertrude, in a gown of white,
Will begin her frightful noises:
Gertrude, she must sing to-night.”

Then the young man bounded forward,
Up toward the balcony.
Organ music started playing,
And, in white gown, there stood she!
Lo, the ponderous tongue is swaying:
Gertrude is beginning now,
And the sound has chilled his bosom,
Stopped his breath, and paled his brow.
Shall he let her sing? No, never!
Flash his eyes with sudden light,
As he springs and grasps her firmly—
“Gertrude shall not sing to-night!”

Gratefully the congregation
Greets him now with shouts of joy,
Saying, “What a noble lad, this!
My, but he’s a clever boy!”
On their shoulders he is carried,
Down the aisle and out the doors.
Comes the pastor running to him,
And affection from him pours.
“Though you may not be aware,
A great wrong you have set aright—
You,” he says, “have saved the evening:
Gertrude will not sing to-night!”

A Song.

–

ELISSA WAS THE lass’s name, and she was young and pretty.
Her older sister Janet thought it really was a pity
That young Elissa seemed to gather all the male attention.
Now, Janet loved her sister, so she thought she ought to mention
The awful peril she would face if she defied convention.
So, one day, feeling bolder,
She sat her down and told her:

Alas, alas, Elissa!
A lass elicits lust
From men who want to kiss her.
Such men you cannot trust!
The world would never miss her
If she should bite the dust:
So if a man should dis her,
A girl does what she must.

Now, men will tell you, sister, that their hearts are full of honor.
A woman who believes such tales is certainly a goner!
The way of all romantic dalliance leads unto perdition.
To live a life that’s free from men should be your fond ambition.
And if your own heart puts you in a pliable condition,
Then just take up a hobby,
Or play Chopin on your Knabe.

Alas, alas, Elissa!
A lass elicits lust
From men who want to kiss her.
Such men you cannot trust!
The world would never miss her
If she should bite the dust:
So if a man should dis her,
A girl does what she must.

So bolt your doors and shut your windows. Fasten every shutter.
And, if you have to, grease the drainspouts up and down with butter.
And if men corner you some evening when the moon is ripe,
You tell them you can’t lend an ear to their romantic tripe;
But just in case you can’t escape, you carry a lead pipe,
And let them know their flirting
Will only leave them hurting.

Alas, alas, Elissa!
A lass elicits lust
From men who want to kiss her.
Such men you cannot trust!
The world would never miss her
If she should bite the dust:
So if a man should dis her,
A girl does what she must.

No. 1.—The Great Fan.

There once was a man
Who called himself Stan
With a marvelous plan
For a thirty-foot fan.
What became of his plot
I’m afraid I know not:
For he lived in a spot
That’s not terribly hot.
Instead of the tropics,
Where fans are hot topics,
He lived up in Iceland,
A perfectly nice land
Where no one demanded
To be briskly fanneded.
If they thought him a crank,
He’d the climate to thank.

THESE BRIGHT AND precious remnants soon must wither.
They bloom beyond their time—and so do I.
Dry winter comes; there will be no more flowers,
and I—I cannot live to see the spring.
Yet still I water them. My feeble strength
Can barely lift the jar filled just halfway;
The thirsty earth drinks down, absorbs, and mocks
The paltry moisture that I dribble out,
And winter laughs at me and marches closer,
Casting his shadow darker every day.
But I must labor, putting off the hour
When the last blossom drops, and no more bloom;
Though no one else will do it, I must tend
This useless acre, full of useless things
We cannot eat or burn, or build or kill with,
Only because there once was beauty here;
And though I shall not live beyond the winter,
Yet still I know by faith there will be spring.