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Vol, III no. 4 Summer 1944

In the mist of life : a short story.

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have listened to a radio announcement, in the sense that, although the
words affected him, he had allowed no background vision of the speaker
to influence his thoughts or response. He dismissed the earlier image
of a fair and gamesome, still-young wife and saw the real present-day
widow, her drudgery-painted hands and dust-powdered face, wistfully
expressive of sunken hopes and desires. Tenderness rose like a new
emotion. Stooping over her, he roughly brushed her cheek with. his
lips and, refusing to gratify his mind with explanations, walked
hurriedly away.
A Democratic Vista
STRANGE sanctuary this, perched on the rising comstack
Like a desert saint on a broken pillar
Staring, eyes unstirring, until hill field sea are one.
The procession of thought blurred
Into the regular rising and falling of a sinewy arm
And the dry rustle of sheaves.
Tom Williams, Guto, Dick Williams, Wil bach, Dafydd dew and me,
We are the people; our conversation is smooth and superficial
Like a veneer of grained wood, curves leading nowhere
Which was where they started.
We are the people, for whom politicians shout and soldiers fight
We sow and reap, eat and sleep, copulate in secret, think
In circumferences of one dimension.
We are the sacred people, the secular mystery, the Host,
Whitman's elastic deity, Marx's material, Rousseau's noble savage,
Mayakovsky's beloved-
Tom, Guto, Dic, Wil, Dafie, and Me —
Reasonably efficient between dawn and sunset,
God chewing tobacco, God drinking tea, digesting rice,
We are the people. God is not mocked.
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