Page Six
THE PILOT
MARCH, 1956
G. W. PROFESSOR WRITES
POETRY AS A PASTIME
most unearthly beauty to these cascading streams. The poem, “Tontouta”
is an attempt to describe the New Caledonian river, Tontouta. Not only
in my choice of words, but in the meter and form, I have sought to convey
a picture of a stream descending rapidly from high hills into a peaceful
bay at the foot of mountain ranges. “Markea Valley” was written to describe
a river near the capital city of New Caledonia, Numea. The actual name
of the river was Dumbea. But obviously such a name does not very well
lend itself to poetical usage. The description of the scene is authentic,
however. “The Lament of a Deserted Ship” was inspired by the sight of
ceveral large sailing vessels which had been brought into a shallow bay and
a::parently abandoned. A person could not avoid ths feeling that this
was an unnatural end for such graceful ships. “A Sonnet to Youth”
was a compliment (at least, so it was intended) for the vibrant, healthy and
handsome young French people which 1 saw in the vicinity of Numea.
“The Coming of a Snowstorm” was written in an effort to recapture from
the past an experience which I knew there was no chance of enjoying in
the tropics. “To a True Friend” was probably composed as a tribute to all
those who at that time and who during the past years bettered my life
through their friendships.
Tontouta
Prof. Troutman
The six poems which I have turn
ed over to the staff of The Pilot
represents the best products grow
ing out of a short period in my life
when I tok to writing poeti-y as a
pastime. This period began during
the spring of 1943 when I was sta
tioned at Goldsboro, awaiting ship
ment for army service overseas. I
was included in a group alerted for
the long train trip across the con
tinent; and time hung heavy on my
mind. Yet the excitement of facing
the many unknowns before me plus
a consciousness of physical well be
ing inspired a lyrical strain of
thought and led to some first at
tempts at versifying. During the
journey across the United States by
rail and across the Pacific by ship,
I probably continued my attempts
to put ideas and impressions into
poetic form. But it was not until I
was landed on the French colonial
Island of New Caledonia and had
had an opportunity to enjoy this
natural paradise par excellence, that
I seriously applied myself at this
form of literature. I turned out
quite a number of poems, most of
which I destroyed immediately.
Some I kept with me, reworking and
revising them from time to time.
After a few months, I awakened to
the fact that my ambitions were
greater than my talents. I gave up
the writing of verse and have never
attempted it since.
If a person has the slightest poetic
strain in him, scenes on the island
of New Caledonia wil call it forth.
Volcanic mountain ranges seem to
rise into the clouds and then fall
abruptly into the sea. In the deep
inlets and bays, coral growths pro
duce a changing pattern of colors
as the angles of the sun’s rays vary
with the time of day. Streams of
clear water push dowB through nar
row coves and deep gorges between
mountains. Rocks of many hues in
the stream bed lend a touch of al
Down from the mountains
Piercing the skies
Down from the fountains
That secretly rise
Out of the faults
And out of the ridges
Throi^h rocky vaults
And under bridges
Down to the valley
Down to the sea
Clear waters sally
Impatiently.
Down in the valley
Down near the sea
Clear waters rally
In rocky lee.
Pools of crystal
Skies of blue
Eddies vestal
Changing hue:
A gallery
Of nature’s art
William F. Troutman, Jr.
Markea Valley
On a sunny island far away you hoard yoiir treasure rare.
Where the blue Markea River runs down Its cascade stair.
Your walls are rain-bows framed in green, mist-arches of cliff and flowers.
That skyward rear their pillars great like ancient fortress towers;
Clouds on high enfold dark peaks in shimmering snow-white crowns
And shadows cast on your face below, which pass as lovers’ frowns.
From these beauty-haunted steeps in wild and desperate flight.
As a streamer of silver ribbon, a cataract lunges white;
And in your basin, like a rug of careless, colored pattern.
Lie the boulders that thunder down into your ageless canyon.
This stoney bed Markea loves, where in lilting stride
Her waters pure as heaven’s dew flow down to meet the tide.
A tranquil pool of marvelous depth lies cool and crystal clear
In the cloister of your naked heart as bold as a sparkling tear;
While everywhere on flashing wings, dart birds from tree to tree
With throats a-swell to sing your praise in glad, free symphony.
And ever down that golden isle my heart in fancy goes
And burns again, gay and young, where blue Markea flows.
William F. 'Troutman, Jr.
A Sonnet To Youth
To make for Youth a dress, I would not dare;
For though I gathered fabrics by the rod
And never ceased for rest or daily fare,
I would as nearly come to clothing God!
For Youth will have no circlet bind her waist.
Nor bear the softest weave upon her limbs;
Her every move is tuned to Freedom’s haste.
And far and near she roves to please his whims.
Yet once suppose her form with silks were draped:
Could all this daedel earth supply the gloss
To match her thousand changing moods, though raped
Of all its treasured gems and ores and dross?
To make for Youth a dress I would not dare.
When she so wants the earth and heavens to wear!
The Lament Of A Deserted Ship
A half moon shines with feeble light
Upon my rusted hulk tonight,
As once beneath the Dipper’s rim
It blazed on my rigging, full and trim;
And waves caress my broken bow
With pity in the harbor now.
But once they rushed my straining sides
With all the fury that abides
In the clashing legions of the deep.
The unleashed winds would blunt its knife
Against my battered prow till life
For all my valour was near gone.
Once men in reverent, thankful tone
Praised my graces; and the storm
With ugly face and hair a-swarm
Fled the bout with churlish show
And left me crowned in a sun-lit bow.
Through many a season my sails full-spread
Sought distant shores, by the trade winds sped;
And people often gazed in wonder
On my burnished spars in cities yonder,
And toasted my name in drink and song
In revels wild the whole night long.
But age and battle left their scars
Upon my prow, my keel, and spars.
No more they put me out to sea;
No more do men in nightly revelry
Recall my skill and speak my name:
I am too old, and leaky, and lame!
They left me here to dream and rot
In this sheltered cove . . . and soon forgot.
They left me here to i-ust and die
A sickly death! I know not why
They did not release me to the wind
And the jealous waves and let me spend
One last good hour of battle, there
Where the fierce storm-call is sounding clear;
And the rattle of death in the hurricane
Could rally my strength yet once again.
Then let them batter, flail, and twist
Let them crush my frame in their grisly fists;
And let me die as a brave soul dies
Beneath thundrous waves and crashing skies!
William F. Troutman, Jr.
To A True Friend
Friendship is love devoid of pa-ssion’s art,
A love that leans upon a kindred soul
And begs from it the strength to meet the trials
That evei-y man must face in daily walks.
Thus, as the oak accepts the mineral food
The turbid earth yields up to hungry roots
And deems it not a sacrilege to bow
Unto that soil, though void of golden ore—
Or as the blossom seeks the migrant sun,
When low, dark clouds infold the generous rays.
Because it so well knows that warmth and light
May hidden be, but never quite destroyed.
So I, my friend, need none of art’s device
To vindicate the ties of love for you.
William F. Troutman, Jr.
A Sonnet
The Coming Of A Snowstorm
The sky at dusk was lowering, cold and gray,
And in the laden hush of the winter chill
I was sure I heard soft footsteps play
Among the pine trees bristling on the hill.
I crossed the pasture and listened to the rill
As it wheezed and gurgled and strove so hard to rise
Through winter’s masonry. I felt a thrill
In that low sound; felt nature’s charm devise
A tacit warning quite beyond my eyes:
For the ragged elms in whispers low and tense
Betrayed excitement through a demure guise;
And nervous sparrows in the hedge could sense
The coming of an elfin host in white
Descending on silent w'ings through all the night.
William F. Ti-outman, Jr.
Brothers
Young
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