B. VAUGHN MARSHALL
INTRODUCTION:
Mom and I had started to go over which poems to include in our website. But it became difficult to choose. So there all here for you.As I've been reading over some of these poems, I value them even more as I begin to understand Dad as a poet and a writer. It's also become an education to read the process of how he puts his thoughts into meaningful, beautiful, or even humorous poems and other writings.
Mom put these collection of poems together originally in with Dad's history. She had a few notes of interest, noting where Dad was when some of these poems were written - these are in the left column.
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Mom: I choose this poem to place first in Vaughn's writings because it relates so well to what he was like. Spring was a happy time for him. He loved to watch the trees blossom and the plants come to life. He loved to plant new things and watch them develop. Everything about the season seemed to offer new life, new adventure, a new beginning. | SPRING I'm anxious for the Spring to come. I want to see the blossoms, I want to feel the warmth Reflecting comfort from the fresh blue sky, I want to see the green things popping And growing right before my eye. There's beauty in a snowflake And a white wrapped winter moment. There's uniqueness in a frigid frozen forest. But my heart is grieving And within my soul a quake Is near erupting in a pool Of lava - a hot and bubbly lake Restoring to the scene somehow A headbands sweaty crown. It seems I'm out of place |
Mom: How much Vaughn loved the spring and the sunshine.and He had a special relationship with growing things. | I looked out to see the plants against the sky Reflected brilliantly as the wind blows by.No concern on the philosophies of menNor what is right, nor what they ken.Trees care not of human reason Their one concern, 'What is the season?' |
Vaughn wrote: "Several weeks ago these thoughts came and I did not write them down. Not much to them, but this is where they took me.""Notes on Thoughts" 19 December 1992 | Fall's blanket rudely shades the weakening sun. Winter's cold turns down the light. And summer shivers out the door. If I could choose the day I come And then the day I go, It would be Spring. For growing life Is all aglow! There's nothing more That I can bring. |
Mom: Vaughn was in Washington DC for some US Geological Survey meetings and had the opportunity to visit many beautiful areas there. He received the impressions for the following poem while standing on the Duke Ellington Bridge in Washington DC . 6/27/79 | On the Bridge I looked below, away from the bridge. The trees and brush were soft and rolling. Two trees stood higher and were aware of me - So lovely and green, so full of cool spring. The sun had set, still there was light And those trees I could swear Were still aware That I was there.A single road passed through the scene And into a tunnel that could be seen, Within the green. Emerald brush helped cover the hill And with the trees brought a spectacular thrill. I breathed in the view which seemed so alive And longed to be part of that peaceful life.So, I climbed on the rail and thrust myself in I spread out my wings and swooped where I wanted I glided, I soared, I lived with a will - And I swept passed the road that entered the hill. I flew 'round the trees, passed the two that were special, Oh! I wanted to hug them! But didn't know how. Another deep breath was almost too much As I inhaled the peace of untroubled life. The love of God's world that one whiff could bring, And I thrilled and felt joy That at last it was spring. |
Mom: He treasured visions of springtime when he was isolated and doing field work in the north. | A World of Ice A lilac has great beauty to see. Now, close your eyes and inhale deeply - A fourth dimension is singled out sweetly, In a world of darkness it still can be. But perfume of lilacs is an earthly thing That a world of ice can never bring.A clear cold stream flows over the earth Bringing new life to seeds in the ground, And the willows and flowers that here abound Fill the air with aromatic birth. But the smell of this scene, is an earthly thing That a world of ice can never bring.In spring, from Barrow to Fairbanks town I see the magic all around. And when again we're on the ground I savor life's fragrant living crown. But the bouquet of plants is an earthly thing That a world of ice can never bring. |
Mom: Stones, rocks, all the materials that make up the layers of the earth were so interesting to Vaughn. Sometimes on trips we made down the California coast we would be so impressed with some lovely scene. I would talk about painting it but Vaughn would make notes and later compose something very beautiful. He wrote the following after one of those trips. 26 Mar 1982 | ROCK Men write about trips And they write about motherThey write about ships And even each other Their sweethearts have beauty No other can knock The odes just come pouring But -- not for a rock.Why not a rock? What's wrong with a rock? We throw them We kick them We pound them We split them.One killed Goliath There's even stone soup And he who ignores them Is really a dupe.Why a dupe? Because --- Folds in a rock become gems, (diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds) Then they are placed in rings, earrings, hatpins, broaches, on watchbands and --- In crowns for Kings and Queens. |
Mom: One of the places we enjoyed visiting in Monterey was Fisherman's Warf. It was full of atmosphere and color. Vaughn wrote these two poems about his memories and impressions gathered on our trips there. | From San Jose to Monterey Those granite clouds, Enlarged a thousand times, Give passing shade To all that gasp for breath. Intense the hues, Imbuing with a hope As lasting as their brief respite from death. Glistening walks and lanes of light Penetrate the heavy night,Flashing red lights of various hues Blurringly burst through falling dews. Groaning, moaning, with whispering sigh Hissing cars slither by. Cobra-like they hold your stare, And blur your vision everywhere. The night sky was hidden by a cotton fog And; white man-made lights fused over the bay Couples and groups on the warf sought grog And food and gifts or whatever may lay On the Warf now winter had waned away.The mood was happy with laughter and grins As cars inched in to the end of the pier Returning again after a brief spin But then one first provided the din Whether inside a shop with odd souvenirs Or dinning within and still caviler There were many restaurants on this limited walk |
Mom: In June of 1979 he had gone to Lee Vining, California to do some field work. On this trip he stayed in a busy motel as was often necessary. He portrays the feeling so many of us have had when we are away from all that is familiar at home. It is often had to concentrate. It's also lonesome when there is no one else there like a friend, a family member or even a co-worker sharing the unfamiliarity of the place we have to stay. | I felt disoriented A great lonelinessAnd yet it was hard To concentrate, to know What it really was Because of noise outside.The motel was close To the road, of course, And the sound of trucks and cars As they blurred by ---- (Do you know a blurring sound? It's the sound of trucks and cars As they go by-----) Were injected as jarring static Upon my thoughts, To make them erratic.My loneliness was out of focus The sounds of people jumped as locusts Into my room---and world. Should I continue with this singleness? Record my notes of great import Writing down for those who've not been told?Or should I abandon all That's private and join the static That's outside my wall? Laughing, drinking, splashing, squeezing, (Thoughts of others -oh! So pleasing) And all are just outside my wall--- Just outside my wall! But no! It's just my luck This is my night to work! |
Mom: He wrote this poem about his memories of the Artic. He describes the feelings he had following a storm that lasted for many days. The constant noise of the winds against metal and boards and whatever else during the storm finally gave way to eerie silence as the storm suddenly comes to an end. | Quiet! Quiet! Quiet! Quiet! It comes with blowing snow It bounces from the clouds and drenches Everything below. The thumping heartbeat from the shack Is barely trickling through the crack Of consciousness.Quiet! Quiet! The core of a starry night Enveloping, caressing, draining everything In sight. And even shrinking cowardly thoughts Refuse to surface through rare spots Of consciousness.Quiet! Quiet! It's part of jarring winds The whine, delusive dead'ning chatter That it spins. While gusts are vacuuming the brain Removing logic, love and any claim To consciousness.Quiet! Quiet! Quiet reigns supreme While barrenness, despair and death complete The theme. They issue edicts of equality And all must query the reality Of consciousness. |
Mom: This poem was written specifically to place in the murder mystery he was writing. It added to the feeling of fear and suspicion surrounding the murder. | Ghostly Night The ghostly night, With feeble light Awakening the snow, Hides well the fright Bound up so tight Of specters crouched down low.A shadow flees The mysteries Evading all that's bright. The gentle breeze Brings death's decrees With no one else in sight.When all is still There's one more kill And terror starts to tease. With mocking skill The fiend does fill And trust begins to freeze. |
Mom: He's back in the Artic again and I think he had a lot of fun with this poem. The language is so descriptive and the rhythm invites us to move easily through it. | Cold The cold comes sifting 'round the door And cunningly covers all the floor, Then with a twisted smile it springs To higher planes and nobler things. Its numbing care it quietly brings To freezing fragile human beings. With loving strokes it gently clings, But deadly, surely, gives them wings. |
Mom: During the winter months in the Artic it is dark all the time. It often becomes very oppressive. In this poem Vaughn let's his imagination suggest what can happen in the mind when there's no relief to the constant dark. | Arctic Darkness The Artic darkness never ceases To fill the voids and blur the creases Of the mind. And if you're part of this great scheme Yours, too, is less, for it would seem Partly blind.Scanning , searching everywhere, Figures merging at your stare Make you wonder, 'Are they there?' But blackness drowns both friend and foe Forcing them to move more slow And cautious.What happened to the stars and moon? Have they gone to find the sun And left us here to all be one? (With total darkness?) Amorphous?The moon and stars were such good friends. I need them through the winter night. This endless, chilling winter fright! Yet now they're not in sight.Am I going blind? Or is it now my mind? (Thoughts eclipsed?) Perhaps this Artic hole Is ---my ----soul.Final draft Jan 1982 |
Mom: Vaughn wrote probably the best description of the Aurora, (or northern lights), that I have ever read in this next poem. He gives the phenomenon such personality and life. | Sidewinder The stars with light from the depth of space As a chorus mutely standing by Receive new visions in the sky. Respectfully they hold their place.Cleverly, silently it did appear, A tinge of green on gauze-like white, It sneaked across the Artic night A hundred kilometers out from here.Flicking it's tongue from North to South Testing the darkness and the cold (Sastrugi sent it here so bold) Everywhere it gapes it's mouth.Protons left, electrons right Knock every partner now in sight. Cascade your corner and make it frightening Allemander left as quick as lighting.No! No! No! No music there! That's only wild imagination Born of polar desperation And delivered by that ghostly glare.All sound here is made by man Whose light goes dim when heartbeat slackens But, that glow above only blackens When the unseen plasma says it can.Fleetingly it spreads a lie Continuing to torpify Teasing as it starts to cry Enlarging borders stretched on high Elusively it slithers by That sidewinder in the sky.Mocking us who live by feel Tricking those who think it's real! |
Mom: In the spring and summer when it's light most of the time, the snow and ice take on a completely different personality.He began writing this poem probably in 1979 and finished the final draft in June of 1982. |
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Mom: The following are some poems he wrote about "Sastrugi". There are four of them. The first one is the only one that is finished the way he wanted it. The other three are all still in various stages of completion or change. I've included them all because Sastrugi is such an interesting 'personality'. Sastrugi is actually a Russian word describing a type of streamlined, wind-carved ridging in the snow and ice pack in the Artic. It often occurs during heavy windstorms and generally messes up areas that had been nicely smoothed out for a particular use. Preparation of an airfield is a good example. Vaughn introduced a make believe mythical character to the Artic scene and named him Sastrugi! The first poem is wonderful the way he describes how these formations come about---- and then he brings the new personality to life. (Completed 1980) |
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Mom: I know that the meeting with this boy did occur but I don't recall what else Vaughn told me about it. I wish I knew what else he had wanted to say in this poem but I'm glad I found this much.We lived very close to a college in Cupertino, California for many years. It was a nice college but on Sundays many activities were planned there which reminded us that too many people in the world treated Sunday as a day of fun and entertainment. Vaughn expressed his negative impressions in this poem after one of those carnival / hot balloon activities that was held on a Sunday. He was still working on it but the following is what he had so far. 1 Jun 1980 |
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Mom: It seems that Vaughn uses Sastrugi in this poem to point out some of the feelings he had about working on the ice island. Often wondering why he was up north; was he really accomplishing anything? Weren't they all subservient to the elements after all?This next poem is very unfinished ---but ---well, I added it anyway. Date probably 1979 |
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Mom: The following is a combination of prose and poetry as Vaughn records some philosophical thoughts. |
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Mom: Vaughn had some fun here with the way he thought some people looked at themselves. He was still working on this poem. Fall 1979 |
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Mom: This is a note he wrote at the bottom of the page - about himself I think. |
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Mom: Here's another philosophical thought I found dated January 1981 |
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Mom: My mother died in October of 1981. This poem was dated October 1981 so I'm sure it was written very soon after her death. I didn't know he had written it at the time. Perhaps he didn't want to show it to me then or perhaps I was not remembering things very well at the time. I found it with all his other poetry that he was still working on. It touches me deeply and I recall how tenderly he helped care for her. I remember how much his caring attitude meant to my mother also. |
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Mom: The following poems are some of his thoughts on life and death and ---well-----things. |
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Life and Death
There was a stone that bore my name
Important dates - my claim to fame,
That seemed important then, somehow.
My world was just a narrow one
In space and time. And thoughts I spun
Are all forgotten now.
But everything was very real;
Pain, joy and even terror I could feel,
And when they clapped I also took a bow.
Oh! Mortal man who's come to end,
Whose spirit now goes where they send.
Your flesh no longer do the bones endow.Well, don't you see? You're just like me,
And time for you has ceased to be.
Your stone will also soon be gone.
I know, of course, how great you were;
That all on earth would call you 'Sir',
But your remains are less than yonder mastodon.
Come now, to one equality;
A new perspective soon you'll see
Of all your upper-world phenomenon.
Just bring your Book of Life to share,
For all your secrets you must bare;
There's no one here who can be called Anon.The crowd awaits! It's noise abates,
With interest it anticipates! (expectantly anticipates)
So, read the pages to them one by one.
Remember, you're no power here.
Your nakedness you need not fear;
Unless, of course, for deeds that you have done.
What's this? You say that you cannot read,
That someone else must take your lead,
And show the things you did were just for fun?
Oh, no, it's really not allowed,
And things for which you're nor so proud
Must also be included in this run.How then should have spent your time,
If not for pleasure all sublime?
Is this a serious question that you pose?
Your neighbors do not share your view
And now will have no part of you;
The door of their attention now they close.
You're free, of course, to walk about,
But none will talk to such a lout
as you. You have the path you chose!
To be ignored is your just sentence
Until is seen enough repentance
Your bones will rot just as they now repose!He said, "You don't think I'll shed a tear?
There must be others to be near?"
Who knows what death is meant to be?
Nov 1979Mom: He added some other notes at the bottom. They were:
(Besides all here are much too rigid) He also made a note about adding more later.
(Is there not more to death than this?)
(Also - was there not more to life?)
Mom: This last poem was dated 6 Jan 1979. Vaughn had written a note along with it. I quote,"The idea is to present a number of incidents from which we can learn of life if we will ---- ------"these things shall give thee experience" D '&' C 121 |
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