DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939

Transcribe
Translate

Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939

8 POLARIS

tremendous number of masterpieces in a few short years of mortal life?
     They could not have been photographs. That is a certainty. Unless made by some process unknown to us--and what was that odd creature who constantly followed him about? I repeat, it was not of the earth.
     How could that old man have been near enough to the assassination, to cite a single incident, to have seen it and photographed it, if it was he who did the painting? How did he heal me so quickly? Where did--does-he stay? Why is he there? How did he take me from his hut to France, and from where I crashed to his hut, if was a long distance, in but a few hours?--for there was very little time, as I remember each day distinctly. How did he obtain those likenesses from the very dawn of civilzation.
     I can offer one possible explanation. Perhaps he is not of our earth -- perhaps he was sent here as a sentry, or ambassador, from some other system. That would explain his looking up to the stars -- and his attitude that sometimes seemed to be that of waiting. Waiting for whom? It might also explain his longevity. And yet, he did not look particularly different from any other earth man.
     Possibly he was supernatural--again I use the past tense, for some reason. I wonder. It would explain his action upon inquiring into that last picture... And I also wonder why it was--for a check on the books made it evident all were manufactured about the same time -- that there were no more about the hut, and no means of obtaining more--at the present rate of filling them, where is he to get more?
     Or--
     What will happen fifteen years hence, when the last book must surely be filled?

THE END
- - - -

SONNET

By R. H. Barlow

The sunlit fields wherethrough I walked all day,
Finding the stone, finding the coloured flower
Are left behind me now: I cannot say
What was the hue of one forgotten hour---
The bird I killed because its wings were bright
In memory cries no more; I do not seek
Auspicious skies, but set my step oblique
And reach the cliff of dream at edge of night.

And here I part he weeds whose guardian spears
Surrender to no path, though much by dark
Uncandelled by the moon, my swift steps claim
Admission past them through unchanging years,
And stare beyond the mist, and swiftly mark a gleam, within me mirror, of great flame.

Saving...

8 POLARIS tremendous number of masterpieces in a few short years of mortal life? They could not have been photographs. That is a certainty. Unless made by some process unknown to us--and what was that odd creature who constantly followed him about? I repeat, it was not of the earth. How could that old man have been near enough to the assassination, to cite a single incident, to have seen it and photographed it, if it was he who did the painting? How did he heal me so quickly? Where did--does-he stay? Why is he there? How did he take me from his hut to France, and from where I crashed to his hut, if was a long distance, in but a few hours?--for there was very little time, as I remember each day distinctly. How did he obtain those likenesses from the very dawn of civilzation. I can offer one possible explanation. Perhaps he is not of our earth -- perhaps he was sent here as a sentry, or ambassador, from some other system. That would explain his looking up to the stars -- and his attitude that sometimes seemed to be that of waiting. Waiting for whom? It might also explain his longevity. And yet, he did not look particularly different from any other earth man. Possibly he was supernatural--again I use the past tense, for some reason. I wonder. It would explain his action upon inquiring into that last picture... And I also wonder why it was--for a check on the books made it evident all were manufactured about the same time -- that there were no more about the hut, and no means of obtaining more--at the present rate of filling them, where is he to get more? Or-- What will happen fifteen years hence, when the last book must surely be filled? THE END - - - - SONNET By R. H. Barlow The sunlit fields wherethrough I walked all day, Finding the stone, finding the coloured flower Are left behind me now: I cannot say What was the hue of one forgotten hour--- The bird I killed because its wings were bright In memory cries no more; I do not seek Auspicious skies, but set my step oblique And reach the cliff of dream at edge of night. And here I part he weeds whose guardian spears Surrender to no path, though much by dark Uncandelled by the moon, my swift steps claim Admission past them through unchanging years, And stare beyond the mist, and swiftly mark a gleam, within me mirror, of great flame.