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Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

LYRASIS Members and Sloan Foundation 

' / 

Winter, 1962 

Volume One, Number One 

Centenary College of Louisiana 

Editors James Henderson 

Associates: Tommy Head 

Melanie Martin 
Jerry O f Dell 
Chat Reed 
Sponsors Sigma Tau Delta 
Faculty Advisors Dr. E. M. Clark 

Cover Designs Bob Blankenship 

We wish to express our appreciation to Dean Bond Fleming, Mr. 
Jack Fiser, and Mr. Buzz Delaney for their aid and encouragement in 
the creation of this first edition of INSIGHTS e We are particularly 
indebted to Miss Becky Gould for her assistance in the typing and 
layout of the publication. 

The majority of contributions for this issue of INSIGHTS has 
been poetry. Even though poetry is considered the crowning achieve- 
ment of language, college writers seem to feel that poetry offers an 
"easier" means of expression than does prose. Since modern poetry 
is often hard to understand, many writers feel that the expression 
of any thought they might have, no matter how subjective or vaguely 
defined, may be passed off as poetry. Thus, an essential feature of 
a poem, that it communicate the writer § s ideas to the reader, if of- 
ten ignored. We feel that it would be wise for beginning writers to 
concentrate on gaining the ability to communicate clearly through 
various forms of prose, before proceeding to the more difficult form, 

The Editors 


PABLO is the pseudonym of Bob Blankenship, a junior English major 
from Wheaton, Illinois * Bob, the designer of our cover, is also a 
student of art. He plans to use his interests in art and creative 
writing to prepare him for a career in advertising. 

PATT BIRD has been active in productions at the Marjorie Lyons Play- 
house and participated in The Book of Job last summer. Patt is a 
junior English major from New Orleans. 

STEVE CLINTON is a freshman from El Dorado, Ark., who plans a career 
in teaching and writing. He has previously had works published in 
his high school creative writing magazine. 

DESSAGENE CRAWFORD, a senior from Jefferson, Tex., is secretary of 
Sigma Tau Delta at Centenary. She plans to attend graduate school 
in the field of linguistics. 

DAVID EWING is a senior physics major from Bossier City. David spent 
last summer as a student assistant at the Atomic Energy Commission f s 
Oak Ridge Laboratory. 

(Continued on last page) 

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Chat Reeds 14,952 22 

Dick Johns. CYNOSURES 23 



Tonight the city is exquisite • The clean coldness of winter 
makes it a lovely place. People are funny when it is cold^ scurry- 
ing about bent over in their warm coats. They never smile, but 
only breathe a sigh of relief by the warm heater inside. There is 
one little bald-headed man whom I see every nighty he is so funny 
for he never wears a cap and the cold reddens his hairless top 3 

Well, that ? s enough about other people and things Let me 
tell you about myself * - You see I am a strange person* Every 
night I leave my apartment at seven o ? clock and walk about ten 
miles « By my route it takes about three hours to arrive at a tavern 
two blocks from my home. There I go inside and have one beer* 1 
sip it very slowly and listen to the pianist play jazz, pop-songs, 
and honky-tonk. It is about ten- thirty right now* By eleven I 
will have drunk my beer and gone. It is rare that I ever miss going 
to bed by eleven-thirty. 

You may ask what I do for a living. I really do everything 
you can name. My mother told me once that I am smart and ought to 
go to college. However, she is wrongo There is really quite a lot 
I don f t understand. For instance one time I read a book called The 
Return of the Native I couldn*t understand a lot of it« So, here 
I am sweeping snow, washing windows, and emptying garbage It is 
not such a bad life. It gives me a feollow, tired feeling I like 
very much. 

Remember a moment ago I told you I was strange? Well, tonight 
I have been talking to myself * I know that everyone talks to him- 
self at one time ©r another, but not as much as L Tonight I talked 
about love. I have never been in love, but it is pleasant to think 
about it. I imagined myself as one who had just lost his lover and 
was trying to apologize to her for his shortcomings It was 
nauseating to see the city so glorious tonight and speak of such 
things. The contrast was stimulating but painful 

That brings up another point 1 have no conventional religion 
but rather worship pain* Most of the time I am quite depressedo 
Because of this, on nights like tonight, when I am happy, I enjoy 
myself more. However, there is one thing about this intense enjoy- 
ment I don*t enjoy. It makes me very weak and I talk too much, like 
right now. You should feel very flattered. 

Steve Clinton 


Ten thousand stars shine 

Like rare jewels against the night* 

On the onyx sea 

Are mirrored ten thousand points of cold fire* 

The moon^s full, unblinking eye, 

Divides the sea with an aisle of light 

The wet sand glistens and shimmers 

As the sea gently touches the shore o 

A lone figure, I sit on the deserted beach, 
Watching the embrace of the shore and the 

unchanging water* 
For a long time I have waited * 

The star pattern is broken 

As a flaming brand of light crosses the sky, 

Staining the heavens with a glowing trail. 

The sea catches its image 

And casts it back into the dark realm. 

An instant — 

And it is goneo 

I wish for my beloved. 

David Ewing 


This then when Winter comes g 

To stretch our arms to the golden Sun that gives 
us life but kills the Spring © 
This then when Spring dies toos 

To praise the Fall and entreat the glorious and 
greener rebirth of God*s great earth* 
This then when Love fades too? 

To look ahead for Love again to bloom like the 
first red prophets of the greener Spring 
That burst forth in bright brilliance when another 
season and bluebird come. 

Bill Shaw 


n I am a Man," I once affirmed, 
"1*11 stand alone and free. 
No cosmic crutches do I need; 
No human ties for me." 

Without regret, I gave up God. 

I took the step that day 

While other weak and sniveling fools 

In churches knelt to pray. 

Next, all people I abjured. 
The rupture now was made. 
"Alone and free I stand on earth; 
I am a man," I said. 

To celebrate my freedom new 
I did a pirouette. 
"Free forever!" I exclaimed 
And lit a cigarette. 

Tommy Head 


I am hungry 

and night 

lies thick 

around me. 

She touches 

my face 

with cold breath 

and I freeze 

afraid to move 

lest the universe 


and all my dreams 

come down 

like dead 

rose petals. 

Roger Dick Johns 






























Tommy Siskron 

Dear Aunt Claud, 

Uncle Willie got me up this morning to look at his new lawn- 
mower o He's got it in the dining room. You ought to see it. It f s 
as big as a small tractor. He cranked it up for me and raced the 
motor good, and ran it around the room a couple of times. The 
grass outside is ass deep on a tall Swede. 

I finished the room cleaning about noon. It took four barrow 
loads and a couple of shovels. I never saw such a mess And 
smell 5 Jesus Lord did it stink J 

Uncle Willie left and I got to hunting around the house. He 
doesn't have a phone, but there is a TV set in one of the closets. 
You have to open the door and watch through the closet to see any- 
thing, but the set works fine. I wonder why he keeps it there. 

Johnny left about eight this morning, after Uncle Willie of- 
fered to cook him some breakfast. I guess he didn ? t feel up to 
fighting ants. Me neither, so I didn't eat yet. 

One of the doors, the one between the living room and the rest 
of the house, is nailed shut, so we have to go outside to get 
around to the kitchen or dining room or bedrooms. My ceiling has a 
little hole in it, so I moved the bed over against the wall. 

Tomorrow I f m going to cut all the grass and wash those old 
cars. Maybe he will let me sell them for him. I could use the 
commission money this fall. Hell, I could use any money this fall. 

I ? m going now and clean the bathroom. I found a wire brush 
in the back seat of the old Plymouth. 

Don Ragar 


Dear Aunt Claud, 

Uncle Willie is in a mood today. We went to the Union meeting 
last night and he got up and called big business a bunch of Com- 
munist bastards. The chairman told him to sit down and he called 
the chairman a Communist bastard, too. He sat down, though. 


He grumbled all the way home and tried to find a bakery truck 
to run into, but there wasn't one. We stopped at the drugstore and 
got a malt, and some guy parked so he could not get out* Uncle 
Willie rammed him a couple of good licks, and then we left* That 
other car was pretty beat up, too. 

That man called again. He 9 s offering $75>QOO for the house and 
property, because the city is going to incorporate it, but Uncle 
Willie says hell no, he's not going to leave« The man said he can't 
keep his animals in town, and Uncle Willie said the man was a Go Do 
Communist and a Strike-breaking Scab besides B Then he hung up 

He won't let me sell the cars or mow the lawn, and everyplace 
we go he asks if I look like him. Do I? Tell me honestly, it won't 
hurt my feelings much. 

I guess I 9 11 be home in about three weeks. 1*11 write if any= 
thing else happens » 

Don Ragar 


Dear Aunt Claud, 

I f m leaving tomorrow for Seattle, then I f m coming home, and Uncle 
Willie is buying me a big dinner tonight. He wanted to cook me a 
big meal but I said I didn't want him to go to all that trouble. 

He f s an odd old man, but you know what? I kind of love him. 
He doesn't hurt anybody. I don't even care if I look like him, as 
long as I'm not one of those G. D. Scabs. 

Don Ragar 

Herb Fackler 

€> « O 


Glistening leaflet — 

Hesitation of dew drops 


* # * 

Listen 1 Melting snow — 

Silver stream f s gurgling chuckle » 

Renaissance of spring* 

o o c 

World in twilight hush 
Rippling poolecofloating petals 
Mirrors drifting dreams 

■& # * 

Naked branch quiv 9 ring 
Caressed by silent snowf lakes 
A destitute child o 

O © o 

Phyllis Payne 



In fear I must run, I must run. 

Lord I have cried unto Thee 
Out of the depths I have called 
And tiny invisible things 
Stirring within me I feel* 

The tips of my fingers have burst 
And delicate shining green leaves 
Have opened and reach for the sun. 
The veins in my arms now are still* 
I am blind. 

1 open my mouth in an effort 
To say but a word to you. 
The wood encircles my throat 
The wood encircles my heart 
And I am unable to speak. 
The heavy green gods 

Only stare dully down. 

Dessagene Crawford 



"Earthbound 11 reflects a general trend in the poetry of the 
last several decades s a trend of pessimism and loneliness. The 
primary theme is that of futility resulting from the inability to 
communicate * However* the poem expresses these ideas with some 
individuality. The poetess has drawn heavily upon the Greek myth 
of Daphne for her imagery * In this myth, Daphne was pursued by 
Apollo and ran from him in fearo Her supplications to the Mo- 
ther Earth 11 (as Robert Graves says) were heeded, and, on the 
point of being captured Daphne was turned into a laurel tree© 
The close parallel between the myth and the poem is easily notedo 
The protagonist of the poem, like Daphne, is running. Although 
the pursuer is not named, the use of the myth indicates that he is 
the young god. Then comes the supplication, parallel to Daphne ? s, 
but taken from Christian rather than pagan context £ an answer is 
given. "Tiny invisible things" are felt within the narrator and 
she is then transformed into a tree. The tips of her fingers 
burst and leaves open and reach for the sun. She becomes a tree, 
unable to move or even to see. 

Miss Crawford employs this myth in order to have an adequate 
vehicle for expressing her themes the inability to communicate <, 
The comparison of man to a plant, whose only sound is made without 
volition, is an excellent choice for the idea being expressed. Her 
poem, however, goes beyond a mere lamentation over her theme % it 
offers a commentary on the theme. At the beginning of the poem, 
the protagonist possessed the means to communicate % she could ex- 
press to the Deity her need for help. She was granted this aide 
As a result, though, she lost her ability to communicate and was 
transformed into a stationary being— one who actually has no need 
of communication. If the Daphne- figure had conquered her fear, 
had faced her pursuer, perhaps then she would have been able to 
keep her ability to speak. It seems as if Miss Crawford is saying 
that in order not to lose the ability to communicate, one must 
dare to speak. 

In the latter part of the poem Daphne, or the poetess, realizes 
that she has been mistaken in fleeing from the godo Then she makes 
an effort to speak, to reach out to him — but it is too late. Her 
prayer has been answered and she is encased within a treeo This 


section is reminiscent of the Wood of Suicides in Dante f s Inferno , 
in which persons who had committed suicide were confined to tree 
trunks for eternity. 

The last two lines seem to synthesize the ideas of Deity 
presented in the poem. The pagan Earth Mother has been supplicated 
and has answered Daphne. The Christian God has been petitioned and 
has also responded. The "heavy green gods" may represent the 
apathetic deities of a modern world — gods of moisture, humidity, 
and algae— who are not concerned with the plight of Daphne. Perhaps 
this concept of naturalistic gods is the reason for the basic ideas 
of pessimism and loneliness. These gods would not care whether or 
not men had the ability to communicate with each other. 

In conclusion, "Earthbound" seems a new way of expressing the 
theme of man*s loneliness. The use of the Greek myth and the blend- 
ing of deities indicates different concepts of God. And Miss Craw- 
ford seems to be demanding that modern man exercise the privilege of 
communication — and that he not confine himself within a wooden shel 

James Donald Farley 

Death came quietly this clear morning, 

a blue shadow moving trackless across the icy fields. 
It entered the confines of a furnished room where old Mr. M 

slept along by a gas blaze, his table littered with 

bottles and pills. 
Into the moist, warm, closeness Death came and dragged him 

out to frolic in the snow. 

Jerry O f Dell 


The perpetual stranger has come again and gone 
Amid the bursting buds of incipient spring, 
Unopposed by the buzzing life of bees 
Or the infant pressure of unfolding green. 

He kept his quiet afternoon appointment 

At a small house bright in April sun, 

Fulfilled his charge with gentle punctuality, 

And returning, plucked a rose from the blooming garden. 

Jerry O'Dell 


Sing me no songs of love, for you yourself 
do not know what it is to have a thing 
called "love" exist between two secret souls. 
No one can know what love between a man 
and woman is, except when he himself 
has loved so many people that he can 
average all their similarities 
and differences in mathematical 
abstraction and thus reach a cold conclusion. 
You have not; so speak no more of love. 

Dessagene Crawford 



The music had risen in 

tempo and intensity for the past hour, 

until now it insistently beat against him. 

People moved through the brightly lit room, 
sending wakes of smoke swirling into each other 

He had sunk into a chair, too weak with 
laughter, and liquor, and smoke t© stand 

He watched the group parade before him - 
women with heavy breasts and heads of straws 
Women wrapped in tight skirte, 
who moved through long- familiar routines | 
Men with faces shining with perspiration, 
men with padded shoulders and bulging waists, 
and hands that nervously held a captured 
glass or cigarette, or both* 

He watched their ritual-like movements. 

He watched them touch each other and dissolve 

into laughter - moving rhythmically to the music. 

Each person had secreted around himself 

a sphere of translucent material* 

The room was filled with giant, cloudy marbles. A 

mist swirled inside the spheres. All he could 

see was the outline of their naked forms, 

moving to the pulsing beat of the music and laughter, 

The marbles were stirred around the room, 

and they clinked as they touched without giving way Q 

A Christmas tree covered 
with blinking lights and shiny balls o 
Around the base of the tree were scattered 
among the gifts fragments of bright globes 
which had fallen and shattered on the floor. 


He was in a crater filled 

with water and soap. 

The water was boiling rapidly around him, 

parching, withering his skin. 

Great clouds of steam rose into the air. 

The churning water covered him with 

glimmering bubbles of soap, each one filled with light 

The bubbles washed over his head. They were 

in his mouth, his nose, his eyes. 

The water of the dark lake was wonderfully cool on his 

skin. He swam gracefully, easily. 

The waters surrounded him with a mass of 

jelly-like eggs. The spheres clung to him. 

He was thrashing, pulled down by their weight. 

The globes were shattered, and 

slimy, squirming creatures 

attached themselves to him. 

He was flailing blindly, trying to 

wipe them from his body 

and keep above water. 

What f s the matter, John, you spill your drink? 
Honey, bring a drink here for Johnny-boy. 
Take it easy, man, the liquor f s on its way — 
party f s not over yet. Hurry, will you, hon... 

David Ewing 

Now is the waning time 

A pale hour of fading light 

The birds have fled 

Leaving the broken fingers of the trees 

To supplicate the frozen air 

The leaves in flaming rebellion 

Have flung their futile protest to the stars 

And lie in brown unhappy heaps 

Crushed by the foot they emit 

The final crackle of life becoming dust 

Jerry O f Dell 


The grey pavement was sweaty under his feet*. Clouds of mist 
hung over the city and diffused its lights, creating a yellow 
luminescent glow which cast weird softly-defined shadows on the 
concrete giants around him. He was alone* The steady rhythm of 
his footsteps was quite enough company* People had long ceased to 
be company for him, and even his thoughts left him bitter, cold, 
and empty. He shrugged, pulling his coat collar up e The mist had 
become a light erratic drizzle. Occasionally a car horn sounded, 
shattering the stillness of the night with its harsh reverberations « 

A deep need thrust itself upon him, casting itself through 
every fiber of his body; pulsating, throbbing, and now insistent..*. 
the need of something to warm a man f s soulo A search of his 
pockets produced a sudden shudder. Maybe one drink-— ——just 
one. Next corner, turn right. Hurry! 

Carriers was sandwiched between Durban 9 s Cleaners and 
Lefkowitz ? s all-too-familiar shop. The three brass balls above 
Lefkowitz's door stood guards glistening with the sweat of the 
night. The familiar darkness of Carrie f s swallowed him. Choos- 
ing a table, he moved through the shroud of stale tobacco smell.*, 
the faint noises suddenly penetrating his mind's limbo 

"Hi*" Carriers most cordial greeting broke rudely upon 
him. He hated those yellow broken teeth, his small black eyes 
looked like raisins stuffed into a huge ball of dough; sweat 
trickled down over the dough, following the outline of the dough- 
chins, pausing— —only to drop onto the filthy collar of his 
shirt . 

Turning away, he slumped into a chair next to the wallo 
Carrie plodded over, his bear-like feet making a scraping sound on 
the dirty floor* "What '11 it be?" 

Carrie was 'nothing, T standing there naked and sloppy for the 
world to see and smell. "Bourbon." Carrie Shuffled away, re- 
treating to his stronghold. Unconscious moments passed. Carrie 
returned with the drink, startling him to consciousness » His last 
forty cents— —forty lousy cents! He surrendered them and sur- 
veyed the deep brown liquids ambrosia to quench his thirst—— 
but the soul's hunger persisted and gnawed at his entrails. He 
savored the first swallow with an almost excruciating pleasure, 
swilling it around inside his mouth, permitting it to warm the tendei 


flesh there, before letting it slide away on the first leg of its 
ultimate journey « 

His pleasure was interrupted by nervous female laughter which 
pressed its way through the thick smoke o He glanced toward the 
aoundo The girl was thin and angular, a nervous smile covered her 
otherwise indifferent face. She was undoubtedly exchanging lewd 
secrets with the thick-necked, greasy-haired man across the table* 
Her bare arms were visible in the dim light 3 a thin mat of black 
hair covered them* He turned away, repulsed* 

His gut was warm nowo The thirst quenched^ the soul f s hunger 
yet unfed o The door banged shut behind him° the glass rattled in 
its frame* Carrie wouldn f t like that* The slob! 

The night was clearer now* The steam of the day f s heat rose 
from the gutters and the sidewalks and the walls Bubbles of 
moisture danced in the lights, giving the air an almost effervescent 
quality* He turned and walked through the bubbles - - - through 

his stagnant thoughts - through his fears and failures, then 

down into the soothing blackness of enveloping peace* 


A little worm lay, quite sore perplexed 

In his dirty little hole, for standing next 

Was a somewhat empty bird, with thought 

To eat him. Then an idea genius wrought, 

Said worm decided to dig to China 

Where he thought that he would fin<J a 

Place to lose that American Birdo 

In China he was ^eaten by a Chinese Birdo 

Tommy Siskron III 



Before the sunlight, which poets liken to God f s smile, 
I drop my head and squint to see. 

Often the singing of birds in velvety green trees, 
Grates on my nerves like fingernails on a blackboard. 

The softness of a summer breeze playing about my ears, 
Makes me ashamed of the feminine pleasure 
I take in its softness. 

The blackness of a stormy sky, ominous with lightning 

Turns me fierce and defiant, as a man should be. 

The biting slap of rain, almost cutting the meat from 

my face, 
Makes me laugh and show my teeth in a snarl. 

The roar of thunder, like Thor f s cloud-bound bowling 

Raises my voice to cry, W I hear you up there! Come 

down and play I M 

And the sudden, cowardly lull after elemental violence 
Is a defeat itself, cheating victory <> 

Herb Fackler 

Mist-laden night wind 
carefully smoothes 
restless seas 

With cool white fingers * 

Patt Byrd 



Silence Silence — -Silence 

The reticent mood around unfolds 
Silence— Silence Silence- 
Slowly breeding thoughts more bold* 
Musing begins— crescendo s until 
A spark of passion commences to build e 
The sound of pulsebeat tympanically grows % 
Dynamically black horses with the grace of prose 
Drive forward — —rushing, their jet-black hide 
Magnificently issues forth the sweat, and from me inside 

It egresses a liquid cold, contrasting 

With gasping hot breaths — -clashing 

With torrents of past quests! 

The heat of blackness consumes, stifles, i 

And forces to consciousness the desire that rifles— 

Silence— Silence— Silence— 

And the peace of restless sleep. 

David R. Saucier, Jr« 




Once, in far Tasmania, there lived a large family of koala 
bears o These bears lived in a huge eucalyptus tree, by a tiny 
spring, in the midst of the dry Tasmanian plain. The koala bears 
were happy, for they had the juicy eucalyptus leaves to nibble as 
they worked. The little bears loved this idyllic existence, and 
faced countless happy days of wicker weaving in the dappled sun- 
light beneath their tree. 

Now a group of armadillos, who also inhabited the plain, 
grumbled about the lighthearted bears. They peered from their 
holes and uttered dark words beneath their breaths. Finally the 
armadillos decided something had to be done. Very soon, in the 
dark of a particularly hot Tasmanian night, these wicked beasts 
crept into the cool oasis and felled the eucalyptus tree. As one 
might guess the little bears were distraught . Not only had several 
of their fellows been killed in the fall, but they knew their 
oasis would soon become desert, and that they would spend the rest 
of their days toiling, like the armadillos, under the blazing 
Tasmanian sun. Because the homey armadillos were much stronger 
and meaner than the koalas, all the bears could do was hang their 
heads and resign themselves to a weary, tedious existence. At 
last report the bears had peacefully accepted the loss of their 
tree. Things became much as they were before, but the bears 
worked with hanging heads, and none ever laughed, or even smiled. 

Moral: Inhabitants of the Tasmanian desert 
have no right nibbling eucalyptus 
leaves and being happy. 

James Henderson 


Noon is just that time of day 

when immodest trees 

have slowly let their shadows slither 

down around their knees. 

Dessagene Crawford 



In Lord Jim, Marlow tells us that Jim is the measure of all men, 
that "*..from weakness that may be hidden, ao9 not one of us is safe "-' 
Again and again, Marlow speaks of Jim as f, one of us tf and each time 
the phrase appears, it takes on a deeper meaning until it finally 
includes all humanity. We see in Jim the ambiguity that is inherent 
in every man, the enigma that is both the downfall and the salvation 
of all. Jim ? s struggle between moral good and moral corruption, hie 
quest to find "How to be" (153) all saint or all devil, is the 
eternal struggle of mankinds Conrad dwells on and develops this 
theme of ambiguity as he wraps Jim in mystery, assigns Marlow the 
task of interpreting, and Stein the task of applying Jim^s ease t© 
all of humanity. It is Marlow who calls t© our eight every man who 
is consciously or unconsciously involved in Jim^s fateo 

Why man is such an ambiguous, enigmatic creature is a question 
Conrad does not try to answer. Instead, he has Stein show us the 
way to live with our ambiguity s 

There is only one remedy 1 

One thing alone can us 

from ourselves cure!... 

The way is to the destructive 

element submit yourself, 

and with the exertions of 

your hands and feet 

in the water make the 

deep, deep sea keep you up* (152-53) 

When man realizes, as Stein does and Jim fails to do, that he 
cannot be all good or all evil, that he is continuously and des- 
perately involved in the struggle between moral good and moral 
corruption, then, and only then, is he able to live as a man It is 
this truth that Jim fails to realize which causes him "oooto cele- 
brate his wedding with a shadowy ideal of conduct*" (300) 

As Marlow says, "and that's the endo He passes away under a 
cloud, inscrutable at heart, forgotten, unforgiven, 

Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim , ed. Morton Dauwen Zabel (Boston, 
1958) p 33 (Other references to this edition will be indicated by 
page number in parenthesis). 


and excessively romantic." Jim is gone, elusive, yet eternally 
constant. And we, with Marlow, must tf oo<>answer for his eternal 
constancy* 11 (300), for he is, "one of uSo w 

Patt Byrd 

(Reprinted from the Rectangle of 

Sigma Tau Delta, 


14,952 is an even number 

I will list them for yous 

14,952 times every second of every hour of every day of 
the week, especially on rainy Friday afternoons, 
but Never on La Dolce Vitao.o 

14,952 chicken embryos brutally crushed in Garden City 
for Readers 1 Digest in 1939 alone o* 

14,952 feet of two inch thick asphalt leading to an 
exit with a sign sayings 
"This way out fl ..o 

14,952 miles travelled by quasi-Kerouacs 
trying to find something they left at 

14,952 days before the Edict of Nantes there was a small 
child crying in the foothills of the Pyrenees to 
the soft strains of a 
lullaby. o . 

14,952 grunion caught at the moment of completion for 
the sake of diversion. »• 

14,952 eyes watched a Florida chimpanzee impress the 
civilized inhabitants of the Congo... 


14,952 raindrops falling on electrified barbed-wire fencesoo* 

14,952 pictures of Shirley Temple and Jackie Cooper in a 
passionate embrace before the age of reasonoe. 

14,952 questions asked President Kennedy and he could answer 
every one of them. • . 

14*952 years in the future perhaps first hand information for 
another Darwin. . * 

14,952 fourteen thousand, nine hundred fifty-two 9 s and that ? s 
just about it... 

And yet, 14,953 is next, and that^s pretty damn oddo 

Chat Reed 



Hanging over the abyss of truth by a thread 
of sanityo 


An old bitch trotting along a dusty road with 
sagging tits slapping one hind leg and then 
the other. 


A black orchid and sweet sugar candy. 

Words running across a page s creaming » 

Roger Dick Johns 



From the warmth of the sea, the winds breathed heavily upon 
the dampness of the earth. The sands of the shore conversed with 
the ocean droplets and the water became pregnant with the grains,, 
Here and there the tall jutting rocks of the reefs were momentarily- 
bared by the rhythmic flow of the tide* And all was silent but the 
murmuring of the sea. In the night air hung the oceara's heaviness * 
Alexis was walking along the beach, head bent, and eyes looking 
but not seeing. Beneath his feet, the sand was crushed leaving an 
imprint upon the earth which the sea would wash away in its con- 
stant ebbing. He stopped, reached into his shirt pocket for a 
cigarette, and continued his slow, measured pace© He had no di= 
rection in mind. He often came to the sea - there to think ■=• there 
to get away from the rest of the world - there to be refreshed in 
the misty breeze o Alexis was a college senior o He had passed 
through all the phases of a students the champion of optimism, 

challenging the cynics; next the avowed agnostic, arguing for man's 
total dependence upon himself and the uselessness of any outside 
help; then came the year of general apathy o He didn't fight for 
anything. He didn f t care for anyone. He studied only because he 
had nothing else to do - no purpose - no reasono Furthermore, he 
said he didn't need a reason, that he could do without a purpose, 
that the whole rotten world could open up and swallow itself and 
he wouldn't care. He said that, but even then he thought other- 
wise. He reached out for something - anything - as a baby reaches 
out for his mother who's no longer there - but gripped only empty 
space. So now he walked by the sea. He stopped, then raised his 
head to look over the expanse of water to see the other side. His 
eyes were glassy and misty, distorting his view. His palms were 
moist and cold. His cigarette was burned almost to the filter. He 
started walking again. He felt the dampness as it crept up his 
clothes. It slowed his walk. His feet sank deeper. The sky began 
to look as though viewed in a carnival mirror. His pace hesitated, 
and then Alexis stopped - never to move of his own will again. 

James Donald Farley 


HERB FACKLER, a transfer student from the University of Southwestern 
Louisiana, is a junior majoring in English. Herb is a resident of 
Mansfield, Louisiana. 

JAMES DONALD FARLEY, a senior English major, plans to enter graduate 
school next fall to do work in the seventeenth century period. Don 
has played the lead role in several productions of the Mar jorie 
Lyons Playhouse and spent last summer in Pineville, Ky. , with The 
Book of Job . 

TOMMY HEAD, president of the local Sigma Tau Delta Chapter, is an 
English major from West Monroe, La. He plans to attend graduate 
school in English. 

JAMES HENDERSON is the editor of the winter INSIGHTS, and has recent 
ly had a story published in the Rectangle of Sigma Tau Delta. Jimmy 
is a history major from Bogalusa, La. 

ROGER DICK JOHNS will spend next year as a Rotary International Fel 
low at the University of Zurich. He is a senior from Mansfield 
whose major interests are literature and theology. 

JERRY O f DELL served as an associate editor for this issue of INSIGB 
He is a junior from Bossier City majoring in English. 



PHYLLIS PAYNE, a sophomore English major from Marshall, Tex., is onej 
of Sigma Tau Delta f s newest initiates. 

CHAT REED has been the recipient of the Mabel Campbell Award for 
creative writing. Chat is a resident of Shreveport, majoring in 

DAVID R. SAUCIER, JR. is a physics major from Bossier City who has 
also had work published by the American College Poetry Society. 

BILL SHAW, a junior from Shreveport majoring in English, is a new 
pledge of Sigma Tau Delta. 

TOMMY SISKRON, a recent pledge of Sigma Tau Delta, is a pre-medical 
student from Shreveport. 

N J To WrA^ N our 

SPRING, 1863 

Spring, 1963 

Volume One, Number Two 

Centenary College of Louisiana 

Editors Chat Reed 

Associate: James Henderson 

Business Manager: Tommy Head 

Sponsor: Sigma Tau Delta 

Faculty Advisor: Dr. £• M. Clark 

Coyer Design: Jacqueline Seale 

Art Work: Kathy Everett 
Asia Garland 
Angela Pringos 
Jacqueline Seale 


We wish to express our appreciation to Dean Bond Fleming for 
his encouragement and indulgence o It would be well to note that 
those who worked on this second issue gained insights from the 
production of the first issue. 

Several illustrations are included in this number© We wish 
to thank Mr© Willard Cooper, Chairman of the Art Department, 
and his students for their cooperation© 

Perhaps as a result of a pointed note in the winter issue 
there are more prose works in this second Insight g o We would en- 
courage continued emphasis on this literary form for those who 
are new to the field of creative writing. 

The faculty sponsor of Sigma Tau Delta is Dr. E. M. Clark. 
A printed statement of appreciation falls short in its inad- 

The Editors 


PATT BYRD, a junior English major from Boulder, Colorado, was 
also a contributor to the Winter issue of INSIGHTS. Patt, a 
newly elected Maroon Jacket, has also had work published in the 
Rectangle of Sigma Tau Delta. 

STEVE CLINTON is a freshman from El Dorado, Arkansas. He was a 
contributor to the Winter, 1962 issue of INSIGHTS. 

DESSAGENE CRAWFORD, a Senior English major from Jefferson, Texas, 
recently received a NDEA Fellowship for graduate work in ling- 
uistics at Texas Christian University. Dessagens is secretary- 
treasurer of Sigma Tau Delta. 

(Continued on last page) 




James Henderson % MARIA TERESA RAMON .©..©.©©©©..©©©©©©©©.©©o©©© 3 
James Henderson % THE YELLOW EPHEMERA. ©©©©©©©.©©. ©©©©©©©©©©©©©a 5 
Dessagene Crawford? L f ESPACEs EXPLICATION ©©.©©©©a©.©©©©©.©©©.© 8 

Herb Fackler s THE TIME OF FULLNESS. ..©©©© .12 

Dessagene Crawford. FABLE WITHOUT A MORAL c © o o . © © © © © • . • o © o • • • • 17 
Tommy Siskrom SOMEWHERE BETWEEN EVERYWHERE.. ©© ..».. a 80 ,oo 99 ool9 

David Ewings LI f L RED (excerpts) ........21 

Tommy Heads TIME TO QUIT THE PLOUGH.*.. 22 

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David Ewing. • • 13 

Wxlliam E. Sn&ws GRAVE WINTER. ...©©©©©©©oo©©©©©©..©.©.©.©.©.. ol4 
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Dessagene Crawford© TO END A SERENADE ©.©..©.© ©©16 


Truly Drake 19 

on at rteecL « nHjid. i AUxi ..©©.......©.©©©..©©.©..©....©....© ^u 

Don Farley. • 20 

Jerry O'Dell. .21 

Anonymouss AS A FALLOW FIELD. © ©...27 

V .*_• A &<•<** • 


Evangelist Michael Sand is logtg at least that seems to be 
the terminology of church people • However, no one knows this except 
Brother Sand* His large flock believes in Michael Sand so much, that 
I wonder if they know who was crucified* They tell him everything 
about themselves, even the most intimate secrets of personal habit 
and feelings e A woman once felt so guilty that she confessed 
every sin to him that she ever remembered committing. It took her 
almost six hours* Brother Sand especially enjoyed this particular 
woman, for he learned a lot. It was like taking a personal 
possession of a soul and molding it into his desired shape. And the 
best part about it was that she did not know she had lost anything. 

For the past five nights Brother Sand has been conducting a 
summer tent revival in a small Arizona town* Tonight, Saturday 
night, is the last night. It is, as Brother Sand jokes to himself, 
the hell night, which is the subject of his sermon. °* 

ff Good evening, Brother Sand, w said the bent old lady. 

ff We f ve been praying all afternoon for God f s blessing on you, 1 * 
said her husband, a dried-up, red-faced man. 

n Thank you and may God bless you tonight, n Brother Sand 
cheerily replied. 

He briskly strolled up to the songleader and pianist, said a 
few words, and sat down in a hardback seat directly behind the 
pulpit. He bowed his head and after a few moments began to quiver 
as his lips agonized a prayer. Through the audience could be seen 
others trembling with tears in their eyes. 

"There's pow f r in the blood, pow'r in the blood 
In the soul cleansing blood of the Lamb. 
Are your garments spotless, are they white as snow? 
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?* 1 
He rose from his seat and strode to the pulpit. 

^Tonight, as I have seen many of you making blessed inter- 
cession for the souls of your lost loved ones, as I have seen the 
tears of humility flow from your sorrowed hearts, my heart has 
been touched by the holy fullness of God f s spirit. He has moved 
me to speak on the most horrible thing contained in his Holy Word, 
and that is Hell, 11 he gasped in tremendous fear© 

'There is one preparatory point I wish to make about Hell. If 
you are there for a million years, burning but never being consumed 

by God*s eternal flames, there is still another million and another 
million and another million years left, and that ? s still not the end 
of your agony,' 1 he shout ed. 

A young woman pleaded, "0 please Godo ff Her voice broke at the 
word rf God. ,f 

ff In Hell there is no rest for the weary, no water for the 
thirsty no bread for the hungry, ever, ever, ever, ever. • • ," he 
whispered as in a trance » f, There is only the red pain of God*s fire* 
Can*t you see all the pitiful groveling souls in Hell looking up to 
the golden streets of Heaven and seeing God on His mighty throneo 
And God shouts for all the ends of eternity to hears f Too late 
sinner! Too late sinner! Too late sinner? f Oh, where will you go, 
poor sinner, on that day when God shall judge in fire. For Christ *s 
sake, give your soul to GodI ff 

He jumped off the pulpit and jerked his pants leg up. 
"Goddammit to hell, I ? ve been bit by a snake ! ,f 

The old lady grabbed her chest and fell choking and blue to 
the dirt floor. The young woman just sat there petrified. Brother 
Sand fell to the floor, screaming and blubbering curses. The snake, 
a five foot rattler, skimmed under the edge of the tent. The people 
never moved, they only stood gasping at the writhing man* r *My God, 
I f Xl die! Please™— somebody help! ft he screamed* 

• The old man rose from his wife*s purple body and shuffled down 
the aisle to the jerking body of Brother Sand e And as the form 
whimpered the old man spat in his faceo Then as quick as morning 
stars, the flock disappeared into the summer night, leaving a man 
foaming and gurgling in the dirt* 

Steve Clinton 


Through infected glassy eyes the gray of the wall could scarce- 
ly have been visible. The baby Maria Ramon lay in a rattan basket 
amid rags which undulated beneath gleaming emerald flies. As if 
sensing a crisis, the lice in her small damp hair moved more slowly. 
The flies crawled over the angular, almost obscene face, but avoided 
the working mouth as in respect of humanity, or as though possessing 
humanity of their own. 

The woman sat and stared out of the shack. She stupidly 
stared across the bay at the shrouded tower. Someone had told her 
once in her youth, not long before, that it housed the leaders of 
her people. Maria Teresa Ramon shuddered, and slightly moved and 
existed no more. A large green fly lighting into her mouth pro- 
nounced his benediction. 

Had syphillis left the woman's brain unmarked she would have 
looked around her, and at the distant tower, and wondered- — 

James Henderson 

Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness 

Like pillars of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and . 


-The Song of Songs 

See, He comes, scattering clouds, 

Radiant, with the sun at His back 

Splendid, in robes of gold and purple. 

His brightness is like the yellow rays 

That pierce through diminishing rain. 

And I tremble at His salutation. 

From fear, and wonder, and quiet delight, 

Then out of my dimness raise fluid eyes 

To receive His coming, 

And with open hands and leaping heart cry out 

0, my King. 

Jerry f Dell 


Oh tell me wrinkled, thick-skinned, bunch-backed 

unfeeling bird without wings, how do you go on? 

I can f t. You are Timers Fool because abandoned 

eggs are not enough • Galapagos is not enough 

even though it is Urwelts. Timelessness has no 

center. White shells and sluggish stumblings on 

endless sands. So free and yet no soul. No vision, 

only symbol enbalmed is creed, system, school. 

White and cold facades on endless streets going 

nowhere. You carry the world on your back but you 

do not suffer. Men must suffer. Man must suffer, 

this is his God-made existence. You made Eden a joke. 

Java, Ur, Thebes and now New York are but burning candles 

to you. Do you remember the Song of the Turtle, your 

song, old one: n In the begining was the Absurd, 

and I was there picking the ice cream out af my teeth 

with an oriental phallic symbol. God and Mary 

back in bed| Adam and Eve and now we f re dead. And 

all is good, world without Amen. 11 Oh too, too, tool 

You are the mystery of Genesis, But you are dead— 

a bombed-out crater— -at imoneer sans spirit. Come 

with me and melt with Ruth and Joe and Janie and all 

of us when the bomb goes. Uterine heaven foe you 

and me. Let us burn and make sweet smoke ascending 

to our Puritan Nirvana like a tired prayer. But at 

my back... But at my back. ..No not me J How dies the 

serpent?— a long day f s dying. Because I cannot 

see ahead, I must turn back. Nae man can tether 

time or tide. Man has no root in time and does 

devour the precious moments he has. The swiftly 

turning wheel does not stand. I cannot face new 

worlds without old. So I shall renounce my 

dreams and throw away my wand to lie with you old 

hide-bound box in your desert of eternity. So take 

me back into time Old Turtle. Old Tiger, be my 

guide. Crash, Cracker Jack, Sis, Boom— Bah J 

Ageless link on the Millennial Chain. 

Dick Johns 


"Please don f t ever think of death. I know it f s hard, for I was 
once like you* I can make it easier if you will let me tell you a 
story which I think of often, and I hope it will make you happy, too. 

ft A yellow ephemera appeared one day* I stood by a bench and 
was savoring a tiredness known only to those caught in the enigma of 
an existance which momentarily felt not bright yellow, but dusky 
brown laced with shifting black* 

"I looked at my yellow apparition and smiled, sadly, I am sure, 
for when I ponder existence I like to smile sadly* I suppose it 
makes me feel wise, or understanding, or a little sorry for myself* 
The particle of color spun on a small twist of breeze which was as 
warm, and as soft, and as fragrant as . * . as only a twist of 
breeze can be on a summer afternoon. I wanted to laugh, at least 
I think I wanted to laugh, at this insolent bit of nothing, this 
impudent abstraction which spun and looped upon invisible cushions 
of summer air. f You fool, ? I said in what I am sure was an under- 
standing tone. f What do you know about life?* I stopped. He wasl 
This ephemera was laughing for animal happiness. I hope an ephemera 
is an animal, for if it is, I can use it again when my mind wanders 
this way again. You do understand what I mean? 

"But as I was saying, I was standing in a day; a soft day of 
dappled shadow, and sunny spots of grass, and velvet breezes, and 
I was watching a yellow ephemera from a darkened mind when suddenly 
my floating bit of happy nothing was dead. I don T t suppose it 
matters how or why it happened, but I will tell you anyway* It was 
a rakish bird which came from nowhere and went nowhere, but it did 
it with dispatch and not a wasted motion. The bird was dusky brown 
and I thought, and please don f t laugh, I thought his feathers laced 
with black. What could I do? I wanted to cry, and mourn, and leave 
a marble slab which would say: f Here died a yellow ephemera which 
was taken from happiness and a bed of summer air. T It happened 
then. I saw my friend, for then it was my friend, and it was 
lighting on my shoulder. It told me that it ? s several days were 
happy, but ended, which was just as well, for if they endured what 
could they be but just as happy, and if somewhere else it endured, 
could it be more happy? Then I knew. Now it is caught forever in 
my memory. It is but a memory floating and spinning on the summer 

NYou are right. There are no such things that time of year, 
and surely, no yellow ones. I knew, really. I f m sorry, I won T t 
bother you again. rt 

James Henderson 

She kissed me in the stillness of night, 
And as I loved to return her embrace, 
The shadows fell and I saw her face. 
f Tis a shame the stars were so bright. 

Steve Clinton 

Sonnet on MARTIN EDEN 

With slowly moving wings, the weary bird 

flies high above the sea in journey home 

for rest. From there, it will not move to roam 

the catacombs of men though once they stirred 

its throat to sing. Its music shall be heard 

no more within the feigned f acade which foams 
about its prey to draw it down the dome 
reversed — Charybdis calls with cloven word. 

An inner voice rebukes the guileful lure: 

"Fly on," it says, r, fly on beyond the clutch 
of envy. Purify yourself. Defy 

The tempting cry. With strengthened wings endure 
the flight until the soothing waters touch 
your memories. Fly to Lethe, fly. w 

j. donald farley 


Les images me passaient 

lis s f £taient presses 

lis allaient an bord de la vue<> 

Les f euilles tombaient 
De leur sanctuaire 
Us m f attendaient 
Point, moi qui -visais 
Au pied de la vie* 

Je me sentais 
Perdu et enfongd 
Mon coeur ne pleurait 
Plus pour mon amitie 

Pendant les nuages qui me passaient 
Et les f euilles qui tombaient, 
A moi, j f ltais blesses 
L f espace me disait 
"Tu ne point Ti¥ais# p 

Roy J. Dupuy 



Translation and Explication 


The clouds passed me 

They were hurrying 

They were going to the limits of sight- 

Leaves were falling 

From their sanctuary 

They were not waiting for me 

I who was also looking 

At the foot of life* 

I felt myself 

Lost and sinking 

My heart no longer wept 

For my love* 

While the clouds were passing me 

and the leaves were falling , 

To me, I felt wounded £ 

Space said to me 

ff You no longer were living." 

M L f espace" seems to be a poem written on the impulse of a 
momentary thought. This does not mean the lines are lacking in 
polish, as the poet probably reworked them after the first writing. 
But I do think he has captured a fleeting thought* as clouds and 
leaves pass, he feels abandoned. Suddenly he realises that, even 
though he is alone, his "heart" has ceased weepings And this 

realization is shocking. The poet or the narrator of the 

poem, if they are not the same receives from "space" the con- 
cept that he was keeping himself from living. He was concentrat- 
ing on the "foot of life," an image which seems to suggest that 
he was not paying attention to things truly of importance. Hope 
seems implied in the last stanza as the protagonist realizes he 
has turned from this method of thinking and thus he may cease weep- 


ing, forget his love, and return to society. 

Any translator regrets that the translated work does not con- 
vey the nuances of the original; and my translation must be consid- 
ered only my personal rendering of the thought in Mr* Dupuy f s lines. 
The meter of the original is regular enough to lend unity to the 
structure of f, L f espace ff but neither it nor the rime occurs in a set 
pattern* The poet T s thoughts flow in the free metrics so frequent 
in contemporary French poetry, and the rime scheme lends a pleasing 
sound and sometimes provides emphasis (such as on "vie 11 and 
ft sanctuaire ")• 

The poem as a whole is an interesting rendition of a poet f s 
thoughts. The form fits the subject matter by being flowing and 
somewhat introspective. It is indeed refreshing to see a poem from 
Centenary written in a language other than English. 

Dess agene Crawford 

your tall conceals the sun 
your brown lies gray 

upon the sand 
and i can almost touch 
your giant image 
with my hand 

Marilyn McLure 


Creature of iridescence 
Dwelling amid golden apples 
And shine of fountain-spray 

Singing in moonlight 
Feathered apparition 
With voice of lucid silver 

One bright plume the power 
To quench all thirst 
Surmount all rainbows 

Fleeing between many- colored stars 
Your glittering shadow pursued 
By kings and laughing children 

Alluding the eager hands 
The heart-shaped eyes 
On instantaneous wings 

Hiding in the light 
Your interrupted song 
Vanishes in dust of pearl 

Will-spent from the taste of ashes 
We turn and hear your deathless laughter 
Mocking us from the farthest trees 

Jerry O f Dell 



The priests of man beheld the ashes in their hands, 
and they said ajnong themselves, 
"Behold, the God is dead. 11 

But because they feared the wrath of the people, 
they dared not tell them that 
the God was no more. 

So the priests made for the people idols, 
and they fashioned them out of 
steel and mortar and mind, 

And because the people had become barren and cold 
and in their hearts loved only themselves, 
the priests gave them idols in their own image. 

But, lo, a lone voice comes, crying from the 
wilderness of Man f s soul, saying 
n Behold, the God is not dead. 

He shall arise one day from the dust of his own ashes, 
And he shall cleanse the false idols from the hearts of Men 
with a scourge of fire. n 

Diana Laney 


It was a little thing, or maybe three; 
A beer bust among the young. 
A drink, a bill, a poniard blade 
Stilled the voice that had often sung. 

Herb Fackler 



Slimmer is not the time of fullness. There is a day in 
autumn when-suddenly-shirts no longer stick to your back, and feet 
no longer feel as though they had become one broad toe. 

The wind no longer whispers seduction in the soft leaves, but 
blows an easy, rustling lullaby through them, and they fall. Turn 
back the crackling carpet and there is a smell of ... is it rich 
pages in a damp old library, or is 1 it God T s breath? 

There is time then to pause among the goldenesses and think of 
time past-of watermelons and dusty roads that made you sneeze. 
There is time then to realize it all. There is a time to make of 
the past isolated things a fullness* 

Herb Fackler 

Look: green pine needles 
ruffled by small 
willful wind; 
-invisible fan I 

Patt Byrd 



Purple kitten-faces. . • 
Long pale stems . . • 
Small, sweet perfume- 
Wild violets. 

Tall, swaying pines . . . 

Rustling branches a » • 

Soft lumpy earth 

With blanket of stiff needles o 

Low brown brambles 
Old j winter-brittle, 
Crackling underfoot in April. 

Teresa Shetley 

A leaf falls from the branch of a tree 
In the heart of a forest. 
Gently, it floats to the ground, 
And its death, its fall, goes unnoticed- 
Only the branch knows that it is gone. 

On the brown earth lies the gray-brown leaf, 
No longer a part of the tree or the forest* 
But in its place comes a new leaf™ 
Small, pale at first; quickly growing to fill 
The vacant place. But it is not the same. 

David Ewing 



The snowbird sadly in the tree 

Sang songs of Spring amid the sterile twigs 

That Winter *s cold had claimed as season f s fee ° t 

Below the ground 1 waited for the sprigs 

Of Spring to wake and send their bodies new 

Into the soft warm winds of April f s day© 

The morning earth so blue and white with gray* 

Here in this tomb so far from life on earth 

I see these things from deep within the ground ^ 

The flowers near beside me give mute mirth 

Before they go above to mark my mound* 

How dark it is when Winter *s cold black veil 

Obscures our lives and locks us in its jail. 

William E. Shaw 


I speak though sound flows not, 
I think thoughts in knots, 
I plead — the silence is rot, 
Little speck go I Ye be forgot* 

Roy J. Dupuy 



WELCOME 1 Welcome! to my Kingdom, 

Land which belongs to me, I to it. 

Welcome and be part of my Kingdom. 

Be thankful that you have been chosen to enter my Kingdom, 

And I shall be your guide. 

Hear me carefully. Only you can enter my Kingdom; 

I request it be so. 

Leave your mate and come, for when I say, she will join you. 

But don't look sad for you are in my Kingdom, 

Where I am the gift of joy. 

Can you work? can you build? can you destroy? 

Then welcome to my Kingdom where I am your Mastery 

And you my servant. 

If you think, you have no place in my Kingdom, for 

A thinking man brings fear and chaos. 

If you dream, you are a burden to society in my Kingdom, 

For a dreaming man places false hope on abstractions. 

"Defence \ Dieu d*entrer, ff that must be your purpose, 

For to accept another master will bring conflict in My House. 

If you feel that society is wrong, remember that I ordered it. 

If you find light and hope in your heart, destroy it soon 

For I am light and hope, but I do not entice your hopes. 

If you come with missionary zeal to change my Kingdom, 

Damned is your person upon entering it. 

If you think of your soul, forget it, for its salvation is in 

My hands. 

You enter, never to leave. This is your place, not to be 
Sitting to my right, nor my left, but beneath me. 
Remember as I have said, ff I am your Master. 11 You must 
Serve your Master. WELCOME! WELCOME! to my Kingdom, 
A land which belongs to me. 

Roy J. Dupuy 



Sing me no songs of love, for you yourself 
do not know what it is to have a thing 
called "love" exist between two secret souls. 
No one can know what love between a man 
and a woman is, except when he himself 
has loved so many people that he can 
average all their similarities 
and differences in mathematical 
abstraction and thus reach a cold conclusion. 
You have not; so speak no more of love. 

Dessagene Crawford 

(Being a Lyrick of Didactical Intent) 

Fair ruthless lady J would f st thou be a nun 
And live unsung, un courted for thy charms 
Except thy lover bring cold cipherings, 
And satisfy thy dauntless intellect 
That his love is commensurate with all 
The loves that fill the universe? 
And should he dare to lay before thine eye 
A chronicle of hearts he lately knew? 
Would this subdue thy wrath or kindle it 
To new dimensions of fierce jealousy? 

Perhaps thy knowledge doth exceed his own 

And thou could f st teach him much if he should ask 

Thy counsel, but such cannot be his aim 

For see, he stands and offers thee his song 

To be thy bauble or enduring gem 

Whichever thing thy fancy shall require. 

Perhaps he hath had many loves before 

And chooseth thee above them all to seek; 

If so thine honour truly be great 

But if thou be his first, how much the morel 

Jerry O f Dell 



A roadrunner was speeding across a West Texas prairie when he 
heard someone call to him. "Hey there, come see what I have!" 
squeaked a voice. 

Much to his surprise, the roadrunner spied his friend, the 
armadillo. She was staring intently at a square yard or so of sand. 
As he joined her, the roadrunner noticed this sandy area had writing 
on it. "What f s this?" he inquired. 

"I," the armadillo announced proudly, "have just written a 

As the roadrunner was a polite gentleman, he asked her to 
read it, and here is what it saids 

The blue ethereal softness 
Of the west-wind f s breath 
Sings in restlessness 
Of the evening* s death. 

"Gollyl" exclaimed the roadrunner, "it even rimes! That f s 
pretty good, you know, although I f m not sure exactly what it means. 
I never did write a poem. ..but I tried once." 

"It f s really not hard," explained the armadillo modestly. 
"You just think of the prettiest things you know about and make 
them rime and everything. But I guess practice does help." 

"I always sort a wondered about poems," said the roadrunner. 
"I mean, do you just get an idea and then it makes itself into a 
poem, or do you start with trying to write something and finally 
think of an idea?" 

"Oh, inspiration first I" she squeaked, perking up her small 
ears. "In fact, I f ve written quite a few poems, but I just have to 
wait until a special idea sort of tells me it f s ready to be a poem. 
Sometimes I think maybe there f s a whole poem inside of every person 
and it only comes out part at a time, like the Milky Way at night. 
And every time you do something beautiful like laugh or sleep or 
write a rime or make love, that T s a little bit of your real poem 
showing, Don f t you sort of think so?" 

This was very complex for the roadrunner, more accustomed to 
stretching his legs than his mind. At length he said, "Well, I T m 
not so sure. But if that is true, I guess I f ll never write a poem, 
because this — whatever it is — never just comes to me and says 
T write a poem. f " And he went sadly away. 



The next 
heard a flurry of 
returned. He was 
he slid to a halt 
it! I f ve written 
and asked to hear 
a piece of paper, 

, however, the armadillo glimpsed a puff of dust, 
feathers, and suddenly realized the roadrunner had 
so excited she hardly knew what to expect. Before 
he exclaimed excitedly, ff I f ve done it! I*ve done 
a poem?" The armadillo was very, very pleased 
it at once. Obligingly, the roadrunner pulled out 
cleared his throat, and reads 

The prairie sun 
Is lots of fun; 
The prairie sky 
Is wondrous high 

Like flowers in spring 
The birds all sing; 
The prairie sky 
Is wondrous high. 

"There! 11 he said, quietly proud. f, I knew I could do it. You 
see, 11 he began, not giving the armadillo a chance to speak, ft I did- 
n f t have any inspiration at all, really, I just decided what I want- 
ed to say, made it rime and fit the meter (I really worked quite 
hard polishing it), used a simile and a refrain— and wrote a poem!" 

"But," protested the armadillo, "it f s not a real poem! It 
doesn f t say anything or express any emotion! 11 

w It says more than some wishy-washy lines about ? ethereal 
restlessness 1 which nobody can understand, ft he retorted. 

w Can I help it if you can f t say what you mean in good, plain 
English?* 1 she countered. 

And as the sun set over the prairie that evening they were 
still arguing, each convinced that his was the only way of writing 
a true poem. 

Dessagene Crawford 





"Where are you going young man? This road leads to every- 
where •" 

"To the west." 

"And where have you come from young man? This road comes 
from everywhere." 

"From the east." 

"You do not smile young man. Your years cannot have earned 
such sorrow." 

"For those who shadow the sun there are no smiles." 

"You speak but little young man, only when spoken to. Surely 
you have seen much back there. Why do you hold your tongue?" 

"You speak too much old man, and say nothing. I wish that I 
could not hear you. I would smile if you would go your way." 

"It is funny young man, I too am going toward the west. I go 
my way and yours. For you see, I begin to like you. What - is your 
name young man, if we are to be friends?" 

"I am called many names by many people. I call myself Alone, 
and thus I wish to be, for I do not like you old man. I have no 

"Sit a moment young man for I am tired, I am old." 

As they sat the old man lost his soul. And the young man 

T. Siskron, III 

I think, yet I am not, 
The soul that should exist 
Slips into a vast oblivion, 
And the mind remains 
To represent the dead 
In a whirling universe 
Of senseless sound. 

Truly Drake 



The shadows were sharp in the dust 

The dog was lying under the dripping faucet 

The house was defiant 

In its nest of Johnson grass 

They kissed and parted and the dust swirled under his feet 

As he blindly walked past memories 

That haunted him until he could not think 

The red monster played with him 
Like the rag doll he was 
And the gun powder stung 

Honor, Righteousness, words are hollow 
But steel is sharp and blood is red 

Swirling dust filled his head 

As he lay there 

And then the dust settled 

Chat Reed 

In our moment of time- 
unguarded, alone- 
The leaves whisper silently 
^he dove has flowno ft 

jo donald farley 

Exerpts From 

Lurking in the shadows in the middle of the forest was a wolf 
a wolf with long fangs and small red eyes. He was waiting for Li f l 
Red to come skipping merrily along down the path, taking a basket of 
goodies to Grandmother f s. He waited • • • and waited. • • and 
waited ... and waited. ...... and waited. 



"It certainly is a long way to Grandmother f s house, w said 
Li f l Red. f, I think I f ll sit here under this tree and rest a 

The wolf, who had been watching for his chance, crept softly 
through the brush until he was behind the very tree Li f l Red was 
resting under. Carefully he reached around the tree. 

fT I f ve gotteml 1 * he said, and grabbed the basket of goodies. 
He ran down the path as fast as he could. ft l t ve gottem, I f ve 
gottem, I f ve gottem!" 

He was halfway home when the bomb in the basket went off. 


David Ewing 

expect no 
burning bush 

said the old 
and very tired 

standing amid 

the autumn foliage 

Jerry O f Dell 


A Reading of "Sailing to Byzantium" 
as Aesthetic Theory- 
Few poems in the English language offer so many levels for 
critical reading as William Butler Yeats *s "Sailing to Byzantium." 
Gleanth Brooks has suggested three levels upon which the poem may 
be reads the transition from a sensual to an intellectual art; 
the poet f s conception of the Byzantine mind; and the revery of an 
old poet as he approaches death. 1 The first and third of these 
readings are the most commonly held, for if the poem is interpre- 
ted on the second level, it becomes purely descriptive rather 
than showing any spiritual conflict on the part of the speaker. 
Of the proponents of reading the poem as an old poet f s revery, 
the most adamant is Mr<> John Crowe Ransom. Mr* Ransom even takes 
for granted a certain senility and egotism on the part of the 
poet. ^ The purpose of this paper is to give a critical reading 
of the poem as aesthetic theory and to show that a point of view 
like Mr. Ransom ? s coincides, on a broader level, with such a 
reading of the poem. 

The poem opens with a picture of life in "that" country, a 
society characterized by instinctive obedience to the laws of 
nature. "Fish, flesh, or fowl" is interested only in dancing to 
that sensual music which pervades the entire civilization. The 
poet, however, points out the transitory nature of a society in 
which an individual is only "begotten, born, and dies." Although 
the animal life is busy with love, sex, and mating, the birds are 
described as "dying generations." It is easy to imagine that art 
produced in a society interested only in following animal instincts 
would be a totally representational art, with insistence on an 
accurate picture of the temporary, mortal side of life. "Monuments 
of unaging intellect" are entirely ignored. 

The opening line of the poem states "That is no country for 
old men;" the second stanza explains why. In a society oriented 
to love and mating, an old man has nothing in the future except 
death. To give him a reason for living, "soul" must "clap its 
hands and sing." The song which "soul" sings must be a song of 
soul T s own spiritual and intellectual creation, a creation more 
permanent than one celebrating only physical life. Because 
permanent intellectual creations are impossible in "that" 
country, the poet has "sailed the seas and come to the holy city 
of Byzantium." 


Because the speaker describes himself as an old man, critics 
have reasoned that he must be advanced in years, and have left an 
area of deeper meaning unexplored. Mr. Ransom, for one, does not 
seem to realize that "old" does not necessarily imply physical 
age. In the essay, "The Autumn of the Body/ 1 Yeats relates that 
when he first began to write, he "desired to describe outward things 
as vividly as possible and took pleasure ... in picturesque and 
declamatory books. " Suddenly, however, he found that he "lost the 
desire of describing outward things and found that . «./he7 took 
little pleasure in a book unless it was spiritual and unemphatic."3 
This essay was written in 1898 when Yeats was thirty-three years 
old, certainly not an old man. He goes on to tell how he finds a 
similar process occuring in artists all over Europe. No longer 
did these artists find a photographic method satisfactory, but 
felt that they must emphasize the spirt ual elements in human exper- 
ience. To give a reason for this change, Yeats quotes from an 
Iriah poets "The very sunlight f s weary, it's time to quit the 
plough. "4 Yeats interprets this statement by explaining that man, 
because he has conquered the exterior world and grown weary of it, 
has turned to an interior, spiritual world. The resulting loss of 
physical detail in art has been called "decadence 11 by some, But 
Yeats prefers to call it "the autumn of the body." To Yeats this 
turning inward seems to be a process connected with a certain 
mental attitude, not with old age. Although Yeats may use images 
such as "autumn," "weariness," and "age" to describe this attitude, 
his own experience shows that age is not a prerequisite for its 
occurrence. Thus an interpretation of "Sailing to Byzantium" as 
the plea of an aged, egotistical poet to be allowed to perpetuate 
himself through his verse is a rather shallow, literal point of 

In the third stanza, the poet prays to the "sages standing in 
God's holy fire" ~~ the fire of poetic inspiration — to deliver 
him from the dying world of the flesh. He asks for the release of 
his soul, still "sick with desire and fastened to a dying animal," 
into the artifice of eternity," which is itself a product of the 
human imagination. 

The speaker has earlier revealed his destination as Byzantium, 
a civilization which was preoccupied with philosophy and theology. 
The religion of the Byzantine empire was distinguished by its belief 
that the spirit of God does not visit men individually, but rather 
as a body through collective worship. Only through community can 
religious experience be had. Yeats reveals his admirations for 
the Byzantine culture in A Vision s 


I think that in early Byzantium, maybe never 
before or since in recorded history, religious, 
aesthetic, and practical life were one, that 
architect and artificers... spoke to the multi- 
tude and the few alike... were almost impersonal, 
almost perhaps without the consciousness of 
individual design, absorbed in their subject 
matter and that the vision of a whole people. 

In "Sailing to Byzantium," the poet asks for an impersonal art, 
using for its subject the common spiritual values of men rather 
than their personal differences. Although the Byzantium of this 
poem may not conform to the historical Byzantium in every detail, 
it surely symbolizes a culture in which all aspects of human life 
are closely integrated and in which the essence of these aspects 
is explored by means of a rather formal, intellect ualized art. 

In the last stanza, the poet promises that once he is 
released from the physical world, he will never take his "bodily 
form from any natural thing." Rather, he will become an arti- 
ficial bird made of "hammered gold and gold enameling" by 
Byzantine craftsmen. The bird has long been used as a symbol 
of the soul after death. "In the Babylonian Hades souls wore a 
feather dress and in ancient Egypt the ba or soul was thought of 
as a bird... in Homer the souls of the dead 'twitter. f "^ Yeats 
uses the bird as the symbol of the freedom of the purified soul, 
completely divorced from nature. In contrast to the "birds in 
the trees" of the first stanza, the golden bird is rigid and 
much more permanent than the natural* bird which will eventually 
grow old and die. Although the bird is a symbol of the freedom 
of the imagination, its metal construction suggests that this 
freedom must be exercised within fixed forms and traditions to 
preserve some measure of stability. The golden bird sits upon 
a golden bough, which in Greek mythology serves as Aeneas f s 
passport into the unknown regions of the underworld. The symbols 
of bird and bough fuse to give the artist a disciplined, spiri- 
tual art which enables him to explore the unknown regions of the 
human mind and as a result, sing of that which is "past, or 
passing, or to come." 

The basic conflict of "Sailing to Byzantium" is the oppo- 
sition of a natural, representational art whose purpose is only 
to describe natural phenomena, to a rigid, intellect ualized art 
which uses nature only as a means of gaining spiritual insight. 


There can be little doubt as to which the poet prefers . "The 
Autumn of the Body 41 makes this preference clears 

He /ManJ grew weary when he said, f These things 
that I touch and see and hear alone are real, f 
for he saw them without illusion at last, and 
found them but air and dust and moisture. And 
now he must be philosophical above everything, 
even about the arts, for he can only return the 
way he came, and so escape from weariness, by 
philosophy* The arts are, I believe, about to 
take upon their shoulders the burdens that have 
fallen upon the shoulders of priests, and to 
lead us back upon our journey by filling our 

thoughts with the essences of things, and not 

with things.' 

Tommy Head 


Cleanth Brooks, Jr., "The Vision of William Butler Yeats," 

Southern Review, IV (Summer 193B), 133 • 

John Crowe Ransom, "The Irish, the Gaelic, the Byzantine," 

Southern Review. VII (Winter 1941), 517-576. 

-'William Butler Yeats, "The Autumn of the Body," Essays and 
Introductions (New Yorks Macmillan, 196l), p. 189. 

4 Ibid. , p. 191. 

5 F. A. C. Wilson, W. B. Yeats and Tradition (New Yorkf 
Macmillan, 195&), p. 32. 

°Howard Baker, "Domes of Byzantium, " Southern Re view j VII 
(Winter 1941), 640. 

7 Yeats, "Autumn," p. 193. 


Baker, Howard. "Domes of Byzantium," Southern Review , VII 
(Winter 1941), 639-652. 


Brooks, Cleanth, Jr* "The Vision of William Butler Yeats," 
Southern Review, IV (Summer 193S), 116-142. 

Ransom, John Crowe. "The Irish, the Gaelic, the Byzantine," 
Southern Review, VII (Winter 1941), 517-546. 

Wilson, F. A. C. W. B. Yeats and Tradition . New Yorks 
Macmillan,^ 195&. 

Yeats, William Butler. Essays and Introductions . New Yorks 
Macmillan, 1961. 


He had had a good morning. He had hitched with two pulp wood 
trucks and an old fellow who was going in to se.e about fertilizero 
It was about the best time he had ever made on the patched farm 
roads « He was still smiling about the old man trying to talk and 
chew at the same time© Seemed like he would have been happier off 
doing one or the other • The side of his truck was stained all the 
way down* Gouldn f t stop he figured • Not even for something as 
important as that. No one had much time to stop in the springs 

The road was steaming after the slight rain around noon. 
There was a smell of asphalt, nitrates, and body that hung around. 
He started thinking about that God-awful smelling perfume he had 
met in Nashville. That was bad. Never go back to Nashville. Bill 
Bailey was coming home. 

He remembered home, sadly. He kept telling himself that it 
was only because he was in the same county that he wanted to stop 
off or just ride through depending. He knew he couldn^t rationalize 
his way out of this mess. He felt like he was 4&» 

Then he started mumbling and bitching at himself like he had 
done at least six times a day for the last week. He was 26, out 
of work, and tired. This was the worst part. Sure, he didn T t 
have any brass band when he left, but he had made sure that every- 
one knew h® wasn ? t coming back. Not for a long, long time anyway. 
Only 3 years on the road, and nothing to say for it other than 
memories that gave him an intense desire to throw up. 

He had been gone for 3 years, but he remembered everything he 
saw, the strange trees that were twisted behind the barn with the 
SEE ROCK CITY sign on it. The highway signs were either the same, 
or they were new ones already shot up. He had done his share. 


There was that night when they were throwing beer bottles out the 
windows at the field hands and one hit a sign and bounced back 
through the windshield. 

Then what he considered his one emotional shortcoming came 
back. He felt like he was going to start bawling. He always got 
that way in movies when there were nice people who got killed or 
something, maybe in a German bombing run or an Indian raid or when 
they were eating radishes in "Gone With The Wind." "Frankly, my 
dear, I don f t give a damn" equals big ears and denims equals that 
cowboy in "The Misfits" out chasing cows for dog food companies. 
Well, dogs have to eat too. 

He decided that it wouldn f t make any difference to anyone at 
home whether he cried or not, either they wouldnft notice or they 
would. He hoped they would. It was a small sacrifice. 

Chat Reed 


As a fallow field was I, 
Until you came. 
Brown, barren devoid of life; 
Baking in the summer sun, 
Gleaming cold in winter f s rain, 
I waited - until you came. 

As a tree I stood, before you came; 
Alone and sere. 

Standing stark before the winter f s blast, 
With naked arms outstretched; 
Uncaring, unfeeling, an insensate thing 
Was I - until you came. 

As a fallow field I waited, 

As a tree in winter , s cold and cheerless light; 

Lacking the quickening spark; 

All unaware of the meaning of life 

Through aeons of time. 

Then you came 

Making all things shine. 




TRULY DRAKE, a I960 graduate of Centenary College and an alumna of 
Sigma Tau Delta, teaches English at Fair Park High School in 
Shreveport. Miss Drake is now enrolled in the Evening Division at 

ROY DUPUY is a sophomore business major from Marks ville, Louisiana* 
Roy is president of the French Club at Centenaryo His f, L*Espace" 
is the first foreign language contribution to INSIGHTS « 

DAVID MING, a senior physics major from Bossier City, will spend 
next year at the University of California in Berkeley where he has 
received a fellowship from the Atomic Energy Commission to do 
graduate work in health physics. 

HERB FACKLER, a junior English major from Mansfield, Louisiana, is 
a recent initiate of Sigma Tau Delta * Herb plans a career in writing 
and college teachings 

JAMES DONALD FARLEY will spend next year at the University of Oregon 
working towards his master ? s degree in English literature » Don is 
a senior English major from Thibodaux, Louisiana. 

TOMMY HEAD is this yearns president of Sigma Tau Delta and Business 
Manager of Spring INSIGHTS o This English major is a resident of 
Monro e c 

JAMES HENDERSON served as Editor of the Winter, 1962 issue of 
INSIGHTS and is associate editor of this issue o He is a junior 
history major from Bogalusa, Louisiana. 

ROGER DICK JOHNS will spend next year as a Rotary International 
Fellow at the University of Zurich. Dick, a resident of Mansfield, 
Louisiana, is a senior English major. 

DIANA LANEY, a junior from El Dorado, Arkansas, is an English major 
and historian of the local chapter of Sigma Tau Delta* Diana is 
also secretary of Alpha Chi, honorary scholastic fraternity. 

MARILYN MCLURE, a transfer student from Vassar, is a junior majoring 
in English. She is a resident of Shreveport . 


JERRY O f DELL, a member of the Centenary chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, 
is a junior from Bossier City majoring in English. Jerry was 
recently elected president of Alpha Chi, honorary scholastic 

CHAT REED, in addition to being editor of the Spring issue of 
INSIGHTS, is vice-president of Sigma Tau Delta. Chat has had 
poetry published by Flame and by the Louisiana College Writers 1 

WILLIAM SHAW, a junior from Shreveport majoring in English, is 
a newly initiated member of Sigma Tau Delta. His poetry has 
been published by the American College Poetry Society and by 

TERESA SHETLEY, a new initiate of Sigma Tau Delta, is a sophomore 
English major from Mansfield, Louisiana. Teresa plans a career 
in college teaching. 

TOMMY SISKRON, who was a contributor to the last issue of INSIGHTS, 
is a member of Sigma Tau Delta. Tommy is a senior p re-medical 
student from Shreveport. 

Winter, 1963 

Vol one Two, Number One 


Centenary College of Louisiana 

Editor: Tommy Head 

Associates: Chat Reed 

Suzann Welty 

Business Manager: Teresa She t ley 

Sponsor: Sigma Tau Delta 

Faculty Advisor: Dr. E. M. Clark 

Cover Design: Toe 

Art Work: Angela Pringos 

Jacqueline Seale 
Joe lie Smith 


JOHN BRADEN, a sophomore from Jennings, Louis iana, is a 
speech major. 

STEVE CLINTON, a contributor to the first two issues of 
INSIGHTS, is a sophomore English major from El Dorado, 
Arkansas . 

DESSAGENE CRAWFORD is a graduate of Centenary College who 
is doing post-graduate work in linguistics at Texas Christ- 
ian University, She is from Jefferson, Texas. 

DIANA DRY is a sophomore from Shreveport who works as news 
editor of the Conglomerate . 

HERB FACKLER, president of Sigma Tau Delta and editor of 
the Conglomerate , is a senior English major from Mansfield, 

JAN RAE GREEN is a freshman English major from Richardson, 
Texas . 

TOMMY HEAD, editor of INSIGHTS, and a past president of 
Sigma Tau Delta, is a senior English major from West Mon- 
roe . 

JIMMY HENDERSON, a history major from Bogalusa, Louisiana, 
was the first editor of INSIGHTS. 

SHARON HUBERT is an active member of Jongleurs as well as 
Sigma Tau Delta. She is a senior English major from Clan- 
ton, Alabama. 

DIANA LANEY, a senior who plans to do graduate work in 
English, is from El Dorado, Arkansas. 

INDI NICHOLS, a contributor from Sorona, Wisconsin, is a 
senior "with a divisional major in humanities. 

(Cont'd, on last page) 




c » 




Steve Clinton: AN ANGEL'S LIFE IS NOT SO BAD .,.♦,.,...«. 1 

John Br aden : THE LAST STAND . . . k 

Jan Rae Green: YOUTH . 7 


Jimmy Henderson: THE PARK 19 

Corliss Parkier: SALES SLIP 2k 





Jerry 'Dell: THE SONNET 8 

Diana Dry: CBTQUAINS , . . . * 9 

Evelyn Todd: NO RETURNING 10 

Steve Clinton: THE MERRY MAN .11 

Jane Wroten . • . 12 

Jane Wolf enden . . . . 13 

Mary Sorrows . .... lk 

Jer i Riley .'. 15 

Sharon Hubert : WINTER 18 

Diana Laney: REALIZATION 23 

Herb Fackler: MORPHEAN ODE .27 

Indi Nichols: CHANGE .28 


On an evening like this she -was the happiest. Alone, 
walking by the lake, her dress cascading in the breeze. On 
the far bank was a light, and she knew he was there. At this 
late hoar he had probably just got up and eaten. He would 
stay up all night and in the morning she would go over and 
fix him breakfast. Maybe they would talk. She never knew. 

She remembered a morning it was raining. The lake was 
misty with a swirling fog that wet your face and cooled your 
lungs. Her dinghy seemed to float in suspension. She found 
him in a tree, and he said he was looking for Gabriel. He 
wanted to see him before he blew his horn. "If a dismal day 
like this isn't the end, then I believe I could survive 
anything, even death," he said. He was pensive and serious. 

Once she asked him why he slept all day and awoke at 
night. "People can see me during the day. At night I see 
only myself. The sun hurts my eyes, but the stars don't. 11 

In the afternoon his parents sat in lawn chairs on the 
lake's bank and drank iced tea and chatted . • They were old 
people. They said, "Very nice of you to come and visit our 
son. He's a lonely boy." or, "It seems like you're the only 
one who can talk to him anymore. Strange young man." 

"Look at those little-bitty ants," he said excitedly, 
"Those little things are just goin ' to town on that honey.' 
Look at them! Just like they knew what they was doin'. " 
Today he was a child six years old* He had a different 
character for each year of his life. From eight on down he 
had the most trouble, because he had not started a diary 
until he was nine. After a while she drew him away from the 
ants and childhood, and they walked and threw rocks in the 
lake . 

"Lois, have you ever seen an angel?" he asked. 

"No," she kicked at a limb on the ground. "Can't say 
that I have . " 

"They have wings, don't they? White ones, that are as 
smooth as dove wings!" 

"Yes, I suppose they do," she nodded. 

"They can fly anywhere they want to, even to heaven. 
Angels are the freest things there are." 

"Lucifer was condemned to hell because he did a sin. 
They are free only if they do God's "will." 

"Yes, but it's not bad to submit yourself to God," he 

She sat down on the bank, next to a tree . He was lean- 
ing on the tree . 

"Where is freedom but in the framework of goodness?" 
he asked « 

"Yes," she agreed. He always "won" their discussions. 

"Then . . . , an angel's life is not so bad," he con- 


-X"X--X-X-X--X--X-X-*"X-X X X X -SBBBfr 

"If I've told you once, I've told you twenty times 
to stay away from that damned idiot across the lake! What 
the hell do you think he's out there on an island for except 
that he doesn't kill somebody? My God, he's only out of the 
asylum because his old man and old lady are so dam' senile 
they don't realize he's crazy!" 

"Now Franklin, you mustn't get excited, dear. You know 
anger's a fruitless emotion," his wife soothed . 

He glared at her, and finished his fourth can of beer. 
"Now listen, dammit, I ain't harvesting fruit --- I'm 
telling her to stay away from that demoniac on that island!' 
He hocked and spat "Anybody that stands on their head on a 
rock is bound to be crazy. Got up in the morning and what 
did I see but that imbicile, inverted on a dam' rock!" 

The next morning the dinghy was gone and the speedboat 
was chained to the dock. She could see him across the lake, 
standing on the bank, looking at her. He waved and ran, 
flapping his arms like a bird. For a week he waited and she 
saw him cupping his hands around his mouth, but it was use- 
less. Behind him were his parents, sitting on the lawn, 
sipping tea. "Wonder what happened to that nice young lady? 
Guess she gave up, like the rest. Kinda sad --he liked her," 

That night, as she slept, he climbed the sycamore tree 
by her window. It was raining and he slipped on a wet limb. 
The fall broke his neck. It rained so hard that it com- 

pletely ruined the white pasteboard wings tied to his back. 

Steve Clinton 


A cod -he ad for man, 

And a stone-blocked cave. 

The song of the crook-leg bird, 

Barbed, sad and beaut if ul- 

Whose slumbers are not sleep. 

Must I? Must I? I must 

Follow the song of the crook-leg bird. 

Honor lies dead in a stone-blocked cave 

And I must be an incubus 

To impregnate a cod-headed -world 

With my own hoarse croak of cold honor. 

But let me not turn rancid 

And sour in the hate of bird killers, 

For the crook-leg bird 

Turned spiteful and cruel, yet died 

Of fever for man in a Turk-ruled land. 


The wild-haired Welshman cheated the gods. 
His life, they said, was to be a mortal nova, 
Burning, burning, flashing.... then the dark. 

The man lives not, in his cavalcade of bars, 
But what he wrote of life, his "words of truth, 
Burn with a steady flame: a morning star. 

And -whatever Valhalla dead Welsh poets inhabit 
Resounds to the roaring, robust mirth 
Of the wild-haired Druid scop. 

Herb Fackler 

reprinted from the National 

College Anthology 


It had been dark about an hour, but the heat was still 
rising from the dingy little streets of the French Quarter . 
On Bourbon Street the bands "were "warming up, and the barkers 
stood by their open doors and called to the early evening 
crowd. People moved about in little groups. Some hurried, 
and others just wandered around looking at everything, but 
none of them noticed the old man. He was big, and his stom- 
ach hung over the top of his baggy pants. He wore a weather- 
beaten, double-breasted suit with a red bow tie and had an 
old beat-up trumpet case stuck under his arm. Wilson Rose 

James hadn't always been unnoticed. At one time he had been 
the King of Bourbon Street . Only then it wasn't Bourbon 
Street^ it was Basin Street, where things were really wild. 
Back in the old days, King Willie blew his horn and people 
came from everywhere . 

Things had changed now though. Willie had grown old, 

and he had a bad heart. His kind of jazz had grown old too» 
Even in New Orleans people said it was too loud and it was 
ugly. Now they liked it cool and quiet. But as far as 

Willie was concerned, he was still King Willie, and his kind 
of jazz was the only kind, and tonight he was going to prove 
it to everybody. 

He left Bourbon, walked about a half a block down St. 
Peters Street, and stopped in front of a small, run-down 
building. There was a covered alley beside it which led back 
to a little court yard. It didn't look like much, but the 
old timers could get together here and make a little music 
for anybody who wanted to listen. The rest of the group were 
already there, tuning up. They had known each other for a 

long time, off and on, and had played a lot of jazz together. 

"Well, looks like all the kats is here," said Willie, 
taking his horn out of his case. "Whatcha say let's get 
things started." 

There was a kind of silence in the little room. Henry 
Evans, a tall, thin old man, wrapped his long arms around 
his bass fiddle and leaned on it, "Willie," he said, "me 
and the boys here, well, we kinda thought we might kinda take 
it easy tonight." 


Willie looked at him sharply. "Take it easy, hell I We 
gonna blow da top right off dis place . Don't y'all go worrin' 
bout me . " 

They knew then that if they didn't blow the top off the 
place, Willie "would do it by himself. There was nothing more 
to be said. 

They started playing and a few people came in. They 
came out of curiosity at first, but as the strange, exciting 
rhythm of that old-style jazz began to drift into the street, 
more began to come. Before long, the little room was filled. 
Willie kept blowing his horn, and by the time he got warmed 
up, the people could hear him clear down on Bourbon Street. 
They played it fast, and they played it slow, blues and rag- 
time, and the people kept coming. It was just like the old 
days again -- King Willie was blowing his horn and the people 
were flocking in to hear him. At two o'clock in the morning, 
Willie announced the last number, but everybody clapped and 
stomped and hollered for more . So it went until almost dawn. 

Finally, Willie sat down in his chair and said, "There 
ain't no more. I'm jest blowed out." 

Everybody filed past and shook Willie's hand and clapped 
him on the back, but Willie never stood up. 

When they had all gone, Henry came back inside. Willie 
still sat in his chair. 

"You awright, Willie?" 

"I'm fine, Henry." There was a strain in Willie's voice. 
"I'm fine as I been in a long time." 

"Willie, you ain't lookin so good. I'm gonna go get a 

But when the doctor came, it was too late. Willie had 
slumped over, his trumpet still clutched in his hands. 

The sun was rising now, and the early morning rays cast 
little dancing shadows on the floor. It was the beginning 

of a new day, anew day that King Willie wouldn't have to see. 

. John Braden 


RegaLe me with tales of no tribal Jehovah, 

for I have no time for a god 

"who is bound by a people 

or protects one nation 

by destroying the gods of its neighbors. 

And tell me no legends of Christ's Heavenly Father 

■who so loved the world that He sent 

a prophet from Nazareth 

to whisper the secret 

that Moslems and Buddhists shall perish in hell. 

And put down the lute, for I'll hear no myths 

of a God in a flowing white beard, 

in the image of man 

with two legs and two arms, 

enjoying a city of jasper and gold. 

A god whose concern 
is infinitesimal man 
must be, by all counts, 
an inferior deity. 

So sing of a god who created the universe, 

a Power not hindered by space or by time-- 

by the shape of a human. 

Sing of a god who created the stars 

and probably spirits far greater than man's. 

Dessagene Crawford 


It was the season of "wind and mist. Cholea shivered, for 
the autumn wind was blowing crisp and chill, and wibh each 
breath she took there came a rasping tartness mingling the 
mellow fruitf ullness of the season with the frosty air. Even- 
ing came quickly now, and the remaining afternoon lay bathed 
in a soft rosy hue, Rays of the setting sun shone through 
the trees' colored leaves making a dappled pattern on the 
sidewalk. For an instant the breeze blew, separating the 
leaves in a swirl of color, distorting the shadow pattern 
like a scattered jigsaw puzzle. The entire day had the pre- 
monition of sensation. It was not tangible, this feeling, but 
a subtle sharpness provoked it. 

Cholea' s steps kept a brisk, pace until at last, she 
paused and leaned against an old iron fence, whose ornate 
grill work was rusted and washed with centuries of use* Be- 
hind the gate stood a house. Built during the Victorian 
period, it stood grandly against the, evening sky. Cholea's 
mouth twitched in what had been the beginning of a smile and 
ended in an involuntary grimace of pain. Her eyes filled 
with tears, and through blurred vision she stared at the house 
as if trying to implant upon her memory all details of the 
structure. The gate swung open, and Cholea went down the path 
to the door. She flung her frail limbs against its oak and 
entered. The room smelled of wood, spice, and mustiness. The 
mixture was appealing, and again Cholea's mouth formed a half 
smile. A white kitten sat on the floor before a roaring fire- 
place drinking milk from a saucer. Its tiny pink tongue lapped 
at the whiteness, spraying drops on the floor. It finished and 
sat back, daintily washing its tiny paws. The softness and 
sweetness of the kitten filled the room. Cholea crossed the 
room, went to a far window, and surveyed the afternoon. The 
final glow of sun fell on her thin face making it full and 
warm, and a glitter on the window-pane made her eyes sparkle. 
The sky was now a blaze of orange and gray, like the mingled 
fury of smoke and fire. The room glowed dull as the day ended 
in a moment, and slowly the sharpness became pain. It came as 
rain, drop by drop until suddenly it became a thundering din 
and afterwards . . . clear wet silence . . . almost too still. 



Cholea turned and faced the fireplace. On the mantle, a 
black China horse had begun galloping. It clinked from one 
end of the mantle and back. Cholea "walked slowly to the 
mantle ,hands clenched to her sides. She grabbed the horse, 
but the dampness from her palms could not hold the glossy 
china, and the "wriggling figurine fell to the floor. The 
kitten screamed, the horse "whinned, and the half smile be- 
came a gaping hole as the silence "was shattered and the 
pain became reality. The thin pale face "watched the kitten 
jerk violently and lie still. The soft "whiteness "was lost 
in red, for blood ran a trail around broken bits of black 
china horse. The afternoon was gone, the kitten had died, 
and as Cholea turned away, she knew. It was time. 

Jan Rae Green 


A sonnet is a fetter self-imposed, 

So say the wise in well-defined verse; 

And lines with regularity composed 

Are preferable to metrics more diverse. 

A certain concentration is required, 

A certain victory of head o'er heart; 

And sometimes pattern, though so much admired, 

May be the executioner of art. 

But still if balance is to be retained, 

And foolish nonsense ostracized withall, 

The intellect must guide though rhyme be strained, 

And feeling in its place be made to fall. 

For thus one may by strategem and ruse 

Confine at length a wriggling, kicking Muse. 

Jerry O'Dell 



He was 

No good, they said, 

This boy "who scorned. ..and laughed... 

And scoffed "while they looked on- -He turned 

And knelt. 

Through him 

She found herself. 

He brought her love.. . and hope... 

And faith. . .And while they shared their dreams, 

He left. 

If only 

I can gain these — 

Wealth and power and fame — 

I will succeed, and I will have 


Diana Dry 



To Bill who did not come back from World 
War II. To Bill "who dreamed of driving down 
Main Street in a big car with a pretty girl 
after he had served a few years and made some 
money. To Bill who was at Pearl Harbor when 
the Japs attacked. To Bill who wrote that 
while he was standing watch on the darkened 
deck he had come to know what life was all 
about. To Bill who went down with that part of 
^k e U«S.S« New Orleans that sank after it was 
hit by a torpedo at Guadalcanal. To Bill who 
went down strapped to the gun that kept firing. 

The bombs fall: the sirens scream. 
I know now, I'll not go back. 
My lofty hopes, my vivid dreams 
Are fading. 

All hands on deck: all stations filled 
I know it ' 11 be a long one . 
My Cadillac, my pretty girl — 
No parading. 

The Rising Sun on sub and plane, 
I know I'll see it closer. 
Emblem of hell, emblem of pain, 
No escaping. 

The darkened deck, the stealthy night, 
I know the ocean holds him. 
My watch I keep, my knowledge too, 
Of awakening. 

Some said, "Join up;" some said, "Stay." 

I know it doesn't matter. 

This was my hope: This was my way 

Of arriving. 



Six battles down and one out there. 
I know it is the biggest. 
Torpedo hits; I feel us give. 
No staying. 

The strap holds tight: my place is sure 
I know I must keep firing. 
The flash of light, the listing ship, 
The sea enfolding. 

Evelyn Todd 


The night is a silent celebration. 

Like the sleeping beast dreaming of spring, 

Its rapture is a mute jubilation. 

In this dream of delight I ran. 

I ran until reverie asserted its demand. 

I lie on the grass; my joy has gone. 
Hollow, I lie face down, 
And awake to night's silent sound, 
I lie on the grass; my joy has gone, 
But yet the night is still not dawn. 

Steve Clinton 



Paris, Ville Lumiere, 
Dans sa robe fleurie 

- Jane Wroten 

La nuit devient 1'aurore 
L'aurore devient le jour 
Les jours deviennent des ans 
Le Temps murit 1' Amour. 

- Jane Wolfenden 


Je vais me promener 
Seule dans la foret 
Regarder les beaux arbres 
Et les oiseaux du bois. 

- Mary Sorrows 


Nous sommes au mois de mars 
Arrive un coup de vent 
Tout le gazon est vert 
Des signes du printemps. 

- Jeri Riley 



I hadn't really -wanted to go to that party. It just 

seems like they're all the same after a ■while. You drift 

in and say a few meaningless things to a few people you know 
well enough to say anything to, and you have a few drinks, 
and then, after a reasonable amount of time, you drift out 
and wonder why in the world you ever went, and what good it 
all was, and how sad it was the way people pretended to care 
so much and really cared so little, and then you promise 
yourself never to go to another one, and then you forget 
about it until the next party and the next invitation. 

Well, like I was saying, I hadn't really wanted to go, 
and I certainly didn't need to, but I went anyway, and I 
wish to god I'd just stayed home-. I was a little late get- 
ting there, but I spoke to the host and mingled in the crowd, 
speaking to a few familiar faces, smiling at the unfamiliar 
ones, and feeling pretty uncomfortable and lonely. And then 
I saw Bradley Coleman. 

Bradley and I had been friends and classmates those few 
years before everyone separated to go to college, and I 
always liked him because he was a little different from most 
of us, a little more serious maybe. He was standing off to 
one side, his arms folded and his head tipped slightly back, 
gazing at the laughing crowd. 

I hesitated a moment, half afraid, half curious, then 
walked up beside him and said very bravely, "Hello, Bradley." 

He turned, broke into a wide smile, and answered, "Well, 
hi.... Golly, I haven't seen you in so long. What's it been? 
Four years?" 

"Five," I answered, "or six. What are you doing now?" 

"Oh, working for a publishing firm here in town. And 


And so we spent the next few minutes getting reacquain- 
ted, trying to fill in enough to feel related again. Then 
we wandered outside to escape the noisy room and the silence 
which had come between us. 


"You don't have a date," he asked suddenly. 

"No, I never do at these things. In fact, I hardly know 
any of the people here, but I get invited through the firm 
and always seem to come. I don't know why. It never seems 
to do anything good for me . " 

"Yes, I know." He frowned. "I always go away feeling as 
empty as I did before, but I always seem to come back to the 
next one, hoping, I guess, it will be different, but it 
never is. I don't know, it seems like just about everything 
leaves me feeling empty and sad. I really think I'm crazy 
sometimes. I mean, just look in there. They're all happy 
and having fun, and I'll bet not a one of them is wondering 
what good it all is. It just doesn't seem right that it 

could mean so little to me and leave me so disgusted, and it 
doesn't seem right that they should all spend their time 
never doing anything good for each other." He lowered his 
eyes, then raised them and said quickly. "Oh, I'm sorry. I 
didn't mean to get off on anything so boring and crazy." 

At that moment, I wanted to say, "Oh, Bradley, you fool, 
it isn't crazy or boring. It's not that at all. It's -- 
well, what else is there — it's everything." But I turned 
and smiled and heard myself reply, "That's okay, I guess we 
all feel that way at times." 

He turned back for a moment, then stopped and said, 
almost automatically, "Here, let me get you another drink." 
He disappeared into the crowd, and that was the last time 
I ever saw Bradley Coleman. 

The morning paper said he apparently fell asleep while 
driving home, for his car veered off the curving road, 
smashed through the guard rail, and fell over the fifty- 
foot embankment before finally coming to rest in the quiet 
little river. 

As I sat there at the breakfast table with the tears 
streaming down my face, I heard myself ask, "What are you 
doing? What have you ever done? What good?" And the head- 
lines stared back, "Young Publisher Killed In Auto, " and 


there "was silence. I knew I -was waiting, but waiting for 
what? For nothing? No, for everything. . .waiting to speak, 
to care, to give, to live. . .waiting for everything. . .for the 
right time, the time that never comes, the time that may 
come still. It must come, or there will have been nothing-- 
nothing good, nothing valuable, nothing to fill the empti- 
ness of life. Yes, it will come, it must. Sometime, 
tomorrow, next week, the time will come when I'll be able 
to answer the Bradleys, to care about them, to forget myself, 
to give to them. "Yes, yes," I whispered. "It will come." 
So I folded the morning paper and picked up the phone to 
order some flowers for Bradley Coleman. It was the only 
thing I could think of to do. 

Diana Dry 


Those bare-leafed trees of grays and blacks, 
Stand separated by intruding sidewalks and 

their own spacing. 
They form an almost unfamiliar scene outside 

my window, 
And make me near forget that I have known 

those walks 

The aimless ends to which they lead 
With stubborn claim to sure direction. 
They lose their strangeness, as the trees their aura 

of aloofness, 
And pretense is no good 
Except from out a window 
Where I can find a picture framed by panes. 

Sharon Hubert 



"You know, America is a great place to live in. Yes, 
I know that all the time you hear people talk about the 
government taking over things, or people not having rights 
in places, but I never have seen that that is bad like they 
say it is. I never have had a lot of education in schools 
or things like that, but I am smart enough to know that no 
other place in the world's got freedom like we have here. 
I mean, look at me. Of course I don't do much at all but 
bum around working here and there, just enough to buy me 
beans and cigarettes once in a while. The thing is to just 
be a law-abiding citizen, and have a little change in your 
pocket, and you can sit in a park like this all day. 

"It's funny that you ask me that, about sleeping, I 
mean. I say it's funny because people always ask me like, 
'Well what happens when you get too tired and don't have a 
place?' What I do is just unwrap my bundle out of the way 
of any cops, and I sleep. It's not much harder when the 

weather is bad. People always shake their heads, but I 

don't mind since I know they just aren't used to ideas like 
that . 

"Do you remember a minute ago when I was telling you 
about the characters? You know, about the guys you run 

into when you wander around? Well, this park and asking 
about sleeping makes me remember something funny that 
happened in another park about like this a week ago, or was 
it two weeks ago? Anyway, this something funny that hap- 
pened; not funny ha-ha, but funny like the crazy way people 
are, if you know what I mean, but let me go on. I was going 
to the other side of this town so I could get on the route 
south. I'm trying to get down to Florida now, you know, 
sunshine. But anyway, I had just had a ham sandwich and I 
was feeling full and a little sleepy. It was about one in 
the afternoon and I was walking by a park. Well, I looked 


around and didn't see anybody looking at me, so I just 
walked over on the other side of these bushes into the 
park. It was just like I wanted. There was this bench by 
the cinder path with bushes around it and sort of hanging 
over by the back of it. Just the right kind of place for 
a guy to grab a few minutes of sleep, so I unhitched my 
bundle a little back of the bench and wrapped up for a nap. 

"Now look, stop smiling like that, I told you it's 
just in the way you look at the thing. 

"But there I was in this nice park, back out of the 
way and bothering nobody. I don't know how long I had been 
there, a half hour, forty-five minutes or so, when some 
people woke me up. I could see a kid's face as he was 
sitting down on the bench. What woke me up was this other 
guy who was already sitting there. He had said 'Good after- 
noon' to the young man. This kid had blond hair and was 
nice looking. He seemed about six feet tall and maybe 
played football for some high school or college. It made 
me feel good to see him because he looked so average and 
American or something. Now I couldn't see this other guy 
because he had already sat down, but I could see part of his 
coat through the slats of the bench about five feet away. 

"Now you are smiling again. All I want to say is that 
you do get some pretty funny views of things when you wan- 
der around like this. 

"Like I was saying, I could see that the older guy, I 
know he was older because I could see between the slats how 
he was sitting there and you know how a guy gets when he 
gets a little older . Anyway he had on a brown suit and 
brown shoes. The younger man had on some tan colored Levis 
with white sneakers and thick white socks. I'm telling 
you this because somehow it makes it all seem more natural. 
I mean I was all set to hear them talk about apple pie or 
something so I could get back to sleep. Sure enough they 
started off about the weather, and how nice the park was, 


and how glad they were the city had a peaceful place to rest 
and get away from things. But in a minute I noticed some- 
thing. You know, after you have talked to people and you 
get a little smarter you can tell something about people 
just by the way they talk about the weather and things in 
general c But it all seemed like the man was feeling out the 
kid's mind on things people call liberal ideas, or human- 
itarian ideas, or sometimes Red ideas . The young guy agreed 
that a lot was wrong in the world, and in our country. They 
agreed that people in America didn't give other citizens a 
square deal and other things like that that people often 
talk about. There was a feeling between them I once heard 
a guy call "esprit de corps"; I forgot to say that my mem- 
ory is pretty good. But then everything seemed nice and in 
order there in the park. I was resting and feeling pretty 
good that everybody was friendly, although I had a funny 
voice trying to tell me something in the back of my mind 
all this time* They sort of ran out of talk and things came 
to a stop, and there we were. Then it came all of a sudden, 
and I knew what the voice had been trying to tell me. The 
brown suit said 'I'm not going to make a pass at you, but I 
am a homosexual. ' Things hung for a second like they do 
just before you are about to see a bad wreck, or something 
else very bad is about to happen. Things were still, and 
another feeling was between them, and I could even feel it 
back where I was. The man in the brown suit knew he had 
made a mistake. The young guy didn't say anything, but sort 
of drew in his arms and hunched over and put down his head. 
I saw his feet come together and he pushed them a little 
back under the bench. The brown suit started talking again. 
Everything was gone and there was nothing except a nervous 
feeling. The talk was much faster. 'I knew you were lib- 
eral so that is the only reason I said anything, ' the older 
man said. 'You don't know how things are when you are in 
my position. We have to be careful, or we get into a lot of 


trouble. Nobody knows "what it's like, and even the police 
hate us sometimes.' The young guy didn't say anything but 
just bent a little lower, and I could see his shirt pulling 
tighter against his back. 'Nobody knows "what it's like. 

None of us wouldn't go straight if he had the chance, but 
nothing goes for us. Most of us do our best to be like 
everyone else. We live good lives, we don't bother anyone, 
but no one outside knows what it's like. I don't know any- 
one -- none of my friends is ever happy. ' The brown suit 
was shaking, all the time his voices became more like 
a whisper, and faster, because he knew, and I think I knew 
what was coming. 'You don't take offense, do you?' The 
younger man didn't say anything and suddenly jumped up. I 
saw his face for a second. It was red, and he looked half- 
way between fear and hate. He stood there; I watched their 
feet. Then the white canvas feet moved. The sound was like 
when you hit your fist in your hand as hard as you can. 
That and a half cry and moan came from the brown suit. His 
knees bent, and his hands hung at his sides like he was 
just taking something he deserved. The tennis shoes stood 
there and the beating went on for a few seconds. Like it 
came it stopped, . The kid jumped back, and the man in the 
brown suit fell into the cinders on his face.... He jerked 
and rolled over and the blood and cinders made a black 
mark from his mouth back around the side of his face. Then 
I looked and saw the white shoes, and tan Levis running 
down the path and out of the park. 

"But like I was saying, when you are like 1. am you get 
to know how funny people are, but you also know that you 
have to just look at things and think about them, but you 
can't do anything. That's the way it is." 

Jimmy Henderson 




I am young. Before me 

my life unfolds, a bright 
untarnished road stretching 
into a blissful, green 
eternity of life, 
youth, and joy unending „ 

I brazenly tell myself 
that I am forever 
young; that Time and Age can 
never leave their stamp upon 
my face; that Death will come 
and take with him all living things — but me 

I laugh aloud, but as I laugh 
I shiver as a sudden shadow 
darts across the sun. 
It disappears, and I think that 
I have forgotten Death; 
Think foolishly that Death has forgotten me« 

But Death does not forget. 

A church bell tolling in the silence 

of mourning; 

A flag fluttering, listless at half-mast; 

A last sun -blistered leaf spiralling down 

before a winter wind — 

Aid Death stands beside me. 

Then --then within the stillness of my 
inmost self— I KNOW. 

Diana Laney 



Over to the right of the counter was a sign that said, 
"Return merchandise here for refunds." A long line of 
people was waiting; most of them had brought something 
defective or something that didn't fit just right. One 

lady was returning a big cuckoo clock made in Germany . She 
had dropped the clock last night, but maybe she thought it 
wouldn't have run anyway, because she never told the sales- 
clerk about dropping it* Well, behind her was a boy about 
fourteen years old. He'd been looking for the refund merch- 
andise counter for twenty minutes now. The department store 
was one of these four story monsters--ladies shoes, fourth 
floor; men's hats, third; and business offices, second. It 
wasn't easy to find something; even the elevators were 
hidden. Anyway, after five or ten minutes the lady with the 
cuckoo clock convinced someone on the other side of the 
counter that she deserved a refund. It took her awhile and 
a lot of talking, but she did it. The youngster next in 
line was now in full view of the salesclerk. 

"Uh, la-lady, this shirt has a hole in it. What '11 I 

A little disappointed in her transaction over the cuckoo 
clock, the clerk was quite prepared for this customer. She 
looked first at the boy, then at the shirt, and then back 
at the boy. And she didn't just look, she stared right 
through him. He thought maybe she looked like that because 
she suspected he'd torn it. Anyway, he felt pretty ridicu- 
lous just standing there with a torn green plaid shirt. He 
didn't even like the shirt- -it wasn't his idea. Mother 
picked out his clothes. 

"Young man, if you want to return anything, you must 
have a sales slip. I really do wish people would understand 
there are certain rules to follow here." She kept tapping 
her fingers on the counter in some sort of rhythm and look- 
ing at him with big green eyes. This salesclerk was picked 
from over thirty applicants. Her form said she was un- 
usually talented in public relations techniques. 


The boy was scared to death though; he couldn't remem- 
ber where he'd left the sales slip or even what it looked 
like. He stood there awhile, nervously shifting his weight 
from one foot to the other. "Ma'am, I think I've lost it. 
I mean, maybe I misplaced it or something." 

Well, I'm sorry, dear. You see, it's the policy. Why 
don't you find the slip and then come back." 

Without looking up, the young boy picked up his shirt 
and walked away. At that moment he hated the woman. Some- 
how people enjoyed making him feel small and insignificant. 
He knew they did. The strange thing was that whenever he 
was with people, he never knew quite what to say or how to 
say it. No one gave him much of a chance thought, he figured. 

"Say, son, you drop that shirt?" 


"I said, is that your shirt?" 

"I guess it is, thanks." 

"My gosh, can't you youngsters keep up with anything?" 

He thought about how stupid he was --actually ruined 
everything he'd ever tried. Like building model airplanes, 
for instance. Once he was given this B-72 kit for Christ- 

mas o It was probably expensive, because his mother made 

such a fuss over it. She said it was beautiful and not one 
of those cheap sets you get in the dime stores. He wanted 
to build this one well, especially to impress Mom. He used 
too much glue though; it leaked out of the cracks and 
spread unevenly over the wings* Well, his mother remembered 
that incident for about two weeks, and every now and then 
she reminded him that he should have followed the directions 
and that anyone could have done better than that, even with- 
out directions. He threw the plane away. 

"Going down, sir--first floor/' 

"Oh, yeah — thanks." He rode 
passed through ladies wigs, men's 
counter marked "|r Price--Chance of 
It felt good to be outside. He didn't really have any place 
to go for ten or fifteen minutes ... .That was when mother was 
coming to pick him up. 

the elevator down and 

sports wear, and some 

a Lifetime Bargains." 


1, 0h Lord J She'll really flip when I tell her I lost 
the sales slip/' He wasn't exactly scared or anything-- 
after all, anyone can lose a thin piece of paper. But 
when he tried to say something like, "Mom, I lost the sales 
slip," or "Gee, Pop, that's not the whole story; there's 
more to it," nobody listened. He knew he did many clumsy, 
stupid things. Sometimes he didn't think at alio "But 
they don't give you time to tell them what you're doing, or 
why, or even to figure it out for yourself." 

"Well, son, what are you doing out here talking to your- 
self in the street? People don't go around mumbling like 
that. But — what's this--I told you to return this shirt." 

"Mom. . ." 

"You've been here twenty minutes already. .That ought to 
be enough time . " 

"Mom, I--I guess I forgot the sales slip." 

"You what?" 

"Well, yes, I did. I don't know. Maybe I lost it..." 

"Son, couldn't you remember even that? You hardly do 

anything right anymore. A sales slip--a simple sales slip." 
She couldn't understand the tall one hundred and forty-five 
pounds that had awkwardly made excuses about a sales slip. 
It wasn't that he was terrible or anything--she knew that-- 
but too often he was irresponsible and silly. She wondered 
if she had failed to teach him well or prepare him for life. 

"You're fourteen now. Don't you think I should expect 
you to accomplish something once in a while? He kept lis- 
tening to her until they had reached the car. 

On the way home they passed a barber shop, and Mother 
reminded him that he needed a hair cut. "You ought to real- 
ize you don't look good in long hair." 

But he liked his hair long; and he wasn't listening too 
well by now, anyway. He was thinking about Ralph Paul, one 
of the most popular boys at school. Ralph could talk to 
people easily. Even when he had a lot to say, people lis- 
tened to him. And Ralph probably never lost a sales slip in 
his entire life. 

Corliss Parker 



I am Computer Card 369870^ 

With eight arrow -shaped notches in my side. 
I stand in line behind forty- 
Ahead of forty 
Waiting for supper, in a compartmented plate. 

But in my dreams I ride a swift, milk-white frog, 

And my red-gold hair flows "behind. 

Before is my opal castle 

With real beams of solid oak 

And a thousand leather -bound volumes 

Which I need not read 



Know . 

Still must I, waking, be Computer Card 369870^ 
With eight arrow-shaped notches in my side. 

Herb Fackler 



Blew, North Wind, blow, 

Cover the ground "with your white snow. 

Send the animals homeward bound 

As the last leaves fall to the ground 

Let the squirrels scurrying cease 

As they gather the last storage for their rests 

In the trees. 

Let the tall pines whisper and murmur; 

Winter has come; gone is the summer. 

And the deer so free and tall 

Rush deep to the woods at the Northern call. 

Send the late birds on their homeward flight 

Before the day turns to cold night. 

Send the farmers back to the fields 

To gather the last of the summer's yield. 

Blow into everything a different attitude 

For today the earth is bare, but its warmth 

Feels good. 

Blow North Wind^ blow^ 

For tomorrow the earth will be silent, cold, 

And covered with snow. 

Indi Nichols 



JERRY O'DELL is a senior English major from Bossier City. 
Jerry is a member of Alpha Chi and Sigma Tau Delta. 

CORLISS PARKER is a Bossier City sophomore who is majoring 

in pre-med. 

ANGELA PRINGOS, an illustrator for INSIGHTS, is a junior 
from Little Rock, Arkansas, who plans a career in art. 

CHAT REED, associate editor of winter INSIGHTS, is a past 
editor and recipient of the Mabel Campbell Award for crea- 
tive writing. 

JERI RILEY is a senior contributor from Shreveport. 

JACQUELINE SEALE is a junior art major - from Shreveport 
whose illustrations appear with the French poems in this 

TERESA SHETLEY, business manager of INSIGHTS, is a junior 
from Mansfield, Louisiana. 

MARY SORROWS, freshman from Dallas, is the author of one 
of the French poems in this issue. 

JOELLE SMITH, whose art work appears in INSIGHTS, is an art 
major from DeRidder, Louisiana. 

SUZANN WELTY, a junior English major from Little Roct^ Ark- 
ansas, is an associate editor of winter INSIGHTS. 

JANE WOLFENDEN is a sophomore from Shreveport. Jane con- 
tributed one of the poems of "Morceaux Choisis." 

JANE WROTEN, a freshman from Winnf ield, Louisiana, is also 

author of a poem in this section. 

W o o ^/v^ 


Spring, 1964 

Volume Two, Number Two 


Centenary College of Louisiana 

Editor: Steve Clinton 

Associates: Suzann Welty 
Lynn Taylor 

Business Manager: Teresa Shetley 

Sponsor: Sigma Tau Delta 

Faculty Advisor: Dr. E. M. Clark 

Cover Design: Tommy Quaid 

Art Work: Gail Souther land 
Craig Connally 

si • ^ 



Jerry O'Dell: SOMETHING FINAL ............. 1 

Jim Hudson: TRANSITION ................. 6 

Roy Dupuy: LES LETTRES AMOUREUSES ........... 8 

Jim Bur son: TOMORROW. . .THE END OR THE BEGINNING? ....... 10 

Joe Stultz: A LITTLE CLOD 15 

Lois Rowe: SIGNORA VENETO'S GLOVE SHOP ......... 18 

Lynn Taylor: AN EXPERIMENT IN LOVE ........... 21 

Herb Fackler: THE TIME OF THE TROLL .......... 25 


Steve Clinton: AN END k 

on&ron iiUDer"G • *••••••••• . .•»».••■•»'•• . p 

Lynn Taylor: RESPONSE .......... 7 

Steve Clinton: EARLY OR LATE . . 9 

Rick Hruska 12 


Jim Burson: A PROSE POEM . . 20 


Dr. Thomas's coffee tasted flat and stale . He blamed, 
in the back of his mind, the diabetic on the fourth floor who 
had demanded attention just as he had sat down, but his 
medical integrity "would not allow such a thought to become 
manifest, He was aware only of a feeling of acute disappoint- 
ment. He did not really understand why he snapped at nurse 
Martha Simons, either, when she came in to join him and asked 
the reason for his sullen expression, He did not particularly 
like Mrs, Simons., even though she was a very competent nurse. 
It was always difficult to forget that she was a widow,, child- 
less^ whose whole life centered around her work at the hospital. 
There was also the fact that she was no longer young and could 
have only a few years of useful work ahead of her. But perhaps 
the most disturbing thing about her was her refusal to complain. 
Dr. Thomas was extremely uncomfortable in the presence of silent 
sufferers. He avoided looking at her, turning his gaze instead 
out the window of the little supply room where he sat and 
muttering something about the coffee. When she offered to bring 
him a fresh cup, along with one for herself , he very curtly left 
the room, leaving her alone to draw whatever conclusions she 
might from his rudeness. 

Nurse Simons had worked with doctors for a long time. 
White coats and authoritarian manners no longer impressed her. 
She sat down at the small table where the doctor had left his 
cup and took her turn at the window . Through the partially- 
frosted pane she peered into the bleak December night . A damp 
snow was falling on the drive which led around one wing of the 
building to an emergency ambulance entrance in the rear. The 
hospital was located on a slope from which the surrounding 
city was visible. Martha Simons was fond of the view, but at 
such a late hour only a few sparse lights were discernible 
through the flake -thickened air, A sudden burst of wind blew 
a dead leaf, huge and brown, against the glass and held it there 
for a brief moment. Martha stared in inexplicable fright at 
the dried and crumpled thing as it slid, scraping, across the 
pane. She imagined for a split second that it was trying to 
get in. Then she remembered with something like relief that 
she had an injection to give. 

Dr. Thomas was walking the halls, irritated by his own 
lack of direction. He hated night duty, expecially, strange 
as it may sound, the quiet nights. He preferred to have both 
his hands and his mind fully occupied. Otherwise the immense 


enclosed darkness of the huge old building had an oppressive 
effect on him. He "would think of the dim corridors,, and the 
lonely floor nurses at their desks in tiny pools of light, of 
the dull throbbing of unseen machinery, and most of all the 
scores of sleeping patients "who filled innumerable dark bed- 
rooms -with the sound of their breathing . This always led 
him to individual cases. There was, for example, old Mr, 
Zecharias (or was it Zeharias) -who had been brought in off 
the street by some passer-by. Pneumonia. He was now resting 
quietly, living on oxygen, glucose, and powerful drugs, but 
it was a simple matter of time. 

The doctor found himself at the door of the hospital's 
sun deck. It was of course unused during the winter, but 
when he tried the door he found it unlocked. Feeling suddenly 
an urge to smoke, he stepped out into the cold. A metal awning 
served to shield him from the snow, but the wind made him shudder. 
The cigarette was as unsatisfying as the coffee had been earlier. 
He tossed it away and looked out over the rooftops. It was an 
old city, with buildings blackened by the smoke of factories, 
and in the gloom, under the low sky, it looked sad and desolate. 
Dr. Thomas remembered some statistics from the newspaper which 
said the population was, percentage-wise, growing older. He 
did not need a census report to tell him this. It was evident 
on every street corner. He looked down at his own hands. They 
were as yet unwrinkled, but he was a keen enough observer of his 
own health to detect the small signs in the blood pressure, the 
muscles, the respiration. He thought of Mr„ Zecharias and of 
Mrs. Simons, and then of all the other patients, doctors, nurses, 
janitors, cooks, and scrub women who labored day after day in 
the great edifice behind him. All, he thought, stages of 
decomposition. He extended the generalization to include the 
inhabitants of all the houses he could see below who would, at 
dawn, resume their weary lives. They would trudge through the 
dirty snow to odious jobs, waste one more day in joyless effort, 
and return home at evening desiring only the anodyne of sleep 
for their barren spirits. Dr, Thomas stepped back into the warm 
hall and closed the door, only then realizing how very cold he 
had become. 

*-$'**.•** *-*-•*'#' * 

It was around midnight when the ambulance arrived. The 
doctor was summoned by nurse Simons, who led him to the 
brightly-lit emergency room where the patient lay. It was a 
woman of about thirty-eight or nine, in labor. Her husband, 

•who sat beside the bed, looked up anxiously as the doctor entered. 
They were obviously poor, and the doctor found himself involun- 
tarily sizing them up. He doubted that they pay -what the hospital 
normally charged for a birth, but then there was nothing to be 
done. The -woman was having a good deal of pain. From the husband 
he learned their name, which he quickly forgot, and that this 
-would be their first child. They lived in another town and 
knew no one in the city. The baby was not due for another 
three weeks. Dr. Thomas reassured the man as best he could and 
suggested he make use of a nearby waiting room. He then began 
his scrub procedures while several nurses prepared the woman 
for delivery. 

As Dr. Thomas bent over the white sink in the dressing 
room a strange feeling came over him. He was in the habit of 
viewing his patients with what approached complete objectivity. 
It was a sort of safety precaution which through long practice 
had become habitual. He had even been accused on occasion of 
callousness, a criticism which he did not find particularly 
disturbing. He had developed an attitude toward patients which 
served well and was, he thought, universally applicable. One 
could not, after all, allow oneself to be concerned. A doctor 
did his best of course in every case, but there was a strict 
rule with him about attaching significance or even desiring a 
specific outcome. One could function better under a philosophy 
of (beyond a certain point) what is to be will be. Dr. Thomas 
did not know why he was recounting all this to himself at this 
particular moment. It had become so much a part of him that 
he seldom felt the need of preaching to himself. He reflected. 
What was it about this case? He had never seen either of these 
people before. They were frightened, but he had seen fear. They 
were poor, but he had seen poverty. They were having a child — . 
This, he was certain, had something to do with it, thought he 
could not say exactly what. It was related somehow to the 
bleakness of the night, and his encounter with Martha Simons 
earlier, and his thoughts on the empty sun deck, and even with 
old Mr. Zecharias and the diabetic. As he re-entered the room 
where the woman lay, already under anesthetic, he was met by 
nurse Simons. Her eyes caught his momentarily over the surgical 
mask and he had the distinct impression that she knew precisely 
what he had been thinking in the washroom. Likewise, he 
detected in her expression those very same sentiments. For both 
of them this night had suddenly become alive with expectancy. 

Outside the snow had stopped and the sky had partially 
cleared. A few stars -were visible . The smoke -darkened citv 


seemed to assume an air of anticipation . Unaware in their 
houses the people waited, and dreamed, and hoped . Here and 
there someone awoke with a sensation of unaccountable excitement, 
and then, puzzled, turned in his bed and tried to go back to 
sleep. In the hospital the patients waited, asleep or half 
awake, ' unconscious or in delirium, Mr. Zecharias waited in 
his chamber of imminent death. Nurses waited at their posts, 
glancing nervously at their watches and wishing the night 
would end. Dr. Thomas, Martha Simons,, and the other nurses 
plied their skills with painstaking care and extraordinary 
emotional energy. The woman on the table slept the abysmal 
sleep of anesthesia while the man in the waiting room wiped 
anxious sweat from his forehead. 

At one forty- two the woman was delivered of a stillborn 
male infant. Outside, across the rooftops and in the light less 
streets, the snow was falling. 

-J. O'Dell 


We played and walked together 

exchanged our faces in tender caresses 
Hopscotch on Sunday 

(unwilling breaths of dust in our lungs 

caught up in our grins) 

Now from water oaks they hang 

so green in summer. . . so red in autumn 
Mashed underfoot 

their blood sustains the green grass and 

runs to the sea in rills 

After the day of our death we are with them 
to hang and sustain and 
run to the sea in rills. 

-Steve Clinton 

"I love to kiss you, Ann, " he said, 
"Do you love to kiss me, too?" 
"I kiss to love you, Bob — " she said, 
"So I guess I'm not for you." 


Why does the Countess fly? 

Because her skirts billow "with the gusty 

To only become more puffed and full 
With the pull of the string that draws 

the ends together^ 
Tapers the ends and fights the fullness 
That whirls and swells 
And rises like a great balloon? 

Repetition in her flight 

Too pliable to pause 

To be confined 

Or smothered 

Or whisked away 

No sighs but a swish 
That returns with its surge 
Forever upward and out 
Beyond and above , 

Above o 

Above and beyond a Countess 

And no one knows why 


I ran so hard down the beach that by the time I reached 
the unpopulous, desolate sands the air rushing into my lungs 
burned like fire and my skin was dry and chapped. Attempting 
to catch my breath, I then walked quickly for about a mile or 
so as angry thoughts raced through my mind* 

"Would you care to sit down for a minute?" 

Startled, I turned and glared resentfully at the man, old, 
withered, and gray, who was seated on a crude piece of drift- 
wood. I was tired; and I sat down. 

"Who are you?" I asked in what I hoped was a belligerent 
manner . 

He glanced at me briefly, saying, "Most people call me a 
lazy old beach bum because I like to sit here and look out at 
the ocean. And what, may I ask, are you doing in this ■ lonely r 

Infuriated by the man's smile, I blurted, "I came here to 
get away from everything. I'm sick of the whole damn world 
and everyone in it I I hate it!" 

"That's rather difficult to believe," replied the old 
beachcomber. Then, speaking slowly, he added, "Think of 
this: if you did not love the world, how could you hate it?" 

I hesitated, groping for words. "But the things you 
love always hurt you, and you feel even worse when you hurt 
them. So love always turns to hate and bitterness! What 
protection is there against pain but hate?" 

After a long, silent moment during which my face turned 
scarlet as I realized what I was telling this stranger, his 
face turned seaward and he pointed to a hermit crab crawling 
along the wet sand left by the ebb tide. 

"Look at that ridiculous animal; He's really a perfectly 
fine crab, but he goes around in the thick armor of a discarded 
shell because he's so sensitive. Takes a big effort for that 
little guy to carry that shell on his back all the time, and 
he doesn r t fool himself. I mean, you knock that animal around 
and figure he's so protected you can't hurt him so you don't 
watch out for him, but inside he can feel the pain. And the 
poor hermit crab can't even look out at the constant beauty of 
the world when he's feeling bad." 

As the man finished talking, he rose and left, receding 
until his stooped figure was an almost unrecognizable speck on 
the horizon. I remained motionless, trying to understand all 


the strange man told me. As time passed, I also began to 
vonder if he had really been next to me at all, or if his 
voice was an illusion created by the -wave's roar „ 

The sand grew cool under me, so I rose and walked back 
to civilization . The setting sun was an orange glow, and the 
sea breeze that had started whistled a cold, foamy wave over 
my feet . 

-Jim Hudson 

Touch a leaf — ; it shivers 
Your fingertips make ripples in the pool. 
Words from your lips fall and nestle gently in hearts 
Where they are warmly embraced. 

You leave behind your footsteps- 
Used as patterns by those who follow; 
As tokens by some who wish to remember; 
As echoes by others who cannot forget. 

The mist before your pathway is a vacuum 
Waiting only to be filled by your presence. 
Everywhere you have been, you are, you will be, 
Is the intimate touch and lingering response . 

But I am made that when you touch me, 

My petals close . 

My crystal shatters from the sound 

Which is to others the softest of carresses; 

Not because there is a difference — ; 

Because it is the same. 

-Lynn Taylor 


Les lettres amo ureases 
par; roy dupuy 

. , "la Solitude" 

Raphael, mon amour; 

Ah, que les nuits soient intolerables . Que la vie soit 
encerclee van it e us emeu t . Tes mots, mon cher Raphael, sont 
le moment de ton retour; ils sont le touchement meme de ton 
souci. La douceur de ton amour, Raphael, me met en d'hors 
de moi, cet amour que j'espere fidelement. Retourne a la 
hate, mon ange, a ton amante . Raphael, je t T aime dans ton 
absence eternel, m£me ta presence si chere. Je t'aime, 
Raphael, toujours. 

Louise . 

"la Passion" 

Ah, cher Raphael; 

Toujours le soleil se leve, mais la solitude me reste. Nous 
ne sommes pas encore dans notre embarassement . Les jours sont 
plus longs. Je t' attends cesse. Sois avec moi me*me dans tes 
reves si tu m'aimes toujours. II me semble qu'il y a une 
eternite que je t'ai vue. Pardonne-moi mon cher, la situation 
dont je suis coupable. Sans tes reves, tiens ce qui soit cher 
a tes sentiments; je prie qu'ils soient de mon amour. Ah 
Raphael., je t'aime, je t'aime. Quelquefois je me reveille 
cherchant a tatons une etre invisible, le sujet de me reves, 
toujours essayant de toucher. Je pense a toi de plus en 
plus. Ah, comme la vie devient douce, comme mon coeur est 
endurant d' avoir connaissance de ton amout . L' amour t' attend, 
cher Raphael. Raphael, je t'aime. Mon coeur est me vie, et 
tu est dans mon coeur. Nous serons ensemble et nous trouverons 

ensemble notre vie propre . 
donne-moi toujours le tien. 

Raphael, tiens bon mon amour et 

-Louise . 


Raphael, mon coeur; 


Je meurs. J'ai le coeur perce. La nouvelle m T a rendue 
douloureusement affligee. Mon coeur est lourd. Tes mots 
ne seront jamais encore entendus, tes levres douces jamais 
touches. Un jour, je t'verrai, je serai aver toi, et je 
t'aimerai encore. Je ne peux que me souvenir du temps passe. 
Mon cher Raphael, je meurs. (Vest 1 T esprit de mon amour 
jamais de me souvenir de la vie sans penser a jamais de 
trahir mon coeur qui t'aime. Cette lettre que j'ai resue 
aujourd'hui m'enleve mes reves de ton amour. Tout ce que 
je suis c'est a Louise. Adieu mon amour. Qu'est-ce qui me 
reste de cet amour perdu? Rien. Alors, il faut que je 
meure. Adieu mon amour. Quoique 1'eternite soit aussi 
prolongee que demain, 1'espoir demeurera et 1' amour sera le 
notre . Je crois en mon amour, mais je ne le trouverai qu'en 
eternite. Adieu mon cher Raphael. 


Early or Late? 

In my room at one o'clock a. m. 

i float in a transparent bubble 
my eyes are vide under the sterile light of my desk 
i am opalescent 

a window is installed 
in my opaline walls 
but my eyes 

my opaline eyes. 

-Steve Clinton 



In his essay "The Island of the Present," Richard 
Schickle, a young intellectual of the 50' s, accused his 
generation of trying to ignore the present by concentrating 
on present matters. In this following decade of the 60 T s, 
Americans are even more feverishly practicing the same 
"head-in-the-sand" tactics. Today as world situations 
become more tangled and the safe present slips further into 
the past, the nation's people are more frantically resorting 
to diversions of the present. They are playing more golf, 
flocking to more night clubs, smoking more cigarettes, 
and drinking more liquor. After a disturbing newscast about 
such situations as the Cuban crisis or trouble in Laos, many 
of them prefer to relax by cranking the power-mower or 
cruising in the Ford. Always, though, behind the gay laughter 
and highball flicker tension and vague uneasiness. One comes 
to wonder whether the island of the present is a safe place to 
be. He asks himself also exactly what it is in the future 
that men fear. 

Most Americans charge their anxiety about the future to 
threats of atomic war, of communist domination, and of internal 
crises. Few probe further, and few realize that these are 
only surface troubles. Behind these dangers stand men them- 
selves as the cause . These threats are born somewhere in 
the natures of men. Of course, men today are still very 
much as they have always been — mixtures of both good and 
evil. What has changed is their capacity for doing good or 
evil and the degree to which they feel the effects of their 
actions . 

In modern times men are gaining unlimited powers to 
bring about good. With their advanced knowledge they may 
farm the deserts and oceans, develop a world television 
network, journey to the moon, or conquer heart disease and 
cancer. On the other hand, men also possess unlimited 
powers for evil objectives. They may wreak complete des- 
truction on their enemies with bombs or death-rays. The 
question of the future, then, is whether men will apply 
their learning to peaceful accomplishments or whether they 
will use it in contest against each other, More specifically 
it is a question of whether men choose to serve good or evil 
ends. Whatever the answer, it carries with itself a definite 


verdict for humanity . If they devote themselves to good; 
men can expect to reach new heights in spiritual, iritellec = 
t.ual, and economic development „ If they pursue evil QbjeCf 
tives, however , they proclaim their own doom* Even today 
nations cannot come against each other using full force 
without assuring mutual destruction. It is no longer safe 
to be greedy and selfish - The turbulent modern world is 
fast crowding out hate, prejudice, and ignorance. In effect, 
the future is issuing an ultimatum to all men: they must 
learn to live together or they cannot live at alio 

Time and again the great voices of " the age echo this 
chilling reality . In his recent Birmingham crusade Billy 
Graham pinpointed the issues 

We are now beginning to realize that something 
is desperately wrong with human nature • The most 
burning question of our times is the problem of man„ 

Albert Einstein was among the great men who believe mankind 
is engaged in a hopeless struggle in this respect. His 
televised address in 1950 "was his swan song for the human 

The arms race between the United States and 
the Soviet Union,, initiated originally as a pre- 
ventive measure, assumes hysterical proportions. 
On both sides, means of mass destruction are being 
perfected with feverish haste and behind walls of 
secrecy. And now the public has been advised that 
the production of the hydrogen bomb is the new goal 
which will probably be accomplished* An accelerated 
development toward this end has been solemnly pro- 
claimed by the President. If these efforts should 
prove successful, radioactive poisoning of the 
atmosphere and, hence, annihilation of all life on 
earth will have been brought within the range of 
what is technically possible . The weird aspect of 
this development lies in its apparently inexorable 
character o Each step appears as the inevitable 
consequence of the one that went before = 

And at the end, looming ever clearer, lies 
general annihilation. 


Other authorities, however, take a more optimistic view- 
point. They say that there will be no nuclear war, that 
men "will fully realize their danger and properly control 
themselves. They predict that the trying times will demand 
the best from men, There will be a new surge toward humanism . 
Men will reach new heights in the arts, letters, and sciences 
and will enjoy even greater material prosperity. One such 
optimist is Professor John Rader Piatt. In his recent 
article in Horizon Magazine , Professor Piatt says that the 
intense need for brain power will cause intelligence to 
soar in America 3 Ordinarily, men with 190 I. Q. ? s appear 
only every half century, but Professor Piatt believes a 
dozen such men may emerge in the next twenty years. 

Under no circumstances should a view of the staggering 
trials ahead lull Americans into settling down to enjoy 
their easy circumstances. Clinging to the fast-sinking 
island of the present is hardly a proper way to prepare for 
this challenging future. On the contrary, such prospects 
demand a marshaling of spiritual and intellectual forces 
unparalleled in history. Perhaps all Americans should have 
more faith in man's goodness and ability. At least in the 
face of this supreme test, they can try to maintain their 
dignity. If nothing else, they can await the outcome with 
sensible calmness. After all, they have the satisfaction 
of witnessing what is either the last chapter in man's 
history or else only his real beginning. 

-Jim Bur son 


Meaningless wanderings? Perhaps- 
Void of depth 

and sense? 


Unconscious reality? Perhaps- 
Filled with suggestion 

and truth? 

-Rick Hruska 



Formic son of Myrmidons 

Sea-drenched and styx-dipped, 

Man of godly beauty, sun from the womb of dawn, 

Hero of all the legions of the Greek, 

One must live, an heir to Peleus 

One with the blood of fire 

And sun-soul rising out of blackness. 

One with an arm of iron, a heel of- flesh. 

Why did the woman choose the sword? 
Bright-edged, keen and cold. 
Androgen flows among veils of silk; 
He will be made known to us, 

By crematory light did he don his chiton 
And met the midnight Hector in the day. 
Seven times the city round as the red 
Sun glared from the sky with bitter fury. 

So must he die by heel, unhealed by death. 
A brief flame and a bright one. 
Pyre-tongues lick the low-bosomed clouds 
As the sun dies in its turn, 

II. Distant from the shadowed Strong-fort walls 
Lay the child upon the hill to die. 
Child of dragons, son of kings, 
Brought to life and light by darkness. 

From the bladed rock to Tintagel and 
Camelot; fair the queen's white hand 
That gave a table, round like earth- 
Fertile field of flowering gentillesse. 

Starving children feed fatly 

Upon the meat of the Boar 

And spring comes again; a kindly spring, 

O'er the corpse of the Cat o' Losanne . 


The sun blazed twelve ly as the invaders came^ 
Rough barbarians with a rude sort of speech. 
Each fled Excalibur's whirling white wrath. 
And the sun smiled on Cornwall's great King* 

At sunset the barge floated out to the sea., 
Avalon-led by Fate's mothers three. 
Rise again, King, and show us your' light? 
And the sun lies quenched in the voido 

III o The People. Throat =c utters . The proud Ones. 
Killers of men. Knights of the plains. 
A son in the ditches of glory and death, 
Repaid by a coin and a ribbon. 

One on the mountain, his feathers and scalps 
Now a pack, a grenade, and some cheap Go L boots; 
With his eyes burning red and a roar in his ears . 
A warrior, a son of the Sioux. 

Push up the flag I Count it a feather. 
Get you a medal, go back to the land. 
Reservation- no job= just the numbers, 
Or a heist in a new filling station. 

Dreaming of glory with a skin -full of wine; 
Sleep off the sick in a ditch. 

We'll bury you straight, with a flag on your chest, 
When we thaw out your dead hero's corpse. 

And so we die, the brave and the high, 

With a stubble of beard on our chins, 

While the sun hides bleak eyes in tear-laden clouds 

And the light-bulb is casually flicked off, 

-Herb Fackler 



Little Miss Minute debated -with herself before the 
Director's door. She "was small and round-faced, with stiff 
straw-colored hair that was close-cut and tightly curled 
against her pale scalp. She was definitely a woman, with a 
bust and hips of slightly greater proportions than her waist, 
but she was— stubby. Her fingers were stubby, her head was 
stubby, Her legs were chunky and fat. There was a tight 
compactness about her whole self. Her neck was short, the 
calves of her legs were well-, but thickly-, formed. Her 
arms looked dwarfish, and so did the rest of her. She was, 
in a word, short. And covered with freckles. They swarmed 
like bees over her arms. They were sifted on her legs and 
sprinkled in her face. They covered her eyes when she 
blinked, when her face was one spattered skin* They permeated 
her very being, encroaching upon her little mouth and fatty 
nostrils. You wondered if they bothered her breathing, if 
they extended down her throat. Her lips were discernable, but 
faded, barely a shade different from her freckles-=not darker, 
just different, less red. They were a bloodless hue, the 
cast of an uncooked pure pork pallor. The whites of her eyes 
were not white, they were pallid. The irises were weakish 
blue. She was, in fact, unattractive. So obviously so that 
no one would think of saying it. She was one of many 
extremes in a crowd. She was — one of them . 

And she knew all these things and cowed on the edge of 
indecision, debating whether to present herself before the 
Director — -or go away. He was her supervisor, the man who 
ruled her, the man whom she worshipped most among the 
trousered kind, the man to whom she would gladly have 
given herself, except. . . except. ... 

He was adored by all. They were the white-plumed flock 
that padded primly down long polished halls, and back up, 
and down, and back and forth, up and down, forever. They 
carried metal trays with rattling cups in ice-cold flints 
before their warm white breathing bosoms. Of course Edna 
was one of them too. (Her first name was Edna.) But what 
in the world could compare with those moving beings, those 
smiling alive-colored faces with lips and dark eyes? She 
declared she believed they were supremely attractive. They 


■were immaculate, as, in appetizing white, the delicious 
faces floated down waxen corridors toward the Director . 

Toward the hub of the universe, That rock! That 
tall , . . strong . . . dark . , . handsome . . „ that 
prodigious forelock, manly clustering, . . that breadth 
of hidden forehead I She fondled the wall: thumping 
thumbs along the woodwork. 

The Director chose just this moment to fling open the 
door, and loom— a vast sluggard bulk— above the throes of 
her quickening palpitations. "Why Miss Minute. . . Edna," 
he said mildly— vigorously — in deep oxen tones. 

With a jerk and a blur, she clinched her little fists 
behind her blushing rump, and tried with all her might to 
fade into invisible nothingness, to dissipate along the 
shining floor, to rise with the heat. Her round face 
became pressurized like a balloon. She saw across a far 
veined pulsing thickness the broad inquiring coals of his 
yawning slack-lidded eyes. She struggled gaspingly to 
speak. Presently she heard her voice, faraway, half- 
drowned, beyond the spray of sudden waves that broke upon 
wide sands between her freckled ears. "It's about Mr, 
Nuckles in room 313>" she said. Oh, pudgyl pudgy' she 
thought in the midst of bursting froth. 

The Director nodded his heavy head, and massaged his 
ragged brows— thoughtfully, with careful kneading, He 
stepped ponderously out upon the quaking tiles and stood 
in a heap, saying slowly in rumbling tones, "Yes . . „ yes 
. . . schizoid. . . yes. . . yes. . . I Yes?" He bathed 
her in a lax gaze. 

The sea swarmed around her. "He — -he — " she faltered 
under the frowning flood. It thundered down upon her, 
hammering her into the sand, beating her into the size and 
shape of a clam, sputtering around her ears, taking her 
breath. For an instant, she glimpsed the green depths and 
the lank fingers of wan seaweed as she puffed her cheeks, 
Then the ocean recoiled, dying into sliding ripples around 
her feet. She steadied herself. "He— he-wants -to-see -you. 
He-wants-to-see-you-about-his-Napoleon-jacket ." She heaved 
out the words like cement blocks. 

The Director squinted his eyes, pursed his lips, 
inclined his head, gripped his lapels, and, looking very 
thoughtful and distant, said, "Yes. . . yes. . . Napoleon 
jacket. . . yes. . . yes. . . I'll see about that. . . 


-er— ah— um. . . Ahem!" 

she said=, weak "with 




cast*, trembling inside 

a stiff 



Thank you., Miss< 

like a plaster 
dizzying above the running salt suds, unable to move . 

He cleared his throat again: "Ahem" Yes, Miss— er. . •" 
He -walked away blunderingly, down the hallo A sudden nurse 
fluttered carres singly down upon him with her beautiful face 
and white flowering arms . He nodded toward her slowly with 
his ragged heado "Aho , . Ahem I . i . Miss-=er . . ■?" The deep 
stammering faded into distant thunder . 

His presence drained from around her in roapy froths of 
sliding tide She noticed the whisper of omnipresent air- 
conditioning, and felt the cool clasp of endless ivory walls . 
With lifted chin and lowered lids, she turned (primly pivoting 
above the gleaming tiles), and moved (floating lumpishly) toward 
a distant square of brilliant light, while (somewhere) a slender 
fish flipped over and over (flashing)on vast quick-drying sands. 

Finally: she entered open air. 

It was a beautiful day: the sky was deep blue with huge 
billowing clouds piled in high soft tiers. The wind skimmed 
and shivered in the heat along the vivid green grass. There 
were trees in the distance: the edge of the woods ■ And out 
of them, a brimming brook, in sparkles down a green hill, came 

Away out on the lawn the thick round cafeteria basked 
in the bright sunlight: soaking in warmth, polished and squat, 
repleat, like a dozing toad, fat and slowly fuming, content, 
like a fresh-fed sow, sucked to slumbering by a tiny herd, 
sweetly to the tune of soft squeals and grunts. 

Edna looked squint ingly beneath her pink inverted palm, and 
thought: Eat! And struck out under the sun. 

Arriving: She stepped smartly up shallow stone steps, 
puffed and pulled open a glass door 

She saw: white clouds of eating nurses. 

She thought: eat I Oh eat! 

Blurrily: she disappeared into the clattering cafeteria. 

-Joe Stultz 



Lucia Danieli hurried along the narrow, winding streets of 
the city. Her heels tapped rhythmically on the stone pavement, 
and her feet were beginning to ache, She heard the familiar 
sounds of her fellow citizens as they greeted the morning. 
All along the way shutters were open, and bleary-eyed Italians 
were stretching themselves on their narrow balconies overlook- 
ing the street, Even at this hour some were active enough to 
display their Italian temperaments in loud tones. 

The distance to the Via Condotti seemed unusually far 
this morning, or perhaps it was the time that seemed too 
short. If only I had an auto, she thought, as she heard the 
noise of the early morning traffic. Almost everyone in Rome 
has a car except someone like me who works in a glove shop. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a complimentary whistle 
from the doorway of Giogio's pastry shop, Lucia was quite 
accustomed to such expressions of flattery, yet this morning 
it annoyed her. Somehow it was quite unfair for someone with 
her good-looks to be stuck behind the counter of a glove shop, 
Certainly there were more appealing ways to spend one's time. 

She saw a billboard that advertised an Italian film, 
A voluptuous figure and equally attractive face revealed 
the identity of Simonetta Brioni, Italy's most popular cinema 
star. Lucia stopped. How many times had she compared her 
own face and figure to that now famous one in front of her I 
How often she had pictured herself, Lucia Danieli, in such 
a place of prominence. Reluctantly pulling herself away, she 
rushed on. Someday, she thought, I'll be in her place. No 
more glove shop and no more walking! 

She heard the bells of the old church located at the top 
of the Spanish Steps. Only a few more blocks. . . . She 
paused at the top of the steps to catch her breath. Even in 
her anxious state she found this spot forever charming. On 
each side of the steps were flower venders. The blended hues 
on each side seemed to form an aisle for her descent, At the 
bottom she saw the delicately sculptured fountain pouring 
forth glistening drops of water into the sunlight. On the 
other side was the Via Condotti and Signora Veneto's glove 


She harried down the graceful steps onto the Via 
Condotti. Tourists were already beginning to enter the 
exclusive shops, and she saw two looking in the window of 
Signora Veneto 's shop. Lucia prepared herself for the stern 
gaze of her employer. She entered the shop and went behind 
the counter. To her surprise she did not see or hear Signora 

The shop was ornately decorated with antique gold furni- 
ture and a red rug. Numerous shelves displayed leather 
gloves of every color and description. On one wall were 
autographed pictures of celebrities who had visited and 
purchased gloves from Signora Veneto. These were neatly 
arranged in gold frames . Signora' s shop was one of Rome's 
finest . 

The two ladies who had been looking in the window entered. 
"Mildred, I simply must have those shorty white gloves with 
the embroidery. They are so feminine." 

"Well then,. I guess I'll go ahead and buy a pair here," 
replied the other. 

Lucia brought out the arm rest and began fitting the 
two ladies . She smiled slightly upon realizing that her late 
arrival had gone unnoticed, but she wondered where Signora 
Veneto could be . 

"Let me try those black ones with the lace inset, " asked 
one of the ladies . Lucia tried the glove on her hand, being 
very careful not to stretch the soft leather . She heard 
Signora 's voice in the back of the shop • In a moment she 
came into the room. 

Signora Veneto was a large woman with sharp features. Her 
black hair, which she wore in a burn, was pulled so tightly 
that it made her face seem stretched, She wore gray, her 
usual color. She motioned Lucia aside. 

"Simonetta Brioni will be paying us a visit some time 
today. I received a call from her manager early this morning, 
I have been stitching a special pair of gloves for her. Please 
make certain that the shop is in perfect order." 

Lucia looked at herself in the mirror. She had a rather 
provocative appearance; she was typically Italian with a dark 
complexion, black hair, and full features. Lucia recognized 
her beauty, and she was anxious to use it to advantage = She 
impatiently stroked one piece of hair that refused to stay in 
place. Thank goodness I took care with my make-up this 


morning, she thought. Maybe someone of influence will be with 
Simonetta Brionio She checked to make certain her seams were 
straight before returning to the front of the shop, 

Lucia placed the box of size 7 gloves, Simonetta Brioni 1 s 
size, where she could easily find it, What a life she must 
lead, one of leisure and luxury. How nice it would, be to have 
her advantages and fame,' Someday , . , thought Lucia, As she 
thumped a piece of lint from her dress, Simonetta Brioni 
entered the shop. 

Lucia stared at her in disbelief „ How tired and undesir- 
able she looked] Under her eyes were dark circles which were 
not well hidden beneath her pasty make-up o Her finger tips 
were stained with the familiar yellow of tobacco, There was 
no aura of calm assurance which Lucia had so often visualized; 
her appearance seemed to desecrate Simonetta Brioni' s image in 
Lucia's mind. Why, she looked almost absurd' Finally Lucia 
stammered, "May I help you, Signora Brioni?" 

Lucia Danieli felt the cool morning breeze as she paused 
at the top of the Spanish Steps, She smiled and sniffed the 
bouquet of violets that she had just purchased, She was walk- 
ing to Signora Veneto's glove shop, but this morning the 
distance seemed a bit shorter, 

-Lois Rowe 


Look into the sky when it is a deep, polished blue, 
When it is streaked with suspended white clouds that 

drift slowly along like wisps of smoke, 
And when just beneath the clouds, silhouettes of birds 

flash in the sun and trace spirals in their flight, 
There is a tense excitement hovering on the air=a strange 

aliveness quivering like plucked harp strings. 

Whenever I look skyward at such times, for a moment, I, 

too, soar aloft with the birds, clouds, and sky. 
The breeze runs its fingers through my hair and rushes 

into my eyes, but there are only the swirling bird 

shadows, drifting clouds, and the sky. 
But then I breathe a heavy sigh and look downward 

again to where I stand 
Beneath both birds and clouds I stand here below. 

-Jim Burson 



Marilyn and Jerry were sitting alone in the car in 
Marilyn's driveway. They were listening to the radio, or, 
rather, filling a vacuum in the conversation by pretending 
to listen to it. 

This was The Night for Marilyn. She had planned this 
evening for weeks. She had decided their relationship was 
ripe and ready for something more serious. They had had four 
dates: four ordinary, thanks -for -a=good-time and one -good- 
night-kiss dates. Marilyn thought Jerry was one of the best- 
looking boys she had ever seen, and she was determined to get 

She had planned her wardrobe for the evening with all the 
care of a general laying his strategy for a final battle. Her 
manicure was flawless, her hairdo was straight from the beauty 
shop, and she had spent an hour getting her makeup on just -so. 
Her perfume was "Intimate;" she wore her black velvet sheath 
with the V-shaped neck. 

It was awkward, just sitting there. Jerry, sniffed a few 
times unconcernedly. Marilyn cleared her throat and crossed 
and uncrossed her legs. Jerry drummed his fingertips on the 
steering wheel. Marilyn wished she could think of something 
to say — quick— something cute or funny or something deliciously 
naive— that always seemed to be effective for setting the mood. 
She could think of nothing, so she tried the next best thing — 
the psychological approach: 

"Sometimes I wish I could understand you, Jerry, " she said. 

"Huh?" Jerry said, taken by surprise. 

"I mean, that sometimes you look just like you're so far 
away from everything, and I wonder what's on your mind—" 

"Oh, well, nothin'. . . ."he said, "uh — nothin ' much." 
He cleared his throat and began humming off-key. His crewcut, 
in the shadows of the car, reminded Marilyn of a blond porcu- 
pine . 

"Jerry," she tried again, "what are you going to do with 
your life?" 

"Oh=I dunno, " Jerry said as he shrugged and looked at 
her. "Why?" 

"I'll bet no matter what you do you'll be a success." 
Marilyn hoped that didn't sound too gushy. 


She saw she had pleased him when he hesitantly pat his 
arm around her shoulders. Marilyn looked up at him and smiled 

So far, so good, Marilyn thought. She sighed luxuriously 
and eased her head against his shoulder, her eyelids blissfully 
closed and an angelic purity lighting her features, (She knew 
how she looked; she had practiced and observed the technique a 
thousand times before her mirror. 

"You're so pretty — " Jerry said. 

"Why, thank you, Jerry," she said — flattered and surprised. 

Marilyn grew apprehensive when she recognized "Bolero" 
playing on the. radio. She had changed stations during their 
ride home, from the usual rock'n roll -to the more sophisticated 
night-time music. She wondered if "Bolero" plus her wiles 
might be more than was necessary or even desirable for the 
occasion. She wanted to be romantic, but not too romantic. 

She discreetly applied more rigidity to her lanquid pose, 
made sure her skirt was pulled up just enough, and raised 
feline eyelids. to inflict her "baby-doll" expression. Her eyes 
were wide and trust ing-=-lips parted innocently—. (She was glad 
she had used her "Passionate Pink" lipstick; the shade was very 
becoming and it helped her lips stay soft.) She gazed at him 
in mindless contemplation, hoping the look would make him wonder 
what visions she must be dreaming. 

" Jerry cleared his throat. "What are you thinkin'?" he 
asked abruptly. His arm tightened around her shoulders. He 
had fallen in very neatly. 

Marilyn began to remove nonexistent lint from the lapel 
of Jerry's sport coat, while at the same time feeling the 
texture of the material softly. 

"Oh, I was just thinking how wonderful it would be to 
stay out here forever^, just you and me; it T s so dreamy.' And 
she sighed. Her hand inched to his tie which she began slowly 
to loosen. Jerry swallowed nervously. 

They remained silent for several minutes and listened to 
"Bolero" build up momentum until the undulating rhythm reached 
breathtaking proportions. Marilyn could feel Jerry's heart 
pounding madly through his coat; she was elated over her success. 

She heard Jerry take a deep breath. He put his arm around 
her waist and pulled her closer. He kissed her at the climax 
of "Bolero." 


It was such a delicious feeling, to be so desirable. 
Marilyn "sexily" slid her hands along his arms, -wrapped her 
arras submissively around his neck, and relaxed. In the silence 
following their kiss and the abrupt cessation of the music, 
Marilyn whispered, with all the passion she could muster, "I 
love you. . . I love you, Jerry. ■. . . " She thought it sounded 
even better than- when she had rehearsed it. 

Jerry seized her and began to kiss her savagely on her 
mouth, her face, her neck. Marilyn was so startled she lost 
her balance and toppled over- backwards on the seat. "Oh, 
Marilyn, Marilyn. ..." Jerry moaned, still madly embracing 
and kissing her. Marilyn's feet sailed up in the air as she 
fell and one foot came down firmly on the car horn which blared 
with a horrible "b-e-e-e-e-p — I" through the night. 

"Stop, Jerry! Stop!!" Marilyn screamed, panicked. 

Jerry sat up quickly, embarrassed, and helped marilyn into 
an upright position. 

"Marilyn, I'm sorry—" he said. 

Marilyn regained her. composure immediately, and knew she 
must act quickly to soothe over the incident. 

" Really , Jerry, you didn't kno"w how ticklish I am — " as 
she daintily unqrapped his arras from about her and smoothed 
her somewhat ruffled hairdo. She was careful to laugh as she 
said it. 

"I tickled you?" Jerry asked blankly. 

"You know you did, you devil!" she said. "Tickle me 
again like that and I'll hop right out of the car! How'd you 
know I was so ticklish, anyway!" 

"Uh — well. . .," and he laughed, "gosh, I just guessed, 
I s'pose." 

"I'll bet you guessed! I'll bet you knew all along you 

probably even planned it!" She made a move as if to tickle 
him back. He quickly put his arms over his ribs and grabbed 
her hands. They both laughed. 

Marilyn was thankful for her naivete — it had turned the 
trick for her. Her romantic spell was broken, but the music 
was over and her lipstick was smeared. She persuaded Jerry 
that it was time to leave, and they walked to the door together. 

"I'll never forget tonight, Jerry," Marilyn whispered at 
the door as she took Jerry's hands in hers and gazed at him 

"Marilyn, would you like to go steady with me? I like you 
an awful lot—" 


"Why ;, Jerry! I'd love tol" she exclaimed, her eyes 
sparkling and her expression appearing very surprised. He 
was hers' She wondered if it was the lipstick, the perfume, 
of her ,f I love you" that had done it, 

Jerry was overwhelmed . He pulled her to him and squeezed 
her so tightly she couldn't breathe, 

"I'll wear your senior ring forever,' she murmured, a 
little breathlessly. 

"Oh, yes, my ring-—" Jerry remembered, taking it off and 
giving it to her. .'. 

"And here's mine," she reciprocated. 

Jerry felt practically married after this. He was no longer 
hesitant to kiss marilyn again. 

"I'll call tomorrow," Jerry promised. 

"Hope I can wait- 'til then, " she answered, opening the door. 

"Good night — darling," Jerry whispered as she turned to go 
inside. His fingertips clung to hers" until she was in the house. 

"Nitey-night, " said Marilyn, closing the door seductively. 

"The most fabulous night of my whole life I " Marilyn thought 
triumphantly. "He's crazy about me I " 

She sat at her mirror and smiled enchant ingly at herself. 
She picked up another mirror and regarded her profile, tossing 
her head back to see the effect. She said, "I love you . . 
I love you. . . " to her image, and got a little shiver of 
excitement remembering the effect these words had caused a few 
moments before. 

She re-enacted the scene where she pretended Jerry had 
tickled her, and she scrutinized herself as she mouthed, "How'd 
you know I was so ticklish, anyway?" She was pleased with the 
way she had handled that situation and laughed lightly to herself. 
Her laugh caught her interest so she sat for some time practicing 
various types of laughs and observing her expressions from 
different angles. 

When she went to bed she closed her eyes and saw only images 
of herself laughing, talking, and romancing. She pictured herself 
as she might appear on a movie screen to an adoring audience; she 
saw herself modeling Dior's and Balenciaga's for breathless mul- 

As she rolled over and began to drift into sleep she smiled 
to herself and mumbled, "Oh, Marilyn, Marilyn, „ . ummm=>m=m=m; 
everybody loves you . , . ," 

-Lynn Taylor 



Icarus Burroughs "was convinced that a troll lived upstairs 
in his grandfather's house. Every afternoon, -when his grand- 
mother drove her big, blue Chrysler to town to pick up his 
grandfather at the office, Icarus pushed a big chair across the 
foot of the stairs and turned the radio on. When he heard the 
crunch of the Chrysler's tires on the gravel of the driveway, he 
•would jump up and push the chair away, opening the stairs to the 
passage of people. . . and trolls. 

It was a sticky, hot summer, uncomfortable as only Louisiana 
summers can be. The heat of the day was almost touchable. Walk- 
ing in the dust of the chicken yard, kicking up ankle-high puffs 
of red powder with every step, Icarus could feel the sun's rays 
like a paddle on his skinny shoulders and crew-cut head. Even 
rain was oppressive. It seemed to drive the heat into the house 
with the people, where it simmered and steamed until Icarus felt 
red as a lobster. Nights were sticky and black as molasses, and 
Icarus felt that every warm wind was the breath of the frogs in 
the nearby marshy swamp. He woke every morning with his seer- 
sucker pajamas stuck to his back. 

There was a tremendous oak tree outside the fence that ran 
between the front yard and the road, and its long, bowing branches 
almost touched the ground inside the fence. Early in the summer, 
Icarus perfected a sort of running leap into its lower branches, 
from which he could quickly climb high up into the tree. If he 
missed his hand-hold in the leap, he invariably ran, propelled by 
his forward speed, into the fence, and that hurt. Usually, how- 
ever, he found it a simple task to get into the tree. Once there, 
he would scamper among its branches until he sat, swaying, in the 
limbs, king of the oak. 

About once a week a library bus would come by the house and 
stop, and Icarus would run out to it and feverishly go through 
its shelves until he found three or four books to read. And he 
would lead a new triple life for a week. He would be Robin Hood, 
stalking the King's deer, or his sheriff; or he wo-uld be Geronimo, 
slit -eyes and savage, prowling on the mesa of the top of the car- 
shed; or he would be (and this he liked best) Mowgli, the little 
frog, hanging from a tree branch, brandishing the tail of the 
red-dog in the face of the vicious pack. Sometimes, in the 
excitement of this solitary and perfect game, fear would strike 
him. Fear of the imaginary red-dogs that leaped and howled and 


snarled and growled beneath him. When this happened , he "would 
turn and flee to the tree -top fastness, and squat, bony and 
bare -backed, among the riffling leaves, until the fear was past 
and the game was just a game again, 

On Thursdays he spent the day downtown, starting with a 
morning at the YMCA and a hamburger at Walgreen' s, and ending 
with a movie, the ritual buying of a few comic books, and a 
ride home in the big, blue Chrysler. 

At the YMCA, he ran shuttle -races with other boys (whose 
names he never learned), screaming with excitement as his team 
led, or with concern as they fell behind „ After the races, he 
would join the lines of tumblers as they turned somersaults or 
cartwheels. It melted in his mind until it became a circus, and 
the screaming, noisy boys were his audience. The mats narrowed 
as he approached them, until they were a single strand of tight = 
rope, a hundred feet up in the multi-colored tent of his mind, 
and he performed feats of legendary daring with no net below. 
He never fell. 

When the gym period was over, the boys raced to the locker 
room to don bathing suits for an hour in the indoor poolo They 
wet their hair in the shower, waded through a disinfectant foot- 
bath, and lined up by the inviting tile pool. At a signal from 
the instructor, they all dived into the water and swam across 
the pool twice. Icarus was always one of the first to finish' 

The swimming hour done, Icarus, his eyes making rainbows 
around the lights in the locker room, would dress and hurry to 
the drug-store on the corner. There he would always eat a ham° 
burger and drink a lemonade before running to the movies „ The 
dark of the theater was cool and comfortable after the radiated 
heat of the city streets. Icarus would sit and watch the flower= 
shirted cowboys race their palominos madly along the trails of 
purple sage, or the leering monsters from Mars plot to conquer 
Earth, and he would crunch popcorn between gulps of sticky orange 

The theater lights came on shortly after the heroes had 
banished the Mars-men or the good guys had gunned down the bad 
ones, and Icarus went, blinking, into the late -afternoon sun« 
He went directly to the news=stand, and picked out several comic 
books. These were his studies for the summer , Then he met his 
grandfather outside of his office, and rode home with him in the 
Chrysler when his grandmother came for them. 


It was after one of these Thursdays that he found a new 
world. He had bought a comic book with a bright picture of men 
in armor on its cover,, and found it to be an old; old story 
called The Iliad . He read it over and over, until the strange, 
melodious names came to his lips naturally —Agamemnon, Menelaus, 
Achilles, Hector, Priam, Helen, Parish and he added a new game 
to his days. Only he rewrote the ending, When sullen, moody 
Achilles came to fight Hector, it was Paris who came from Troy, 
and Achilles killed him. Then Hector, majestic in silver armor, 
strode from the city to fight Achilles « For hours they fought, 
until Hector dodged under Achilles' guard and struck the Greek 
a blow on the heel with his short sword. Achilles fell dead, In 
terror, the Greeks fled, leaving Troy with a wooden horse, which 
Hector wisely burned, men and all. Icarus felt a good deal 
better about his ending than he did about the original. 

Once in a while, his parents would call, and he would have 
to talk to them. It embarrassed him to be called "baby" and 
"honey"; although he liked his parents a lot, he thought they 
were pretty dumb about some things. They always sounded as if 
they expected him to be unhappy, and he was sure they were disap- 
pointed when he wasn't. They often asked him if he had any 
playmates, and he always told them that he had. That made them 
happy; he didn't think he had to tell them who his playmates were, 
since he was sure they wouldn't understand about Little John and 
Cochise, and Akela and Balloo. 

On the nights when it rained, his grandfather would sit, 
fat and unbuttoned, and tell him the stories of his own youth 
in North Louisiana. They were rambling and funny and exciting 
stories, and they were punctuated by "He was a Henke on his 
mother's side," or "He was a first cousin to old Will Fairchild." 
The best stories were about a wild, red-haired boy named Bud 
Tull. Tull was an orphan who lived with his uncle, Cor ley 
Walsh (an ex-Pony Express rider). Bud was always in trouble — 
stealing watermelons, arranging rooster-fights, fighting at 
school, or hopping freight trains to go to Shreveport, or even 
as far away as Monroe. On these story-telling nights, grand- 
mother would make hot chocolate, even though it was still hot 
in the house , because she said, "hot inside drives off the hot 
outside." And then Icarus would be sent off to bed. 

Sunday afternoons, Icarus would put on his pajamas and lie 
in front of the radio and listen to his favorite programs until 


sapper time. They -were almost all detective programs. He 
could shut his eyes and visualize the square-jawed, flinty- 
eyed detectives as they tracked down the ruthless arch-criminals. 
Every Sunday he re -affirmed his decision to become a Private 
Detective when he grew up. He would put on his trenchcoat and 
slouch hat and break the back of the dreaded syndicate. 

Always, he remembered the troll upstairs, and looked for 
him through the windows, from the outside, to try to spot him. 
He never did. It occurred to him that the troll must studiously 
avoid windows. Finally, near the end of the summer, he decided 
to face the troll and fight him. 

One day, when his grandmother had left to go pick up his 
grandfather, Icarus went straight to the kitchen and took out 
the wickedest-looking butcher knife in the knife drawer. He 
walked back to the foot of the stairs and looked up them. OK, 
troll , he thought, I'm coming up . He went up the first four 
or five steps boldly. A board creaked upstairs and he suddenly 
flattened himself against the wall. He stood there, his heart 
beating so hard he knew the troll could hear it, and then he 
began to sidle up the rest of the stairs. He held the butcher 
knife in his forward hand, so tight that his knuckles were a 
yellowish white. At the head of the stairs was the open bath- 
room door. He could see that the troll wasn't in there. He 
paused dramatically, bunched his legs under him, and sprang 
into the bathroom. Inside, he turned to face the open door, and 
let out a deep breath. Sweat was rolling down his sides and face; 
he wiped it from his eyes with the back of his hand. He hefted 
the knife in his other hand, and stepped gingerly into the hall. 
It was empty. 

There was one big bedroom to his left, and two smaller, 
one-closet bedrooms to his right. He picked the big one first. 
The door to it was open, and he could see a red chair and the foot 
of a bed, and two closed closet doors. He crept into the room 
and looked around. No troll. He looked under the bed. Nope. 
In the closets, then. He opened one and jumped back, knife 
ready — but it was empty, except for several dresses and a black 
coat in a plastic bag. He left the door open and moved to the 
second closet. It was totally empty, except for a Christmas- 
tree stand and some assorted decorations in a cardboard box. 
Icarus prodded the box with his knife, and turned to the hall 


He -walked on tip -toe down the hall to the two smaller 
bedrooms. Both were open. He looked into one of them. It 
had a bed and a dresser in it., and a brass hat -rack, Its closet 
door was ajar He looked under the bed and saw no troll. He 
gently shoved the door open with his foot, and found only some 
winter clothes of his grandfather's, and an odor of moth-balls. 
That left only the other room, He went to the door and peered 
suspiciously into it. It was empty „ There was no bed in it, 
nor a chair. It had three windows, and a warm breeze made the 
white organdy curtains dance like three ghosts, He could not 
see the closet from the hall. The closet in which the troll 
must be hiding, waiting for combat with the foolish mortal who 
would challenge him. Icarus considered flight and then, made 
brave by his butcher knife, stepped into the room. As he had 
expected, it was empty, and the closet door was closed. 

"Come out!" he said. His voice sounded loud and shrill to 
him, so he lowered it and tried to sound like a Sunday afternoon 
detective ■ "Come out I" he repeated. He wished for the help of 
Hector or Little John. The door stayed shut, 

He reached for the knob, and turned it slowly, almost 
silently. Crouching, knife held in front of him, he threw it 
open, coming face to face with— = himself, in a full-length 
mirror. He blinked, then straightened up and looked at himself, 
in his khaki shorts and white T-shirt, with the butcher knife 
dangling awkwardly from his hand. He felt suddenly very foolish. 
He closed the closet door and went out of the room and downstairs. 
He put the knife in the kitchen drawer and went into the living- 
room. He lay down on the rug and picked up a comic book and 
looked at it* Then he put it down and went back upstairs and 
into the biggest room. He sat in the -window-sill and watched 
for the big blue Chrysler, and watched the wind ruffle the 
leaves of the big oak tree. 

-Herb Fackler 

Some say that Infinity is paramount 
At least I think so. Don't you? 
That's higher than men can count, 

But don't worry. . . some of us will come through. 




JIM BURSON is a junior contributor from Minden, Louisiana, 

STEVE CLINTON, a sophomore foreign language major from, El Dorado, 
Arkansas, is a member of Sigma Tau Delta. 

ROY DUPUY is a junior business major from Marksville, Louisiana, 
Roy "was a foreign language contributor to the second edition of 

HERB FACKLER, president of Sigma Tau Delta and editor of the 
Conglomerate , is a senior English major from Mansfield, Louis- 

SHARON HUBERT is an active member of the Jongleurs as veil as 
Sigma Tau Delta. She is a senior English major from Clanton, 
Alabama . 

RICK HRUSKA is a sophomore majoring in pre -law and is a member 
of the debate team. 

JIM HUDSON is a freshman from Houston, Texas . 

JERRY ? DELL is a senior English major from Bossier City. He is 
a recipient of the Woodrow Wilson Fellowship, member of Alpha 
Chi and Sigma Tau Delta. 

MRS„ LOIS ROWE^s a history major from Shreveport . She teaches 
English at Byrd High School . 

JOE STULTZ is a junior from Bossier City majoring in English. 

LYNN TAYLOR is a sophomore English major from Gonzales, Louis- 
iana, planning a career in teaching.