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may, 1965 

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insights, 1965 



Corliss Parker 

Becky Hampton 

Karen Fiser 


Lyn Taylor 

Insights is edited and published by the students of the 
Centenary College chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, national 
writing fraternity. Manuscripts may be submitted by any 
student or faculty member on campus. Single copies 75c. 


KAREN B. fiser 5 Morning Glory 

BLISS Holland 7 Is When 

Marshall oglesby 8 Memory Gown 

GEORGE gibbens, in 9 A House, sketch 

JAMES M. shea, jr. 10 Book Review, Honest to God 

JUDY EMERSON 13 Village 

lyn Taylor 14 Image / Sunset Communion 

REBECCA HAMPTON 15 At the age of one and twenty 

STEVE Clinton 16 My Garden 

Allen jones 16 A Fool's Prayer 

GEORGE gibbens, hi 17 Trees 

RICHARD CRISTOFOLETTI 18 Music in the style of La Vida Es 



GEORGE gibbens, ill 20 Face, a sketch 

KAREN B. fiser 21 Earnest Exercise XIV 



Karen B. Fiser, an editor of Insights and the Conglomerate, is a 
junior English major. 

Bliss Holland is a freshman English major from New York City. 
This is her first contribution to Insights. 

MARSHALL Oglesby, a Centenary alumni, is now studying at the 
Dallas Theater Center for his master's degree. 

GEORGE GiBBENS, a special student in the Centenary drama depart- 
ment, designed the Insights, 1965 cover and contributed four sketches 
in this issue including the illustration of Morning Glory, page 4. 

JAMES M. Shea, Jr., member of the Centenary faculty, is a Woodrow 
Wilson intern. He has been active in student government and aca- 
demic affairs, and has instigated campus discussion groups this year. 

/udy Emerson is a junior art major whose work has not appeared in 
Insights before. 

Lynn Taylor submitted fiction to the Southern Literary Festival 
ast spring. She has had peotry and fiction published in Insights for 
he past three years. 

Becky Hampton is a junior English Major from Tennessee. She 
las also studied drama and has appeared in several campus productions. 

>teve Clinton, a foreign languages major and ex-editor of Insights, 
las had work published in Rectangle. 

*\LLEN Jones, a sophomore history major, has not been published in 
Insights, before. 

Iichard Cristofoletti, recently named a Fulbright Fellow, will 
;tudy Spanish literature next year in Madrid. 

3amona Stephens, junior English major from Bossier City, has not 
)een published before. 

9441 ! 

Morning Glory 
Karen B. Fiser 

Sing me a sleep song, please. 
A real hurt is soft. 

— Theodore Roethke 

My mother's face is kind and angry and I am afraid of her. My 
father is big and he laughs. When I put on his shoes I cannot move 
my feet. 

"Are you going to tell me, Carson? Are you going to tell me?" 

[ am locked in my room and it is getting dark. I am crying so quiet 

that she cannot hear me. Didn't do it. Didn't. Why do you ask me? 

[ am quiet now and it is dark. They are talking in the living room. 

can hear. 

"Margaret, she's only five years old. Only five ... I don't under- 
stand why . . ." Can't hear. What? Five. I know that. Hold up five. 

I can hear her in the kitchen. Didn't. 

Mother shouts at Gram. They shout. Mother says Gram hates 
her. Hates. Gram cries. She is old and tells me she is sorry. The 
mirrot hurt when she threw it at me. My eye hurt when it hit. 

Did not mean to Mama says. Gram cries and touches my hair. 
Mama don't cry don't cry. We don't have to go now, Gram said. We 
don't have to leave Gram. She doesn't want us to. Mama don't. 

Didn't do it. Didn't. 

Are you going to tell me? Are you going to? 

I am looking for the words. What is it? Mama I am Carson 
Mama look I am Carson. 

I am lying in the dark. No one else is in bed but me. They 




leave the door open a little. It makes a thin light on my covers. 
James James Morrison Morrison Weatherbee George Deupree. Said 
James Morrison Morrison Mother he said said he ... . Mrs. 
Parker has morning glories. They close all up sometimes. Touch 
them. When they fold up they look like little white moths. When 
they fold up their wings. 

They put the little boy's coat on top of the backstop and he 
cried. A big boy climbed up with it and sat on top of the backstop. 
Tiger Lily, he yelled. Yaaahhh Tiger Lily. The other boys laughed 
Fatty Fatty Two by Four Can't Get Through The Bathroom Door. I 
was angry and I wanted to climb up and get his coat. He was crying. 
I am little, too. 

I caught two dragonflies. Do dragonflies bite? Timmy said. 
Do they? Dragonflies are pretty and I catch them in my jar. Mayon- 
naise was in it. Seven holes in the top. So they can breathe. Timmy 
put them in. I have two dragonflies in my jar. Blue and green. 

The crickets make noise outside. How do crickets make noise? 
I saw a cricket. It was little. With their wings, Daddy said. If I 
had wings could I make that much noise? I am bigger than a cricket. 
Could I make noise? They are talking in the living room. The light 
makes a line on my covers. Angels have wings. I saw it in my book. 
Angels must make noise, too. I never hear them. Maybe I'm asleep 
when they do. 

She comes to sit on my bed. She smoothes my hair with cool 
hands. My tears are not hot any more. 

"That's all right, Carson. I'm sorry. Don't cry. Mama won't get 
angry again. I just thought you had done something with that little 
boy. Don't look at me like that. And don't cry. Don't cry." 

Mama. Mama. Smile at me. 


Is When 

A sad is you want somebody so badly 
That you ache and pain is 

Inside to be as 

But then nothing is to run in front of. 
You there so you pretend that it Really 
doesn't matter and yet it does. 
A sad is snow turns rain After you wanted 

a drop flake to send to. And even 

the trees are the same so you wonder 
about god and whether he 
Knows colors and himself and 

A happy is an infinite nothing 
that reminds you of a sad 
Because it's always right there 
It's when you want to die so hard and you 
think that if someone will care for just one 
Instant it will be all right. Butsomehowitisn't 
that you wait, 
a lovely is hearing the footsteps that 
Forget to seem — familiar and passby 
then — Squeaking and fastly. 
a hurt is when you realize 
Who you are and then Where a 
people Sleeping 
A sad is being to become a 
Was — already buried 
p urple 




Memory Gown 

Helen took to screaming one midnight 
So strangers strapped my sister in a straight-jacket 
As she kicked and squealed and Mother smiling 
Stood by with her arms folded nodding 
Sympathy and I leaned against the staircase 
And watched Helen clutch the door facing 
While Father sat at the kitchen table 
With an arm bracing a bowed head 
And made occasional sighs which I thought 
Meant tears but really were sniffs prompted 
By a cold he got from baptizing in icy waters 
Several consecutive Sunday nights. And so 
Helen now has a place of calm complacency 
And she smiles simply much like Mother did 
The night I leaned against the staircase 
And strangers took Helen from the house 
Strapped in a straight-jacket. 

So Helen's room was stripped bare 

So only the walls and floor were there. 

Then Mother took hot water and scrubbed every place 

She feared my sister Helen might have touched 

And she ripped from Helen's closet a gown she'd left behind 

A gown of memory and soft lace 

And flung it toward the door 

Where I sat crouched with my legs folded 

Somewhat like Mother folded her arms 

When I leaned against the staircase 

And Helen . . . Never you mind Mother shouted 

Go away Don't bother Don't bother 

And I slipped the gown of memory and soft lace over my head 

And turned around and around and around 

Until the dress wide in a circle raised above my waist 

An circling until I was circus dizzy 

I fell on the ground or rather rug 

For the hall was covered in bad taste 

And I cocked my neck mangled my mouth 

And bayed and bayed and bayed till 

Mother caught me by the skirt 

Of my gown of memory and lace 

And twirled me down the staircase 

Where I laughed with a broken leg 

And I leaned on the staircase and bellowed 

At my Mother as she shredded the gown 

The gown of memory and lace on the staircase 

Where I leaned as Helen clutched the door facing. . . 

• r -\ 



Honest TO God, by John A. T. Robinson, Bishop of Woolwich, 
The Westminster Press, Philadelphia, 1963. Paper, 141 pages, 

James AA. Shea., Jr. 

Bishop Robinson's book has raised considerable stir, and therein 
lies its chief merit. It has taken recent theological controversies out 
of the seminaries and universities and placed them before the reading 
Christian public. It is ironic, then, that one consequence of the main 
thesis of the book is that the concept of God is superfluous (although 
the good bishop tries desperately to talk this consequence out of ex- 

Robinson's chief task is to steer a course between (a) accounting 
for God as a being, and (b) rejecting altogether the concept of God 
in favor of a Christian humanism, a morality centered around love 
as exemplified in the life of Jesus. Robinson intends to achieve this 
by advancing 'the' view that God is "the ground of our being," 
"ultimate reality," "the depth of existence," "love/ "transcend- 
ence." (Tactitly assumed throughout the book are (i) that each of 
these expressions has a perfectly clear, and perhaps familiar, meaning, 
and (ii) that all of them mean about the same thing. Both assump- 
tions strike me as astounding.) 

There seem to be two reasons why Robinson attacks the notion 
that God is a being. First, he thinks that although many people still 
find no difficulty in believing that there is a God "out there" (i.e. in 
believing that there is a God "in some way 'beyond' outer space" 
(p. 13)), the notion of God as a being is becoming a pedagogical 
embarrassment, "more of a hindrance than a help" (p. 16); it is 
beginning to fail to "speak to us," Unless we reject it, the Christian 
faith "will come to be abandoned" (p.123). One can understand a 
bishop's concern for such matteis. But there is a deeper difficulty 
here than one of selecting an effective heuristic device, and it is this: 
Is the notion of God as a being a tenable notion? Robinson, following 
Tillich, thinks that it is untenable. He thinks that the notion of God 
as a being represents a different understanding of God than the notion 
of God he advances (p. 48). If it is true, he says, that God is the 
ground of our being, or love. 

"... then theological statements are not a description of 
'the highest Being' but an analysis of the depths of person- 
al relationships. ... A statement is 'theological' not because 
it related to a particular Being called 'God,' but because it 
asks ultimate questions about the meaning of existence . . ." 
(p. 49). 

Facing up to the fact that the proposition that God is a being is 
inconsistent with the proposition that God is not a being, Robinson 
maintains that the latter is true, and therefore that a correct understand- 
ing of God consists in an explication of the proposition that God is 
not a being (if especially p. 29; also pp. 22, 24, 43-44, 55, 105, 126). 
An obvious consequence of this position is that God cannot be correctly 
understood as a being, i.e. that the notion of God as a being is a false 

Robinson is aware that a serious difficulty confronts his view: 

"The question inevitably arises, if theology is translated 
into anthropology, why do we any longer need the category 
of God? Is it not 'semantically superfluous? Is not the 
result of destroying 'supernaturalism' simply to end up with 
naturalism, as the atheists asserted?" (p. 51) 

Robinson attempts this sort of answer: 

"Statements about God are acknowledgements of the 
transcendent, unconditional element in all our relationships, 
and supremely in our relationships with other persons. 
Theological statements are indeed affirmations about hu- 
man existence — but they are affirmations about the ulti- 
mate ground and depth of that existence." (p. 52). 

However, this sort of claim does not suffice to show that 
Robinson's view is not a form of humanism in which the notion of 
God, and the practices of worship and prayer, are pointless, super- 
fluous, mere trappings maintained out of respect for past ages in 
which good men were confused about God. To begin with, the bishop 
never takes the trouble to tell us what he means by saying that God 
is ultimate reality, i.e. the ground of our being, i.e. love, i.e. depth, 
etc. We may speculate that he means one or more of the following: 
(i) that the essence of man is to love; (ii) that the most meaningful 


aspect of human existence is that which is expressed in love relation- 
ships; (iii) that the best condition of a man is to be involved in a 
love relationship; (iv) that in a love relationship, a man transcends 
his individuality and takes on symbolic significance; (v) that love 
§; relationships are the condition of our continued existence as human 

beings; (vi) that in a love relationship, one glimpses or is attuned 
to, the essence of the universe as a whole. I do not want to suggest 
that all of the above are clear as they should be, nor that those that 
are fairly clear are true. I only wish to point out that unless Robin- 
son means something like (vi) by his account of God as 'ultimate 
reality,' love, depth, etc., three is no reason to suppose that his view 
is anything other than a form of humanism. For according to (i)-(v), 
theological statements are (merely) statements about aspects of 
human nature and human relationships; talk about God is (merely) 
metaphorical talk about what human beings do and say and are, and 
about what they mean to each other. And given the history of the 
term 'God' and its psychological significance for many people, the 
metaphor is so misleading that it would seem wise to drop it al- 
together, in order to keep our eyes aimed in the right direction: at 
ourselves, at our humanity. 

The only 'out' for Robinson here is to claim to be meaning 
something like (vi), that 'God is ultimate reality' is not merely a 
proposition about human nature, but about the nature of the universe 
in general. But this is hardly an out. (I only mention it because 
Robinson advocates it on p. 128.) For, are we to suppose that the 
life of Jesus gives us insight into "all nature and all reality"? How, 
and in what regard? Are we to suppose that a study of the nature 
of physical or biological processes? In an attempt to avoid the human- 
ism which is the logical upshot of his view regarding the nature of 
God, Robinson falls victim to the time-worn temptation to utter 
patent nonsense with an air of mystical profundity. 

Close critical attention should be paid to Robinson's book in 
connection with several questions which I have not discussed. (1) 
How sound is his interpretation of Christ, and his view of its rele- 
vance to the church as an institution? (2) Does he offer good 
arguments against the notion that God is a being? (3) How sound 
or significant is his humanism? The first question is surely a matter 
for biblical scholars, and I will not guess at their answer. But I can- 
not imagine that a philosopher's answers to (2) and (3) would be 
favorable to Bishop Robinson. 





Starlight- twinkling on a clover leaf at dawn: 
Love-betraying teardrop of a secret sorrow 
over Night's departure. 

Sunset Communion 

Blue evening bends to kiss 

A dying yet defiant day — 

They share one blazing, brief embrace 

Before the day sinks silent 

In a grave of earth; 

Then evening, unillumined, 

Turns to night. 





At the Age of One And Twenty 

An Apology 

At the age of one and twenty 
The mind doubts, seeks, 
Looks for itself, picks its way 
Through the rubble of a world 
It has just exploded. 

At the age of two and twenty 
All is much the same. 

Whether the mind finds 
Itself, or what it finds, 
Depends upon just this: 
The religion of the search. 

At the age of one and twenty 
The mind doubts. 
At the age of one and twenty score 
The mind still doubts, but 
Different things. 




My Garden 

Because my garden grows no rose 
I must caress you my dear. 

When I wake to the morning sun 
I touch my mouth to yours. 

No dew-drenched petal is waiting 
to moisten my lips. 

When I want softness 

I must stroke your neck with my cheek 

Because my garden grows no rose. 


A Fool's Prayer 

Golden Mistress of the night 

Gaze into my love's own sight 

And show to her the love I bear 

In my heart which would calm her every care 

This alone is all I dare 

To ask, grant to me this fool's prayer. 

Richard Cristofoletti 

Calderon de la Barca's La Vida Es Sueno is one of the greatest 
philosophical dramas in Spanish and a masterpiece of the Spanish 
Golden Age. Like most great works La Vida Es Sueno offers an 
almost limitless range of possibilities for thought. This paper intends 
to look at the music in the art of Calderon in this great drama. 

The play La Vida possesses many similarities with the barroque 
music of the day. The barroque composer was a religious man 
inspired by the word of God, or like a loyal subject he exhaulted his 
king, as did Calderon. Many of the long, musical lyrical monologues 
would make fine arias. In barroque music there is terraced dynamics; 
there is not a continuous change. The contrast is between the loud 
and the soft sounds separated, not in a crescendo from one to the 
other. This is true in La Vida Es Sueno. The moods are contrasted 
distinctly, one from the other; there is no crescendo and decrescendo 
as in the romantic works. The barroque melody moves by a process 
of spontaneous generation pursuing its inevitable end while the 
motives and figures become embellished in new patterns. The 
melody is always becoming and when its energy is exhausted the 
melody stops. In La Vida Es Sueno the themes of Segismundo and 
Rosaura appear at the beginning of the drama, develop, flower, and 
terminate at the end of the drama. 

Barroque music contains a perfect mixture of polyphonic or 
horizontal music with homophonic, or vertical music. In La Vida 
Es Sueno the two themes of Segismundo and Rosaura are accompanied 
by the principal chords and their appropriate motifs: I, the tonic chord 
3r religion; V, the dominant chord or honor; and IV, the subdominant 
:hord of the monarchy. A composition may commonly terminate 
with the chord resolution IV, V, or I; or in the drama the monarchy, 
honor, and religion. Segismundo becomes the king; he demands the 
necessary weddings to uphold the important pundonor of that period; § 

he asks pardon for his previous bad conduct in a state of Christian 
humility. Such things as love, justice, reason, and the various other 
motives are variations of the main chords in their major minor, 
diminished and augmented forms with inversions. Similar to the 
barroque music, the drama's harmony directs the counterpoint and 
the counterpoint elevates the harmony. The logic which governs 
this type of music is perhaps a reflection of the logic in the barroque 
music-like a Bach fugee, for example. 

It would seem that music had its effect over Calderon. He was 
a music lover and composed works which approached the realm of 
music. In any case, the art of Calderon in La Vida Es Sueno contains 
many striking parallels to the barroque music of that period. 


When you have a rude reversal 
And you feel a death inside, 
Does the hurt part make recovery 
Though the damage gape so wide? 

There have been so many moments 
When my heart sang high and clear 
Then, a sudden shaking stopped it, 
And it shrank with pangs of fear. 

Surely shrinking plus the shivering 
Caused a bit of me to die, 
But it may have only stunned the part 
Til sadness passed on by. 

If some piece does die with sorrows 
Leaving parts unsound, unwhole, 
Should we keep on striving onward? 
Does less matter make more soul? 



Earnest Exercise XIV 

Oh I must gently reach and touch them all, 
The young ones lost in aching disbelief. 
How can I quiet the urgings of this small 
Dumb grief at their lost terror, find relief 
For this dark wonder? I am so afraid. 
I fear that I shall be alone, shall fall. 

The distant, silent loves alone have stayed. 
Alone I think of days of love and light, 
And fear the awkward visions I have made. 

My life is spent in praying for their sight. 
My love has been a laying on of hands, 
A clumsy benediction in the night. 

The terror in each helpless face commands 
My homage in a thousand thankless lands. 


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SPRING 1966 



Poems by Jack Gilbert 

Page 21 


Karen Fiser 


Jim Lesko 



Don Scroggin 


Lynn Taylor 



Robert Burch 



Robert Burch 


Diana Dry 


Karen Fisher 

25, 31 

Doug Frazier 


Helen Giessen 


John Goodwin 


Bliss Holland 

6, 28 

David Hoskins 

10, 31 

Bart Kelly 


Charles Looney 


Joe Loupe 

16, 34 

Paula Stahls 


Joe Stultz 


Lynn Taylor 



Patric Ewing 

4, 24, 30 

Lynn Taylor 



Karen Fiser 
Lynn Taylor 

Tom Colquitt 


Sandra West 
John Goodwin 
Mike Deare 


Dr. Shirley Callen 
Mr. Thomas McNair 


Published annually in limited edition by Kappa Epsilon Chapter of Sigma 
Tau Delta with offices at Centenary College, P. O. Box 4188, Centenary 
Station, Shreveport, Louisiana. Single Copy: $.50. All rights reserved. 
Copyright pending 1966 by Insights. Manuscripts must be accompanied by 
a stamped, self- addressed envelope. "The Abnormal is Not Courage" and 
"Don Giovanni on his Way to Hell (II)" under copyright 1962 by THE 
CHRYSALIS WEST FOUNDATION. Photo of Jack Gilbert courtesy of 
Fred Reagor. 

Typography by Bains Press • Cover by Patric Evving 

^ A 


Insights 1966 was planned and executed as a literary experiment in learning 
— for its staff, its contributors, and hopefully, for its readers . As a learning pro- 
cess its aim is neither to be professional, nor to be a showcase for a few English 
majors. Its aim, rather, has been the inclusion of representative literary expres- 
sions of varied form and content, in order to stimulate literary interest of a large 
number of students in different fields of study. The variations in poetic styles 
alone within the magazine exemplify the felt need for a magazine which acknow- 
ledges diversity. 

As editors, we selected and organized manuscripts with these two goals for 
the magazine in mind: that it be an experiment in learning, and that it be in- 
clusive. We believe that there is more writing talent on the Centenary campus 
than has been recognized thus far, and that there is much potential interest in 
literary expression. One indication of this interest was the student response to 
Forums speaker Jack Gilbert, whose prize-winning poems are included in this 

We have aimed, then, at providing an outlet for writers still in the process 
of maturing — intellectually and artistically- — and at publishing a book also worthy 
of the interest of students who are not engaged in creative writing. It is an im- 
portant function for the small liberal arts college to provide a meeting ground 
for the scientist and the poet, the historian and the philosopher, and we feel that 
written expression in a college magazine is one way ro provide that meeting 

The editing of the magazine this year was unhindered by two sources of 
tension recurrent in former publications: the problems of money and manu- 
scripts. The provision of manuscripts was aided in several ways — by a literary 
competition on campus sponsored by the English Department, by the helpful 
efforts of members of the English faculty to secure student submissions, and by 
the willingness of interested students to submit their creative writings. Thus, the 
38 pages of Insights axe the selective choice from over 200 pages of submitted 
manuscript. The magazine owes its existence also to the provision of financial 
aid from Centenary College through the efforts of Dean Bond Fleming and Mr. 
Frank Austin, and from voluntary contributions by Kappa Alpha fraternity, 
Associated Women Students, and Zeta Tau Alpha sorority ; by these contributions 
Insights was freed of the many restrictions which come with limited funds. 

To Dr. Shirley Callen we give our special appreciation for her suggestions 
in matters ranging from editorial policy to size of type-set, and we acknowledge 
the bolstered confidence we gained from her manifest conviction in the merit of 
student writing. 

We hope that the 1966 Insights experiment will not be a short-lived inno- 
vation. We have sought to establish a better organization and a guideline for 
future issues with the publishing of this book. If Centenary College continues 
its much-needed support of the magazine, Insights will be of permanent benefit 
to an increasing number of students. 

The Editors 

t- j > 




James Lesko 

The idea came to me while reading Faust. It all seemed so plausible. In my 
position I have to cling to the slightest hope of escape. For thirty-five years, I've 
devoted my spare time to reading books about the devil. I'm a shoe salesman 
by profession, and reading the occult has injected a vicarious excitement into my 
otherwise drab existence. Today, I feel ready to make the devil an offer. Noth- 
ing fancy, just the usual soul-for-adventure-and-riches deal that has become quite 
commonplace. I imagine the devil will be bored and businesslike with the trans- 
action. My problem is where the devil would be on a Wednesday night. I closed 
my eyes and tried to muster the various signs and incantations for calling the 
devil that I'd encountered in my reading. My excitement only served to blur my 
poor memory. I put on my coat and left the apartment. 

I wished it was Saturday night. It would be easier to run into him on his 
busiest evening. I turned right on Main Street and began to devote my full 
powers of concentration to my search. I passed a policeman and stopped abrupt- 
ly. He was the right height, had a sanguine complexion, and I did believe his 
ears were slightly pointed. I shook the thought from my mind. 

I stopped to light my pipe in front of the courthouse. A black cat strolled 
from under a car and sat down on the sidewalk in front of me. His icy stare 
cut me in half. This was it. The cat devil brushed against my legs and beckoned 
me with its tail to follow it into a bush on the courthouse lawn. On my hands 
and knees I crawled to meet the demon. 

"I've come to sell my soul," I said shakily. 

The demon yawned, stretched and padded away. My heart stopped beating 
wildly. It was only a cat. 

The next three hours I spent wandering from bar to bar. I stopped in the 
bus station, walked through the local college campus, and even climbed down to 
the river bank. Despite my efforts, I hadn't stumbled across a single lead. Then 
I saw him. 

A shadowy figure lurked guiltily by the chapel pillar. This is the last place 
I'd expect to find him. 

"I have an offer to make," I said as I ran up the stairs. 

"I know," the devil replied wearily, "you want to sell your soul for excite- 
ment, riches, women, and all that jazz. Now don't get me wrong, I'd really like 
to buy your soul but I can't. Nothing personal, you understand," he added sin- 

I stood there shattered. My only hope to get into the jet set crumbled. 

"May I ask why you can't buy my soul?" 

The devil shifted his feet and replied, "Look, we run a very big and ex- 
pensive operation down there. We have no room for soul offers in our budget 
anymore. Our space and finances are limited. In fact we're turning my favorite 
swamp into a brimstone pit. Everything is go, go, go. I'm out in this chapel be- 

cause it's away from the rush, I get a chance to sit down, and besides, this is the 
only place my two-way wrist radio doesn't work. To sum it up, I'm on a strict 
budget, a tight schedule, my feet hurt, and I simply don't have room for you." 

I felt genuinely sorry for the overworked king of the underworld. He sat 
down on the steps and took off his shoes. The width of his feet was immense. 
I estimated at least a triple E. Suddenly I remembered a box in the storeroom. 

"Listen maybe I can help you out," I said. "In the shoe store next to the 
bank we sell a Triple E shoe that is made for the busy man. It keeps a good 
shine, stands up in any weather against any competitor's product, and looks 
smart. It's styled to give wide feet that slim look." 

The devil's eyes lit up. 

"Really sounds exactly like what I've been looking for," the devil said smil- 
ing. "It pays to look smart in my business." 

"Stop by, we open at nine," I said. 

"It's a deal," the devil said happily. 

We shook hands and the deal was arranged. 

(Ed. note: This short story won a first place in the Centenary literary contest.) 


Bliss Holland 

A game a silly game my love 

Of play and run and sing 

Of hide my love and seek my love 

And what a crazy thing 

Of come call here come ready now or not 

But no stay safe stay back and hide 

For now no chance to stay my love 

Do run to home free all 

In free are we to be so free 

We wish we be in all 

Free all we play and run and sing 

'till night time fall a crazy thing 

Of hide my seek my game of come 

And hide and seek my love. 


Bart Kelly 

the importance of carrion 

at the eastern sunset the iight renews. 

a vulture fights a jackal 

for the right to let a carcass rot, 

and by rotting thus so disgust the rest 

that they never die, but rot alive. 

if this were possible, it would have happened before 

and the fight would be all the stronger 

for the vulture and the jackal would fight on different soil 

neither wishing to let good food rot alive 

when either could make a meal of it. 

despite a less frequent western sunrise, 

a vulture and a jackal can never fight allied 

when neither lets the other eat. 

one day the sun will rise at noon 

and not set until its fury is spent 

on the jackal and the vulture — 

both rotting alive until death ceases their pleasure. 


a fraudulent pathfinder 

trips through the thorny row, 

turning haphazardly toward all that glitters, 

seeking nebulous roses. 

almost aware he will never find them, 

he trots along to save his time 

turning less and seeking more. 

his mind cannot control his feet; 

his hands cannot grasp the roses 

he imagines as he runs desperately 

through the prickly maze 

all the time becoming more lost; 

all the time becoming more content 

in his created belief in roses 

that are not there. 

requiem for glory 

someone died in any old town 
(with a life to live he lived it down) 
hells bells gods squads 
he had had not had naught 

women weeped preachers leaped 
all for naught had had not 
lifes to live not to die 
heaven is hell in the sky 

to come to go come to go where 
heaven hell hardly care 
when you go you wont go there 
when you come you hardly care 

death is dead life is live 
alive to live dead to die 
in the ground (there is no sky) 
wheres to go whats to do 

live for death and die in life 
preachers pray all for naught 
men play no pipe a wife 
when you come you hardly care 

there is a here there is no there 
spite preachers prayer and angels lair 
when you go you wont go there 

(Ed. note: Bart Kelly's three poems won a first prize in the Centenary literary contest.) 


Robert Burch 

Children of poor families really had the world by the proverbial tail in the 
days of my childhood. There was no money for fancy toys. Games were each 
child's prerogative and were limited only by the individual's imagination. Preco- 
cious brat that I was, my imagination provided a panoramic playground. 

I could make life fit any whim of the moment. Grandma died when I was 
five, but for years I brought her back whenever I needed comfort. If I got a 
switching, I simply meted out what I considered sufficient punishment for my 
mother and made her promise to be a little more lenient next time. Any other 
mortal who made the mistake of getting in my way was speedily disintegrated. 

So who needed a cave or a tree-house? I went everywhere. The sight of a 
postage stamp from my soldier brother carried me directly over-seas and into the 
front line of battle. And who was the hero of the hour? Modest though I was, 
I had to acknowledge the roaring acclaim. I had wiped out an entire regiment of 
the enemy; single handed, of course. 

A glimpse of an out-of-state license plate and I was transported to a remark- 
able theater for the world premier of a smashing new drama (written just for 
me). I was given a standing ovation as I entered with some ravishing lady of 
nobility on my arm, and afterward there was always a grand ball given in my 
honor. Any playmates who had not proven their undying loyalty did not receive 
an invitation to my parties. They had to stand outside and watch, unless it rained. 

Once I was going someplace (nowhere in particular, just a place), and I 
was to escort a little girl I didn't really like. I was rather glum about the whole 
affair, but just then I got a phone call saying the little girl had given birth to 
triplets and couldn't go out that night. The evening was a success because I took 
the prettiest girl in school. . .the one who had never spoken to me because she 
was too shy. 

A sudden summer shower and our modest home became a gala cruise ship 
caught in a violent storm at sea. There was a terrible midnight fire, and the 
captain was stricken with a seizure. I volunteered to pilot us to safety. When the 
passengers saw how adroitly I handled that hugh vessel, they relaxed with a glass 
of lemonade from the bar and lauded my courage and versatility with continuous 
toasts. On arrival in New York, they presented me with a scale model of the 
ship and a lifetime supply of licorice sticks. 

I remember one particular tea my sister and I gave for the children next 
door. We insisted that we were not hungry and the guests were to eat all the 
food. That party could have been the social success of the year ,but one of the 
tattle-tale guests told his mother that the hors d'oeuvres were really biscuits 
spread with chicken droppings. My sister suggested that we leave home before 
mother found out, and I should have listened. 

On occasion, when the going got too rough, I simply died and had an enor- 
mous funeral service. Sometimes I had to lie in state for hours before the griev- 
ing appeased me and I forgave the offender. My only consolation was the scent 
of the flowers and the lovely organ music. I always wrote my own funeral music. 

The taws and fancies of the poor little rich boys collected dust in a jeweled 
showcase. We really rolled those glassies, us rich little poor boys. 


David Hoskins 


In my sleep the rats have come upon me 

Have laid their tiny spurts of breath 

Upon my face like sprinkling water hot and misting. 

I have prayed they would not eat my eyes 
Would not dig into my cheeks and through them 
Through my clenched- jaw screaming 
To devour my broken tongue. 

I have not yet felt their teeth upon my teeth 

Not faced them mouth to mouth 

As lovers mouth to mouth will face each other. 

Nor have I felt the prickles of their feet 

The little burnings of their claws 

Across my prostrate chest or face. 

They have not touched my eyes. 

They have not tried my tongue. 

Sometimes in the night I am awake to think 

That I have dreamed the dream again about the rats. 

To think with an exhausted shudder 

How the sweat so deep upon my face is like their breath. 

And quietly, with hands so like a fluttering bird 

I hold my breath and run them fast across myself 

Caressing without noise my perfect marble frailty 

To prove I cannot find a scar a scratch a print. 

And the rats they say so soft I cannot hear 

You have dreamed, O you have dreamed the rats again. 

And yet all day I feel their feet 

And hear 'the shambling of their claws upon my bones. 

All day and everywhere I am afraid 

Because I know they do not wish to eat my eyes 

They do not wish to tear into my mouth 

To shred my tongue inside my teeth. 

They only wish to nest inside my throat. 

To rattle up the winding narrow stairs 

Inside my legs my groin my breasts 

And hang their stickered feet out through my eyes 

And shout and wave and have their picture made. 


Radio Message at Three AM 

Miss Jessica Baker 

If you are listening 

We have a letter for you 

Special Delivery 

Dated December four 

Nineteen twenty six. 

Post office officials said 

The letter was probably lost 

When the office was moved 

To its present location. 

It was discovered only yesterday 

Wedged behind the drawer of a desk 

Which had been auctioned 

To a local merchant. 

If you can hear my voice tonight Miss Baker 

Will you claim this letter 

Because the address is now illegible 

And no one here has heard of you 

And the post office department wishes 

After thirty-nine years 

To make this delivery 

And apologize to you. 

The seal Miss Baker 
Is still intact. 

I try to watch you more than for a minute. 

But when the dark comes up and settles on your throat 

And you are pale and stern against it 

I have to turn away: 

There is no dawn to speak of. 



Don Scroggin 

In an age of invention and discovery new ideas are constantly presented by 
progressive thinkers. Progress in any field requires openness to new theories, for 
they are the substance of growth. Old concepts must continually be re-examined 
in the light of the new, and the synthesis of the enduring qualities of the past 
with the best of the present, we call progress. In the field of science, where the 
total amount of knowledge is now doubling every seven years, there are few op- 
ponents to these ideals of learning. But in the world of organized religion we 
find the anachronism of an institution seeking to foist primitive concepts of God 
and man onto a more and more unresponsive secular world. 

Examination of new ideas does not imply aimless jumping from one pro- 
posal to another just for the novelty, for this attitude is as undesirable as blindly 
clinging to the old simply because it is well established. Absolute answers in any 
area of knowledge are impossible, but even incomplete knowledge is useful, as 
long as it is recognized as only part of the whole truth. The scientist may have 
definite ideas concerning the laws of physics or chemistry, but the main distinc- 
tion between the true scientist and the religious fundamentalist is that the scien- 
tist openly admits that his understanding of truth is not ultimate. The scientific 
revolution of our day, however, clearly demonstrates that an incomplete under- 
standing of truth can be vigorous and relevant to our world. Science is not dis- 
credited because it lacks complete understanding of all the laws of the universe. 
On the contrary, if ever science does pretend to have reached ultimate and com- 
plete truth, it will then cease to be true science at all and become merely a lifeless 
and hypocritical diversion for intellectual laggards. Disappointingly, this is 
exactly the role of much of organized religion in American life today. 

The scientist who clings doggedly to the obsolete theory of the flatness of 
the earth or of spontaneous generation of life from inanimate substance (like a 
dead carcass) is a freak in the scientific world and is taken seriously by no one. 
Yet in the area of religion we condone those fundamentalists who cling to con- 
cepts of God and man that, in the light of new evidence and ideas, are equally 
as outdated. Once the Bible is considered the absolute source of truth, the direct 
"Word of God," and not the faltering attempt by men to express their exper- 
iences in their search for truth, it ceases to have genuine religious value. Those 
who sincerely believe that man's knowledge of God stopped abruptly in the 
fourth century A. D., simply because the Roman Catholic Church declared that 
no new material could be added to the canon, place themselves in a logically in- 
defensible position. Fundamentalists who declare that the ideas of modern the- 
ologians are false because they disagree with the Bible, traditional church dog- 
mas, or precedent are demonstrating their ignorance of both church and secular 
history. The prophets of the Old Testament were confronted with the same ac- 
cusations from the Hebrew priests, for the prophets taught new ideas of social 
justice that often were in direct conflict with the laws of Moses and the priestly 
doctrines. After the teachings of the prophets were accepted and honored, Jesus 
Christ met overwhelming opposition from the established priestly hierarchy be- 
cause his words and actions were unorthodox and heretical. The Apostle Paul 


was severely criticized by the early Christian Church because he preached the 
Gospel to non-Jews. Denunciation of new theological ideas because they are dif- 
ferent is embarrassing to most enlightened churchmen and must indeed make the 
church appear ludicrous to an intelligent non-Christian. 

The doctrines of organized religion often depend upon an elaborate machin- 
ery of ritual and mythology. Instead of confronting the urgent social issues of 
our day, much time is often spent in expounding the doctrines of the virgin 
birth, the miracles of Christ, and the physical resurrection. When logic and 
modern science conflict with these dogmas, the church either develops elaborate 
and unconvincing arguments reconciling these doctrines to reason (as the medieval 
scholastics attempted to do) or withdraws defensively and refuses to examine it- 
self at all on the ground that the direct revelation of God is not to be questioned. 
This obstinate attitude can have little appeal to modern secular man, who often 
has not been steeped since childhood in the superstitious mythology of much of 
organized religion. In the field of science this attitude would be intolerable, but 
religion is apparently exempt to many people, who have been conditioned to feel 
a need for the teachings of the established church. 

"Then what can I believe?" the fundamentalist asks. "If the Bible is not 
all true, if the doctrines of the church are not absolutely certain, then how can I 
know what is really true?" The purpose of this paper is not to give a new list 
of religious beliefs that a modern Christian should accept, for such a list is im- 
mediately self-defeating. The scientist is in exactly the same situation as the re- 
ligious fundamentalist, yet he does not feel the need of having absolute scientific 
truths in order to create and work usefully. Even Newton's basic three laws of 
motion are not exactly correct, but rough approximations that work well only 
with large objects under certain conditions. "But God does not change," the 
fundamentalist continues, "and I want to know exactly what he is like." Neither 
have the physical laws of the universe changed. The molecules that made up the 
first primitive men obeyed the same chemical laws as they do today, but our 
understanding of these laws has greatly increased. Our understanding of God, 
however one interprets this term, has also changed and grown with time. The 
celestial, loving father of the fundamentalist is a much more acceptable concept 
than the primitive, tribal God of the early Hebrews, who once conceived of him 
as a boisterous and powerful being whom they carried around in a wooden crate 
called the Ark of the Covenant. The transition from belief in spirits, witches, 
and magic spells to scientific explanations of disease was a great step forward. 
But when the fundamentalist wants to call a halt to the process of increased 
understanding, he places himself alongside the flat-earthers and those who de- 
nounced biological evolution of the species. The old concepts are not to be ridi- 
culed unless they are taken as ends in themselves. We do not condemn the early 
scientists because their theories have been disproved and supplanted by more so- 
phisticated ones. Rather we honor them as having laid the foundations without 
which modern science would be impossible. 

The true scientist has a more genuine faith — in himself and in the reality of 
truth — than the religious fundamentalist. The scientist can have faith that there 
exists real truth toward which his faltering attempts reach. Unlike the funda- 
mentalist, he does not feel the need to know all truth before he puts what he 
does know into practice and makes his present knowledge useful. Too often the 
fundamentalist belives that there are only two choices — either the church doc- 
trines and mythology are true, or all religion is meaningless, and life has no 


purpose. Either Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God and the Virgin Mary, 
was raised physically from the grave so that men might live forever, or all re- 
ligion is a farce, and no one can know any truth at all. 

The true scientist does not need such absolutes. His reverence for truth, 
whatever its source, and his faith in man's ability to learn and grow sustain him 
and give him incentive to make some contribution to man's knowledge. And 
although his theories may be disproved by posterity, he will still have contribut- 
ed to a more complete understanding of truth. This quality of faith possessed 
by the true scientist, if it became the goal of the religious man as well, would 
unite both in the adventure of human existence. 

(Ed. note: This essay won a first prize in the Centenary literary contest.) 


Doug Frazier 

An orange moon in a timeless sky, 

a skeletal tree on a hill, 
And a barren shore, once lapped by waves, 

but now, like a mourner, still. 

For the sun is dead, and winter reigns, 
and the ocean, hard and dry, 

Divorced from the earth, cannot return 
til the sun wins back her sky. 

And then, in the joy at her rebirth, 
the dunes will blossom forth 

And the waves will crash on a sandy beach, 
leading cheers for a re-born earth. 

But the moon, then white with oft-lived fear, 
and the tree on its calvaric hill, 

Will meet in the night and plan the hour 
they'll be rulers again of the still. 


Lynn Taylor 

Haiku By Two 

Moonbeam's caresses 


the sleeping ocean — 
Whitecaps by moonlight! 

A gentle stranger 
in evening stroll 
pauses .... 

Picks a tiny flower. 


Duck and Duckess 
waddle lake-sidely 
in web-footed 



Newcomer and neurotic-hatched, 

I am running around on the floor 
bearing my mountain of preconceptions 
in circular fear of being stamped. 


Joe Loupe 

Sophomore Days 

My days are blue steel-sterile now; 
the nods and smiles and 
Pleasing Expectations of 
my house and home and friends 
leave me with an empty business. 

The nights are neon -like, and paper pulp 
and wet grass stain them inkish, 
and hollow sounds slide round the room 
while words confuse their point. 

The antiseptic days and evenings melt in soiled 
and smelling sheets, 
and gluedrop sweat swims on fistknots 
and scurries on my face 
with eye-rinds burning up. 

The pines with cones like cockleburrs 
are pasted flat against the scargrey sky. 

The window's down 

and supper's almost ready 

and everyone is gone except the gang 

downstairs that never glances up ... . 
And trying to forget is not as soft 

as someone said. 



Karen Fiser 

The bus was quiet with early morning excitement as we pulled into Mt. 
Pleasant. He was the only one to get on, the first in a succession of lone pas- 
sengers waiting for us in the cafes and post offices of little towns. He was grin- 
ning already. He stepped up to the driver and pulled a neatly folded ticket from 
his wallet, already looking for his place in the almost empty bus. He stopped at 
a seat near the front behind a white matron reading a Ladies Home Journal, and 
carefully tucked his two extra shirts into the rack overhead. He was small and 
wiry, dressed in black chinos and a crisp white shirt, a little frayed and large at 
the collar. He plopped into the high-backed seat and looked around, a jaunty 
dwarf: still grinning. Two front teeth were missing. Tenderly he set a transistor 
radio on the window ledge behind the matron's head and spun the dials with a 
practiced hand. The blare of music brought the matron upright in her seat. She 
stared coldly at the Ladies Home Journal and did not speak. 

He tapped his feet in time to the music and uttered an audible grunt of 
pleasure. "Mah heart's on fire-uh, Elvira. . ." 

The bus was rolling now past the shy-faced towns stranded by the new 
highway west. 

The boy lit a Winston, and tried to fit himself into the seat, clanking the 
footrest up and down several times. The matron sighed noisily and gave up on 
the Ladies Home Journal. 

On the right of the road was a clump of shacks, the boards blistered white 
in the morning sun. On top of the largest shack was a tattered sign lettered 
SPIRITUAL ADVISOR, with a large red arrow pointing downward. 

At the next stop an unshaven man got on the bus. He fished around in his 
pocket for his ticket, finally producing a crumpled wad which he stuffed into 
the driver's hand, not looking at him. He staggered down the aisle, pulling the 
brim of his hat down over his eyes, and, with the other hand, clutching at the 
top of each seat. His trouser cuffs covered the tops of his shoes. He stumbled 
past the Negro boy, who pinched his nose, giggling. "Whoo-ee," he stage- 
whispered in delight, "he dronk. He stewed. He soused..." He subsided 
finally, nodding his head again in time to the music, which by now was accom- 
panied by loud bursts of static. 

Suddenly the Ladies Home Journal matron could not restrain herself. 

"Would you mind," she said in tones of blue ice, "turning that thing down 
just a little? I had very little sleep last night." 

"No'm," the boy grinned, and then, "Is that too loud?" It was and the 
matron did not answer. 

At Diboll, Texas, the bus driver went into the cafe and came out leading an 
old lady who insisted on carrying her own suitcase. He helped her up the steps. 

"I heard you goin' to California again this year, Mary," the bus driver said. 
"Listen, don't you know them Greyhound drivers flirt a lot?" 


"Better not," Mary announced to all present with an emphatic shake of her 
head. "I'll slap 'em silly." The travelers laughed. 

We were on the road again. MARTIN LUTHER KING IN A COM- 

The Negro boy had given up on the radio, with a shrug of his shoulders, 
and was trying to sleep. The matron was again reading her Ladies Home Journal. 
The bus driver was talking loudly to Mary. 

"Lemme tell you for true, Mary, you keep goin' all the way out there to 
California on them Greyhounds, you gonna be sorry. Them Greyhound boys'll 
kill ya one of these days." 

"Don't matter," Mary answered placidly. "One place is just as good as 
another when the heart grows cold." 

"What'd ya say?" the bus driver asked, looking in the mirror. 

"One place is as good as another," she said, taking off her hat. 

IBM Hxercise 

Diana Dry 

Somewhere between 

The falling snow 

And the rising tide 

Is where you live. 

I have watched for both 

And still I can not find you. 

Perhaps I have not 

Waited long enough 

Or watched closely enough. 

I have lived 
With a calculator 
In my head. 

Time moves like the waters 
And I fear I shall drown 
Before you come. 

Yet more than drowning, 
I fear the moment 
When you stand beside me 
And I am unable to speak 
softly enough 
for you to hear. 


Diana Dry 

Conversation over a Plate of Hot Spaghetti, Or, 
Far Beyond North South East or West 

Once in Biology 

Dr. MacFarland dissected 

A live lizard 

And she put its heart 

Out on the table and it stopped 


But then 

She placed it in the solution 

Of chemicals like the fluid in the body 

And for a minute 

The heart 

Started beating 

And she asked us when life ended 
When did the lizard die when she 
Cut out his heart when she placed it 
On the table when she put it in the water 
When did his life stop? 
When is a person dead — 
When his 

Stops beating? 


When he dissects 
A live 


Now you've gone away 
As softly as the leaves fall 
I am like the trees. 


hes Gender 

Robert Burch 

The French are inane, indecisive, insane, 
and their language is driving me wild ! 
Frenchmen speak of their "les", 
which means "the" (they say), 
with a reasoning somewhat defiled. 

Her hat is a boy, his tie is a girl, 
and if that's not enough of a curve, 
Girl cars and boy trains 
have scrambled my brains, 
and the omelet is ready to serve. 

Le prix and la pension, in constant dissension, 

have forced me to bring in a tutor. 

Can't those amorous French 

lift their heads from the trench 

and think of most gender as neuter? 

Petrified Wood 

Helen Giessen 

Softly feet rustle through brittle leaves 

Pause and turn a stone. 
A rock I say — or a long dead limb 

Buried in cold decaying dust. 

No more life grows there green 

On tender, veined node. 
Layered wood exists — a petrified identity 

Afraid to trust. 


Jack (filbert 

f a voice above the craft singing 
meaningfully of the life of man . . ." 




The Poles ride out from Warsaw against the German 

Tanks on horses. Rode knowing, in sunlight, with sabers. 

A magnitude of beauty that allows me no peace. 

And yet this poem would lessen that day. Question 

the bravery. Say it's not courage. Call it a passion. 

Would say courage isn't that. Not at its best. 

It was impossible, and with form. They rode in sunlight. 

Were mangled. But I say courage is not the abnormal. 

Not the marvelous act. Not Macbeth with line speeches. 

The worthless can manage in public, or for the moment. 

It is too near the whore's heart: the bounty of impulse, 

And the failure to sustain even small kindness. 

Not the marvelous act, but the evident conclusion of being. 

Not strangeness, but a leap forward of the same quality. 

Accomplishment. The even loyalty. But fresh. 

Not the Prodigal Son, not Faustus. But Penelope. 

The thing steady and clear. Then the crescendo. 

The real form. The culmination. And the exceeding. 

Not the surprise. The amazed understanding. The marriage. 

Not the month's rapture. Not the exception. The beauty 

That is of many days. Steady and clear. 

It is the normal excellence, of long accomplishment. 





How could they think women a recreation? 

Or the repetition of bodies of steady interest? 

Only the ignorant or the busy could. That elm 

Of flesh must prove a luxury of primes; 

Be perilous and dear with rain of an alternate earth. 

Which is not to damn the forested China of touching. 

I am neither priestly nor tired, and the great knowledge 

Of breasts with their loud nipples congregates in me. 

The sudden nakedness, the small ribs, the mouth. 

Splendid. Splendid. Splendid. Like Rome. Like loins. 

A glamour sufficient to our long marvelous dying. 

I say sufficient and speak with earned privilege, 

For my life has been eaten in that foliate city. 

To ambergris. But not for recreation. 

I would not have lost so much for recreation. 

Not for love as the sweet pretend: the children's game 

Of deliberate ignorance of each to allow the dreaming. 

Not for the impersonal belly nor the heart's drunkenness 

Have I come this far, stubborn, disastrous way. 

But for relish of those archipelagoes of person. 

To hold her in hand, closed as any sparrow, 

And call forever till she turn from bird 

To blowing woods. From wood to jungle. Persimmon. 

To light. From light to Princess. From Princess to woman 

In all her fresh particularity of difference. 

Then O, through the underwater time of night, 

Indecent and still, to speak to her without habit. 

This I have done with my life, and am content. 

I wish I could tell you how it is in that dark 

Standing in the huge singing and the alien world. 



II Zuccone 

Karen Fiser 

Donatello knew. 
The dark striving, 
The failure of it. 
The straining 
Upward, the precise 
And irrevocable 
Error. The craving 
And the beginning 

The gaunt stone 
Priest broods 
Shadowed through 
Our time. 

The wooden Magdalen 
Stares scarred and sacred 
From her impeccable 

On cold nights 
The relentless marble 
Heartless bronze. 
The need to mount 
His suffering 
In Stone. 


Paula Stahls 

Though this careening globe is plaything now 

For the clammy creeping fiends 

Her prying loosed, 

Pandora's groping fingers yet may find 

The tiny boon left hidden in the box. 


Charles Looney 

Four Poems 

Great in danger are we, we are 

From ourselves, we are 

From within us, within we are 

Danger within ourselves and in us 

Because there may be in us, may be us 

Nothing in us, us empty, nothing us 

But more to fear we have, we have to fear 

Much more to fear in us, in fear us 

Something living in us, may be us 

Maybe something living we have, have some living 

What to do living, do what 

Let lie living in us, let living lie 

then die living, die us. 


Comes the puppet man down the street 
The beat, the beat of wooden feet 
Right and left of string and steel 
Sight and breath a sawdust wheel 

Comes the puppet man down the street. 

Comes the puppet man round the bend 

Cry the boys to lend, to lend 

His Joy, tree torn toy friend 

In laughter, hungry days to mend 

Comes the puppet man round the bend. 

How he danced ! Follow the man 
Shallow in heat, hollow in hand 
Head and shoulders stuffed with sand 
Sun tall smiles wherever he can 
Follow, follow, oh, follow the man. 



The pig is to his day 
Snoutless in the rock garden 
Beside his stony trough 
Where the water is ice 
And the corn is yellow ice. 

Yesterday the slop was warm 
And the cobs were wet, but 
Not so tender as the bread 
That lay fetching in the mud — 
The comfortable mud. 

The pig is to his day 
Voiceless in the slaughter house 
Beside his quartered brother 
Whom he does not recognize 
Because his eyes are frozen. 

Yesterday his brother squealed 
As he greedily jammed 
His head into the slop pail 
To lick the sides with his tongue 
And gorge for a good sleep. 

The pig is to his day 
Deaf beside the butcher 
With the yellow frozen eyes. 
Above, the bloody knife. 
Below, the bloody pig. 


Roses only die when winter 
Rises dead from only spring 
And death rises as winter roses 
Red in the snow only when 
Dead spring rises red 
In the roses and winter thorns 
Which die early and red 
In green and risen spring 
Dead only for white winter 
And green roses in thorns 
Rise dying for the dead only 

(Ed. note: These poems won second prize in the Centenary poetry contest) 


Bliss Holland 

I am tired of my life, life 

of not mattering 

whether or not I'm around. 

Am tired of people not knowing the 

words to songs and what to say 

and just singing off key always. 

Tired of being told I have a bad light to 

read by and being told 

how I should feel 

about what oh really is important. 

I'm mad that video tape is 

always being cut when somebody 

goofs and gets a little off-color 

and offends the Great American Public. 

Sad of getting up too late 

and not having slept. 

So tired of writing letters in return 

to no letters at all. 

Tired of people saying "what?" to everything I say. 

And I am full of feeling full of nothing at 


Tired of shoes that get holes in them too soon 

before you've gone where you really want to go. 

Of waiting for the slow walkers 

who don't even know at all 

to get with it. 

Of looking at the smashed world through smashed sun glasses. 

Tired of all the beer running out 

of all the dreams being 

just dreams and of 

all the cigarettes running out 

and Every Body running out. 


Fed up with floating around and going nowhere. 
With not looking forward to anything 
because there's nothing to look forward to. 
Sad of hearing what people say about you 
When they think you're not around. 
Mad of being intruded upon and of 
the jungle of it all. 

I am hurt because of nobody having any more secrets 

or innocence for wonder. 

And I'm filled with feeling exactly like an hourglass. 

I am tired really tired of watching the 

giant behemoth crush cars on the late late show. 

And in short I am in a hurry to live to 

get this real fun over with 

so that I can be in my hurry to die. 

It's time to move on to 'the 

next late phase and I am 

almost already tired of death. 

It's just time to move on 

time to groove baby. 


the ashtrays are full. 

Sunday Noon 

Joe Stultz 

I like to love a lot, and feel 
The writhe of serpents on a Sunday noon, 
While distant bells are brooding past our tune — 
Our deep and tendrilled reel. 

Compare the brittle chime of day, 
The peaked and ringing emphasis of stone, 
With these our supple mouths that moan — 
And hands that find their way. 









David Hoskins 

The way the night is, close deep down in grass 

With soft minuteness in the water beads upon it; 

Rain rattling through the high leaved trees 

And splattering into thick wool coats 

(these coats against the skin of women, and gloves); 

Wetness of all kinds, and things that glisten with it. 

These things I cannot write. 

And love is grass, with water on it, 
Dry lips against the rain wet coats, 
The feeling that I have for you, 
And glistening that I have not said. 

Sonnet on a IsAinor Journey 

Karen Fiser 

I wake up slowly to the sound of rain 

Against the glass, and painfully recall 

A cold, expectant night on this grey train. 

My friends are waking now, their voices small 
And hushed like those of birds in early light. 
The long, stiff sleep made neighbors of us all. 

Where are we, mother? asks a child. The sight 
Is comforting, these strange, dark faces, grown 
Familiar through the restless, waiting night. 
I long for laughing faces I have known. 
My lovely child, we all are going home. 


John Goodwin 


Into the far night 

The shadow show came, went. 

The puppets 

Scattered from light to black. 

I followed, yet remained behind. 

The dark, the void 

Digested all. 

By the trenchant power of that devastating mass 

A world of smothering substance sucked in a 

great rushing stroke within that malevolent womb — 
The black joined with the light. 


Scattered, shattered 


By an eternal massive hemorrhage 

Within and far beyond. 

Among the puppets. 

Pursuing myself through light, dark. 

Colliding with myself. 

Recoiling in fright 

At my half-illumined face of chaos 


Carrying my leaden corpse 

Down a moving flight of slippery stairs. 

A different kind of blackness. Empty. Vast. 

Having long ago bloodlessly spit up its entrails. 

Sudden suspension. 

In the convulsing pit of stomach, 

In the dead cold tips of fingers — 

The massive weight of nothing. 

Nothing. Imperceptibly unfolding a 

Circus of confusion — 


The lights blinding. Dimming. 

Flashing. Spinning. Spilling. 

The moving pictures. Stills. 

Flashbacks. Closer and 

Gone — 

Before Happily-Ever-After-THE-END. 

The phantom music. Spectral. 

Shreiking. Chartreuse. 

The splendid puppet troupe. 

Paint. Plastic. Cardboard ceremony. 


And the voices — 

You must remember the time . . . 

The whisper of memory. 

Forever and ever. 

What did you do when the clouds came? 

Where did you go when the rain fell? 

What did you see when the sky fell ? 


What means essential? 

One must know what means essential. 

What are they saying about me ? 

What are you saying about me? 


Explain. Hurt. 

Understand. Hurt. 


Yesterday was a beautiful day. 
So will be tomorrow. 
There is no end 
When there is no end in sight. 

Where are you going? 
Where have you been? 
Come into the light 
And you can be seen. 


Joe Loupe 

Frightened fingers tear down 
The hollow slogans of the ad men 


And behind the crumpled signs 
Is whirling — 
Black, light 
Forever moving 
Laughing and crying 

Closed. Far away. 
The hand cannot reach. 

Obituary: The corpse 
After a long illness 
Died. Suddenly. 


Was here yesterday before closing time 

But left in confusion 

Trailing clouds of holy smoke behind him. 

small hand hope 

Through high-up windows 
in the warm-glow room 
we watched the floating dream wave snow 
against the eaves and streetlights. 
It snowed through beers and quiet words 
and Winstons and a Garland-fought guitar 
and "I'm sorry, sorry" 
and the sick lost taxi-niggers .... 

and I wanted — 

more than all the snow 

— to love. 



Lynn Taylor 

The label "Scapegoat of Modern American Society" might easily be attached 
to the contemporary fine arts in America, which include literature, music, and 
painting, in all their diversified facets. Some people, if they do not see art as 
funny or totally ridiculous, view with abhorrence what they term the "not only 
a-moral, but anti-moral" in modern art; most of us know or know of at least a 
few such people who see art as a corruptive and revolutionary influence, and as a 
threat to society. 

It is easy enough to ban a book or pan an art show for anti-morality, but 
such acts are temporary and involve continual conflict. One permanent solution 
might be to adopt the principle proposed by the much-revered Plato in his 
Republic, and that is, government control and regulation of the arts. Perhaps it 
would be of importance to explore the problem of art vs. society and to trace the 
implications of a Platonic solution. 

Plato's ideal Republic is in actuality a stratified society ruled by an oligarchy 
of the elite — the philosopher-intellectuals ; his ultimate concern in this society is 
with the establishment and maintenance of order. Thus, the ordered universe is 
Plato's absolute. 

Americans have chosen the democratic rather than the oligarchial form of 
government, and the two forms possess their inherent differences: the oligarchical 
is concerned with the maintenance of order so that its position as ruling body 
might be insured, whereas the democratic form actually thrives on spiritual and 
intellectual ferment. It is this characteristic of progress through conflict in 
American democracy which has continued to baffle foreign absolutist nations for 
two centuries. 

Protest as such is not a sign of disease so much as it is an indication of 
growth to follow, although Americans themselves are often intimidated by the 
presence of opposing forces in their society. And never are they more intimi- 
dated than when they come face to face with a Bohemian aesthete — a symbol of 
protest by his very nature. The ail-American would-be intellectual in his attempts 
to raise his artistic sensibilities becomes chilled by what seems to him bizarre swirls 
of oil paint on canvas, or by Dali's ghoulish portraits of man in a state of de- 
generacy and putrefaction. He is alienated by Faulkner's run-on sentences and 
dislocated syntax, and he is reminded of mass traffic jams when he hears atonal 
or "space" music. Consequently, the American who "has had enough of that 
foolishness" pouts home and clicks on his television set to enjoy his mediocrity 
in peace. 

This brief preceding sketch might serve to typify the situation in America 
today between the arts and the average American. The implications of such a 
situation are overwhelming. One potential danger inherent in the gap between 
man and the arts is the possibility of the isolation of the arts: when art no long- 
er finds an audience from the outside, it turns in on itself and derives an extrem- 
ist doctrine of "art for art's sake." 


The opposite extreme, the one America would be taking if the government 
took control of the arts, as it does in Plato's society, would be totalitarianism, 
in which art exists only to elucidate some dogma, rather than for its qualities of 
personal benefit to the individual as a means to deepen and broaden his view of 
himself and his world. 

If the arts are in a dilemma caused by the refusal of people to hear what 
artists have to say, and if totalitarianism by its very denial of democracy is no 
answer, what is the recourse? Is the artist wrong, or is society mistaken? 

Almost any writer one is willing to read will grant that American society is 
affluent and materialistic. This materialism carries over into society's reaction to 
art when it sees in art work just another commodity to be consumed en masse 
(if it is consumed at all), and when it expresses the belief that the customer is 
always right; therefore, if we dislike a work of art, it is automatically not we, 
but the artist who is wrong. Materialistic value judgments such as these have no 
place in the realm of art. The persistent and even intensified protest of art to 
materialism in society testifies to the increasing conflict between artistic values and 
those values of society as a whole. 

I Share the belief with others who say it is not the artist who is wrong, but 
society which commits an error when it refuses to recognize what the artist is at- 
tempting to say. The wider the gap between art and society, the more indicative 
it is that that society is lagging behind in its needs for moral and intellectual 
growth. The fact is, the revolutionary Bohemian is, willing or not, a member of 
society, a member more concerned with interpretation and reflection than with 
accepted mores, and a member who has something vital to say to all of us ; he has 
the right to express his feelings even if they are ugly. An angry response to 
his efforts is not as valid as the realization that progress never came through 
ignoring what one did not like. It is understandable that the government is con- 
cerned over the position of the arts in America today, but the answer to the prob- 
lem lies not in control. The most valuable action the government could perform 
in relation to the arts is to encourage them to speak out, and then to listen to 
what they have to say. 

Art is revolutionary, but democracy can use revolution for progress; art is 
corruptive only when the society to which it is expressed is already sick. "Con- 
trolling" artistic expression as Plato created it sets order as an end to which art 
is no more than a means. Plato's hypothetical Republic represents an oligarchical 
ideal bordering on totalitarianism; but in an American society which has chosen 
democracy as its ideal, that society commits an error unless it allows the arts also 
to accompany it through the sometimes controversial steps toward growth. 

(Ed. note: This essay won a second prize in the Centenary literary contest) 



ROBERT BURCH, a freshman majoring in languages, writes 
from a varied background. He has studied bullfighting in Mexico 
and was a professional dancer for ten years on the West Coast 
and in Honolulu. Mr. Burch, who says he writes for fun, is a 
Shreveport resident. 

DIANA DRY is familiar to INSIGHTS readers. She has been 
published in two previous issues. Formerly a secretary of Sigma 
Tau Delta and editor of the Conglomerate, she lives in Shreveport. 

PATRIC EWING, a junior art major from Dallas, Texas, did 
three of the illustrations and the cover of this issue. The sketches 
were all done in carbon pencil. 

KAREN FISER, one of the editors of INSIGHTS, is a senior 
English major. She is president of Sigma Tau Delta and received 
the annual creative writing prize last year. She is a former Con- 
glomerate editor. 

DOUG FRAZIER is another world-traveler. He grew up in 
Aruba, which forms the background for much of his writing, and 
now lives in Malaya. A freshman English major, Mr. Frazier has 
been published in the Randolph-Macon College magazine. 

HELEN GIESSEN, a senior English major, plans to continue her 
studies in graduate school next fall. Helen says it's difficult to 
say where home is, because she's lived longer at Centenary than 
anywhere else. 

JACK GILBERT came to the campus for a Forums lecture in 
March. Winner of the 1962 Yale Younger Poets Award, Mr. 
Gilbert was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize for his book of 
poems, Views of Jeopardy. He now teaches at San Francisco State. 

JOHN GOODWIN, a dean's list student at Centenary, is a senior 
drama major. A newly-elected Student Senate officer and a Sigma 
Tau Delta pledge, he is from Houston, Texas. 


BLISS HOLLAND appears in INSIGHTS for the second time. 
She is a sophomore English major from New York City, and a 
Sigma Tau Delta pledge. Among her preferences, she lists drama, 
orangutangs and pistachio ice cream. 

DAVID HOSKINS, now on leave of absence from Centenary, 
is a junior English major. He is a former editor of the Conglom- 
erate, Student Senate member and president of Sigma Tau Delta. 

BART KELLY's three poems won first prize in Centenary's literary 
contest. A freshman from Fitchburg, Mass., Mr. Kelly says that 
his poems are concerned with the difficulties of adolescence and 
with "what is supposed to be God." 

JAMES LESKO, a Sigma Tau Delta pledge who came here from 
Hobart College, won first prize in the local short story contest. 
A junior English major from Binghamton, N. Y., he has been 
published in the Hobart Review. 

CHARLES LOONEY, an English major, came to Centenary from 
Catholic University, where he studied drama. He says that his 
life's ambition is to have been published in INSIGHTS. He is 
also a pledge of Sigma Tau Delta. 

JOE LOUPE is a sophomore from New Roads, La., majoring in 
history and government. Now managing editor of the Conglom- 
erate, he won an award in the state poetry contest. 

DON SCROGGIN, a senior chemistry student, won the over-all 
award in the Centenary literary contest with his essay on science 
and religion. Mr. Scroggin, an honor student, will attend Harvard 
next fall on a National Science Foundation fellowship. He lives 
in Shreveport. 

JOE STULTZ, a former English major at Centenary, lives in 
Shreveport. He appears for the second time in INSIGHTS. 

LYNN TAYLOR, one of the INSIGHTS editors and vice-presi- 
dent of Sigma Tau Delta, has been published several times. Win- 
ner of a Woodrow Wilson fellowship and a consistent honor 
student at Centenary, Lynn will study comparative literature in 

graduate school next fall. 


PI IU «■ ' 



Ml II tt »*» *" 





Published annually in limited edition by Kappa Epsilon Chapter of Sigma 
Tau Delta with offices at Centenary College, Centenary Station, Shreveport, 
Louisiana. Single Copy: $.50. All rights reserved. Copyright pending 
1967 by Insights. Manuscripts must be accompanied by a stamped, self- 
addressed envelope. 


I . ^ 

UNTITLED by Shirley Walsh 7 

BUTTERFLY by Linda McLendon 8 

ENCLAVE by Paula Stahls 8 

DESPERATELY by Janis L. Jinks 9 

UNTITLED by Joe Loupe 9 


by Michael Poe 10 

FABLE: THE TOAD by Doug Frazier 11 

ONE THIN DIME by Bart Kelly 12 

ONE REASON by Will Finnin 13 

UNTITLED by Shirley Walsh 13 

ODE TO AN EGYPTIAN CHURN by Charlie Brown 15 

UNTITLED by George Gibbens 16 

BOCA MOHOS by Doug Frazier 17 


UNTITLED by Bart Kelly 19 

SAYONARA — BANZAI! by Bart Kelly 19 

SUMMER SHELLS by Janis L. Jinks 21 

WATER ROSES by Janis L. Jinks 21 

MODERN POETRY by Charlie Brown 22, 23 

ENCORE by Rodger Wedgeworth 23 


by Robert Burch 24, 25, 27 

EASTER HAIKU by Dede Griswold 28 

UNTITLED by Shirley Walsh 28 

UNTITLED by J. Michael Hopkins 28 

PART-TIME PAGAN by Paula Stahls 29 

WINE AND ROSES by Joe Loupe 29 



The publication of Insights 1967 in the fall rather than in the spring 
of the preceding school year as is customary is both an accident and an 
experiment. An accident for a number of unforeseen and now irrelevant 
circumstances which served as hindrances to the best intentions of the editors 
and all who assisted them. An experiment in that which is new and 
untried carries along with it an element of excitement. Specifically we hope 
that the publication of Insights early in the school year will generate interest 
in creative writing and in this sort of publication, interest that will grow 
consistently throughout the year and from year to year. 

We would finally like to thank Mr. Jim Willis and Mr. Tom McNair 
of the English department and Dean Thad N. Marsh without whose 
intellectual, psychological and economic assistance, Insights could not have 
been published. 

The Accidental and Experimental Editors 

Shirley Walsh 

It was the style 
But she was not a vogueish girl; 
Her heart dripped only sand. 

But on a soonday 

her eyelids will reveal the sun 

and encircle the moon. 

Stars will stop their hide-and-seek; 

The heart's carnival will commence 
And a Ferriswheel will 
Billow the voluptuous sawdust 
Scattered the swirling sawdust 
Stop the seeping sand. 

On a soonday in haste 

Her body will lose from its languid sleep 
And dormant lips will stretch 
To add assonance to the following fair. 

But not in vogue. . . 
There's the carnival clown 
who creates a kindred face. 

But it was the style 
Of love that day. 

Her gilded lids subtracted the sun, 
Made minus of the moon. 
The Ferriswheel's folly 
Sucked back the sand 
The sun wept gaudy tears. 

No, not in vogue. 

The gaudy drops 

made more bizzare 

The clown's created countenance. 

The colors stood up 

Then tripped and fell 

But valiantly tried again; 

The myriad maze 

Began to run 

soon after the skipping salt: 

Clown red 

Clown white 

Clown gray 

Clown blue 

— once clown face — 

Hence all melted 

Into clown tears. 

(Invariably not in vogue.) 

Linda McLendon 


The small child 
clapped his hands 
in utter 
at the 

bit of flying 

But a 

winter blinded 


smashed its 


with one foot, 

and at the 

same time 

killed an 



NOW is wood fire, warming 
and pop-tune played gentle 
as Potpourri of faces 

meet in thought 

of Things That Count, 

and play with knowledges. . . 
instinctive and remembered. 

To speak for NOW 

The Things That Always Count. 

While outside 

Pop-tune played loud 

hustles feet and souls 


Down unpondered lives. 

Paula Stahls 


And I cried my few last tears because 

I lost something — 
Not to touch, nor to hold — 

Simply a flutter, a voice in the rain, 

A door without hinges, a spider's silver belly, 

And I weep now because I have lost — 

So miserably fallen, like jelly dreams, into that pit — 
So deeply into those black laughs and faceless smiles. 
Remarking with a dead voice, a dry sound, 
And now, well now, I cry more for the buried, 

Not the dead .... 

Janis L. Jinks 

A smoking mist swirls slow 

and softly fogs in hazeled light the buildings 

still and gray — 

a slow diffusion through the night. 
A solitary touching wraps me in the concrete-talking towns- 

the slow extengencies of life. 
The misting darkness pulls me to the woods, 
a fetal cloudy cord that grants no peace 
until I'm walking there . . . 

where trees, a sluggish green immensity of life, 
are pressed in summer heat; 

and wild mixed palette leaves of dying fall 
are dulled by yellow winds; 

until I'm ushered through 

the lifetime pulse into 

the frostpoint crystal trees 
of gray-leafed brittle downs 
and crack-leafed forest floors. 
My "life" 

(in concrete cells that top the trees) 
is blue-smoked neon, dry-paged law books late at night. 
And yet — the mist cord never frays; 
it always tugs me to the woods, 

that place of teeming quiet sounds — 

the plasma of my life 
despite my sterile college dance 
and faces I've not touched. 
The answer lies in leaves 
and wildness of the deer. 

Joe Loupe 

Michael Poe 

(Or, Won't You Come Home, John Milton?) 

BY . . ." 

In the opening chorus of 

The autumn day, the sharp chill 

And the sun 

Are as a cold fire 

Burning and purging 

All that is heavy 

From the air. 


In the autumn dusk 

The trees and the sky 

Yield their mountains of gold 

Disclosing the secrets 

Kept so long locked behind their doors 

As if the reddened sun 

Were the key to open them. 

T. S. ELIOT HAS SAID, . . ." 

Midnight and morning seem now as one 

And across the street 

All is emptiness 

All is in still repose 

Waiting for the awakening to be 

With the coming dawn. 



But for my mind 

There is no sleep 

And no awakening 

Just off and on 

And a yearning to forget 

If only for a moment 

The Catharsis 

The conflict 

The epic rhythm 

And to join as part of 

The autumn morning 

The autumn dusk 

And the silent, dark buildings 

Across the street. 


Once, on a rainy night, a toad, 
hopping across a rain-glazed road, 
stopped, transfixed, by a great light 
far, and then near, now two, both bright. 
Faint, nearly swooned, the reptile thought, 

"This must be God Is it my lot, 

thus to be one of those who've viewed 
spirits before the reaper's mowed 
soul from body, wheat from chaff? 
I shall repent, forget to laugh. . ." 
Toad was then crushed beneath the car. 
Dreams, with his blood, dissolved to tar. 

Doug Frazier 



of seedless ripe olives 



on. . .a 

metal apple tree 

in a gilt-silver orchard 

lit by neon fires 

that say 

— this is it 

ladies and gentlemen 

what you've all been 

waiting for 

what you've all been 

looking for — 



souls away 

canning olives — 

seedless ripe olives 

at that 

then they sell 

then people buy 

because they see the 

shiny can with the fancy 


that says 

— these olives come from the 




valleys of southern 

Italy — 

when they really 

grow them in 


just forty miles 

from the 

fires of the 


Bart Kelly 



Will Finnin 

Sweet muted syllables said softly at dusk 
Stretch hearts together to know differences. 
Two pillars, tall, stand silent-gripped 
By blank futility — the imperative "must." 

Unalien we, and yet, so strange: 
Each to each other's mind remains, 
Affirming depths too real to speak 
We meet and cover up our lies. 

Can live be fast? 
Can dead be stuck? 
Must sweet be gone 
When deep is left? 

One reason lives within each breast for life 
Alone we are, that paradox, 
But only in the risk 
The Hope remains. 

Shirley Walsh 

And when your balloon bursts — 
it won't even boom — 
but will make the most 
minute and insecure 
of sounds. 

And thus will fade away 
And you'll wonder 
who'll have heard, 
who'll have known, 
that inside 

wanted to boom — 
violently to explode — 
Nobody not ever 
Not even you. 



I shall not hear tonight the sand 
The cuckold sand of Caliban 
And waspish wailing willful wind 
Calling over much too thin: 
Rosetta Stone - - - Rosetta Stone 

Anti-lock to mystery. 

Servant of this history. 

The sand begins to roll again 

The sound of sand and wind too thin 

Staying there ungodly long 

The anti-lock 

Rosetta Stone 

Allusion to Egyptian Sand 

The suckling sand of straining land 

Listen, listen, it tells all 

All that Faust need ever know 

To sell his soul for knowledge of 

Rosetta Stone. 

Carousel bells and gypsy band. 
Entered in my land of sand 
Carried off my tone from land 
Carried off its mystery 
And too the chance of history 
Left with both the mysteries 
The mysteries of 
Rosetta Stones. 

And every night as I lay snared 
Entangled in Egyptian sand 
The voice of bells and gypsy bands 
Whispers through this airless land 
Overriding voice of sand 

In sneering tone no less to sand 
The grated edge, the sound of sand 
The voice rescinds, reminds again: 
Rosetta Stone - - - Rosetta Stone 

Charlie Brown 


Grandfather a bald and brass figure of stern innocence. . . 

stubbornly middle class. . .medicinally quick-spitting. . .merry, 
and very kempt in his eight-to-bed and early-wise look-of-all- 
looks propering in his hot house of memories and supersti- 
tions quite like the son of his son sometimes, and at others 

like the father of his father's grandfather, then with an out- 
rageous arrogance he'd ladishly bound into the vest-pocket of 
cautious age and pretend to be dead to all but the smiling 
out loud of his rough love of the sight of himself in his son's 

. . .the lamps in their wake continue. . .and I continue in my 
wakening from the soft sleep of friends and, still, from 
the salt of world-wise sermons. . .chilled suddenly into the 
strange anger of absence. . .still like the child 
struck in the throat and eyes by death. . . 
"Grandpa, your nose, your nose, your ears. . ." 
. . .and bobbed me, knee, upon the finest horse, with giant 
hooves, that glassed the mountain up, and saw the beasts that 
roar, and did no more. . . 

. . .sometime in the past, and before that in the miraculous past. . . 
his face like a leaf in the Fall wind, coughing over the aged, 
over the pressed and old and indestructable table linen, sagely 
bowing, at last, like a Mohammedan over his late coffee, 
sucked and sewn into a thousand folds of ancient, sweet-breathed 
dreams. . .and sometime in that same place he died, as an old man 
often does, without a word. . .and I, a child with the protection 
of no great number of years, grieved in the way a child often 
does, quite unobtrusively and quite alone. 

George Gibbens 


The boy ran out of the house and across the yard to the cage. He 
reached into it, careful of the iguana's claws, grabbed the beast about its 
stomach, and lifted it out of its prison. He had caught it the day before, 
and had brought it home, presenting it proudly to his mother to fatten for 
a feast. 

Today, though, his mother had beaten him for loosing a knife which 
he had taken to chop at a piece of wood, so now he would remove his 
gift, and accomplish his revenge on the iguana, for it was the only way he 
knew to hurt his mother. 

He heard her calling from the hut, and turned, running out of the 
yard, and down into the arroya, dodging the cacti. His mother called 
again, far behind him, but he paid no attention as he made his way bare- 
foot out onto the jagged coral. He thought only of the iguana, and of the 

The water was deep in the bay, and from the cliffs which surrounded 
it the boy had many times seen the sharks come in, slowly, easily, searching 
the bottom for scraps of food trapped by the currents. On a calm day, 
if the water was clear, he could run above them, as he followed the cliff, 
and watch their lithe bodies as they glided past below him. 

Now, as he neared the edge, he looked down into the green water, 
but could see no sign of the sharks. He waited for a moment, then threw 
the iguana in a high arc. It landed near the center of the bay, sank, and 
then rose to the surface and began to swim slowly, thrashing it's tail through 
the water. 

Running along the edge so that he might be above it when it left the 
water, the boy forgot all ease, and failed to lift his feet high enough. A 
sharp fist of coral reached out, holding his foot, and he fell, arms flailing, 
over the edge of the cliff. 

He hit the water with a large splash, scaring the iguana, which had 
just reached the wall of the bay, and which watched as a large blue shadow 
rose to the surface near the screaming boy, sand, and rose again to silence 
him, leaving only a splash of foam which drifted and dissolved as the 
iguana climbed the rest of the way up the cliff and ran, tail held high, back 
across the coral. 

By Doug Frazier 



You are a liquid school of whales, 

tight bound, 

and swimming to the gulf in one slow surge. 

I see you flowing by your banks 

and watch your jaws slow bite 

into the land and trees and sometimes me. 

I bake myself by you in dust 

and summer smelling cockleburrs, 

while feeling how your hum creeps in my nerves 

and rustles through the cornstalks of my brain. 

Three blackbirds slowly fan your back 

and watch me lying on your loins 

while longing for a weaker love than you. 

First place — Poetry, Centenary Literary Contest 
Joe Loupe 


Bart Kelly 

whimsical fancies 

of stopping the world 

getting off 

looking back 

overtake me now 

and its not certain 

that on 

looking back 

i'd wish return 

if offered. 

or. . . 

then. . . 

but. . . 

well. . .why not try it 

i don't know 


do you really think 

i'd enjoy the 



they say it's good to go to church 
perhaps, to learn the Ten Commandments 
they say the Communists are greedy 
they say that war still makes sense 
they say to keep away from tea 
they say. . . 

but listen. . . 
can you hear another drum 
is there another voice 
can we make a separate peace 
or must we use another bomb 

but wait. . . 
I hear the deaths were mounting 
and they finally stopped counting 
the warships sunk and men shot down, 
they say we'll soon have peace — 
I'll listen. . .but I can't look. 
I can read it later in a Japanese torture book. 


Janis L. Jinks 


Pain grows inside the shells of summer, 

Over the placid beach of reality, 

Green and taunt. 

My shell on the broken sea. 

My glass spiral, all wound in cords of clay. 

The throb, My shell undone with imagination, 

Of windless cords and broken daylight — 

All crushed in heaps of sand. 

The sullen pain, the Wintry sting 

of my summer's hand. 

Shell in shell, the might of unison. 

The wind of a water's back. 

The throat of an end. 

And I have felt it — 

Pain that grows inside the shells of summer. 


Water Roses, The shadowy spectres of evening, 

A wasted avenue, 

Like fish on the river's bottom. 

Unbelieving tiny frail sermons, 

but folding their mossy arms, 

while glistens those sprinkling words. 

Like dew pearls, in half shells, unopened, 

And moistened by their own decay. 

Uplifted in that Free death. 

The crust of immortality, the breath of horizon, 

The scope of Tomorrow's candle. 

And where can it all end? 

As begins, in Water Roses, 

That relinquish — Solemnity, 

For shadowy spectres of day 



"Die ganze Welt ist mit Scheise beschmiert." 

r l 

With debt and undying gratitude 
to the many people who have re- 
vised, corrected, and advised me 
on this manuscript, but most of 
all my mom, I fondly dedicate this 

To the poem who proclaims "We are but the gaseous excrement from the 

bowels of a cliche world." 
I declaim "Paralyze your opponent with Haiku." 
Life is lousy, and so are poets who write about the crap. 
"Hey poets, let's flagellate the world!" 
"No," came the inaudible answer, "ourselves." 
And he waded further and further into the muck, 
And two words kept recuring to us lip readers: 
"People" and "psychoses." 1 

He was wading in backwards just so we could see his lips. 
The only proper place to write poetry like this 
Is when seated on the John. 
And speaking of the John, 

I get very tired of hearing about 
The grim nobility of that moment in time. 2 
But mostly I get tired of people 
Who can't find any better place to hide 
Than the top of a ladder in the middle of an otherwise 
Barren stage. 

Formic, Son of Myrmidon, 3 
Bride of Myrmidon, 
Return of Myrmidon, 
Myrimdon vs. the Wolfman. 
Haunted hankerers of Dante's hell, 4 
Diabolic dabblers, delving the depths of devildom, 
Bristling, brindling, bridling brine, 
Bumbling blatherers, babbling of bitches, 
Ridiculous writers of rebellious redundancy, 
And all the purposeful purveyors of perversion 


Oh what the hell, never mind! 
rhyme! (brine mind, sort of a 

might's well, 
what the 

o, terrible 





inadequately attempting to question the time 

why bother? 

Charlie Brown 
Baghdad, 1966 


x Dag Hammarskjold, Markings (Copenhagen: Einenfinger, Inc., 1964), p. 86. 

2 T. S. Eliot, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, (New York: Harcourt, Brace & 
World, Inc., 1952), p. 163. 

3 Unknown Poet, Insights, (Shreveport: Centenary College Press, 1962), vol. 2, no. 2, 
p. 13. 

4 Mardi Merde, tr., Dante s Inferno, (Paris: Fromage duTete & Son, 1965), p. 33. 


The beautiful, young Hamlets of Now, 
Wrapped in black, 

Dwarfted by empty vaults, 

Clutch the skulls of grossness, 
Hold them aloft, 
And pray for curtain's fall, 
And are puzzled to hear applause. 

Rodger Wedgeworth 


Robert Burch — First Place — Short Story, Centenary Literary Contest 




The pubs in the quaint little villages along the Rhine are delicious in 
the spring of the year, when the American traveler meets Europeans of all 
descents and heritages, without the tiresome delay imposed by social stratum 
in his home town. A pretty face sitting alone in a sidewalk cafe is as near 
as the nearest waiter and a glass of cool, dark hops. On one delightfully 
fanciful June day, it became my turn to be the American traveler searching 
for adventure and companionship among the wine glasses. I cannot quite 
recall exactly what first attracted my attention to them, perhaps the well 
spoken English, but certainly their language was not my lasting impression, 
nor was their coloring, for certainly blondes and brunettes are commonplace 
throughout the world. Ah, but therein lies the paradox, for I contend these 
two were different. At any rate, I chose an adjacent table for a better view. 

The blonde, a little past her prime, although still beautifully preserved, 
was exceptionally well assembled, curvaceous without being overblown, and 
with skin that was sin-khsed and well lubricated. That color of Kansas 
wheat, reflected in the well-coiffed tresses has baffled cosmetologists since the 
inception of bleach, and the purity of almond-shaped homozygous brown 
eyes were a delight to behold. The movements of firm but feminine hands 
clearly demonstrated her self-assuredness. The nail polish, make-up, hair 
and skin tones were all carefully contrived to give the popular "one-tone" 
look so much in vogue with the jet set, and the tailored beige lace suit was 
beautifully set off by one single emerald, caught in a filigreed gold cage. 
Like a bird I mused, but not a canary or a parakeet — more like a peacock, 
because she was certainly well aware of the looks of admiration gleaned 
from the eyes of male passers-by, and from her posture, loved every moment 
of attention and invited more. She was equally aware that the younger 
brunette served as a perfect foil for herself. They were chatting with much 
animation and, without really intending, I became completely absorbed in 
their conversation. 

"But, Rowena" said the brunette, "how can you say a thing like that 
about Edgar? After all, he was certainly more than a gentleman when in 
my company." 

"I tell you, Ligeia, he was the most despicable degenerate I have ever 
had the dissatisfaction of knowing. If you could only know one particle of 
the agony he caused me to bear, you would certainly never again question 
my judgment. He raved and ranted like a madman on our last encounter. 
He spoke of Greek Gods, of the daughters of Delos, and he quoted Joseph 
Glanvill out of context. He described in lurid detail his courtship and wed- 
ding of you, the pure and undying love you held for him, and finally he 
described a dream of your death and subsequent entombment while his eyes 
burned with frightening intensity. I feared for my very life and sanity 


because I knew, of course, that you had been with him in public places 
only, and certainly you had never entertained even the vaguest notion of 
marrying the fool." 

Ligeia had opened her mouth to respond when the waiter returned 
with my drink and silenced them momentarily. As he poured my beer and 
refilled their wine glasses, I took the opportunity to observe Ligeia more 
closely. She was a delicate creature, almost breastless but even that was 
not a serious drawback, for it fitted perfectly with the gamin look and deli- 
cate but prominent bone structure highlighted the translucent complexion. 
The sun obviously obtained only remotely spaced peeks at that lovely white 
skin, which the flowing mane of black hair beautifully accentuated. The 
enormous, round, electric-blue eyes were almost hidden when she lowered 
those incredibly long lashes, but when fully open they could pin a man to 
his chair with an intensity that is indescribable. She was dressed in a 
typical "go-go" dress of hot coral, with matching lips and finger tips. The 
contrast with Rowena was at once startling and curiously reminiscent, one 
of the other. There seemed a certain discordant affinity. 

The waiter returned our change and they continued. I listened, 
seemingly without a will of my own, and I was pulled like a satellite in 
orbit along their road of adventure, seeing first through the eyes of Ligeia, 
then through the eyes of Rowena. I flew with them to Hawaii for their first 
competitive affair with a beach boy. I watched in amazement as they 
discovered that Badji was a mutual lover, spending alternate evenings with 
Ligeia while she passively did nothing to rectify the situation. As for 
Rowena, she seemed to actually encourage the triangle, apparently receiving 
some perverse thrill in knowing. 

In Greece, my amazement turned abruptly to shocked disbelief as 
Rowena and Ligeia picked up Greg in a bar, took the young man to their 
apartment, and while one left the room to tend bar, the other very purpose- 
fully aroused him to a feverish state of passion. Rowena would return with 
a fresh round of drinks just in time to prevent the situation from getting out 
of control, and Ligeia did likewise, with a timing so precise one could 
only conclude that each had watched until the proper moment. I watched 
with baited breath for the outcome, and just before dawn the ardor of both 
women cooled, as if spent, and they bid the confused and frustrated Greg 
a chilly goodnight. After he had gone there was a quick meeting of the 
eyes, and two half-smiles; Ligeia's look of understanding, and Rowena's 
look of gratitude. 

I do not know why I should have been shocked by their conduct. I 
remembered two rather masculine women in London who seemed to find 
pleasure in exciting young men before going home to their respective bed- 
rooms. Then there were the two glamorous female psychologists in Ciaro, 
presumbly doing research on male behavior for their doctorates, but invari- 
ably fiercely competing for the same man in their experiments. But enough 
speculation for the moment. They are speaking of Edgar again and I must 
know more. 

Ligeia had met Edgar in a Greenwich Village art exhibition, and this 
affair seemed different from the onset. Through Ligeia's eyes I saw Edgar 





H|«*^# ^B 

^L ^ ^~<J 

as a fumbling but amusing fool, sexually impotent and possessing a wild 
imagination. He seemed to suit her needs exactly, and she pretended to 
possess a great love for him to feed his warped ego. They were point and 
counterpoint; Edgar, secure in the knowledge that Ligeia wanted nothing 
more than his company and conversation, and Ligeia actually loving the 
impotence that precluded wrestling matches and harsh words. For these 
two, love of a sort could exist without ever a thought of anything more, 
and had Rowena not re-entered the picture, the story might have ended 

Rowena saw Edgar in an entirely different light. For her, his unkempt 
but virile looking person and lack of aggressiveness produced a great yearn- 
ing for physical fulfillment. She pursued him relentlessly, and threw brazen 
invitations his way, by word and by deed. The more reticent he became, 
the more she pressed for either action or explanation. Rowena took the 
rejection as a personal affront to her feminity and needed desperately to be 
reassured that she was still young and attractive enough to be desired by 
this strange man. Poor Edgar could not give the action she desired, nor 
could he explain his impotence without destroying completely his vain male 
ego, without which he would have nothing. The effects of the strained 
relationship were devastating. Edgar's expression changed from gaunt to 
haggard, there was a noticeable spastic twitch in the facial muscles and, 
finally, insanity became his only safe retreat from the emotional storm. 
Rowena's nerves were like the wings of a butterfly stretched by a cruel child, 
and finally dis-enjoined. 

The sharp tone of Ligeia's voice brought me back to reality. "For 
heaven's sake, Rowena! You make poor Edgar sound something like a 
cross between Dorian Gray and an LSD addict. He was nothing more or 
less than a would-be painter and writer whom I found amusing. I was 
very sorry when I realized that your intentions toward him had turned 
serious, and the only reason that I continued dating him was to try and 
spare you the heartbreak that was sure to come. Of course, I knew that 
he was slightly demented when he attributed to me that outrageous poem 
about the worm conquering man, and I even let you read the nasty thing, 
hoping to cool your ardor a bit, but you rushed right on in. In reality, 
you have asked for every pain inflicted by poor Edgar, and I might add 
that this is not exactly the first time that you've been taken in by one of 
my creepy young friends. Get wise to yourself!" 

At this point, Ligeia paused to observe the single tear in each of 
Rowena's eyes, and as one tear coursed down her face, the combination 
of emotional strain and removed make-up showed an added ten years that I 
had not at first guessed. Ligeia seemed strangely touch and gently dried 
the cheek with a finger, letting her hand rest tenderly on Rowena's shoulder. 
As though in a trance I viewed the silent apology, Rowena's make-up repair 
job, and as they walked arm in arm toward the exit I heard Ligeia say, 
"Forgive me. I did not intend to be cruel — It is just that we are both tired 
from the trip and need a little rest. We'll have a nice quiet day in the country 
tomorrow and perhaps a picnic lunch. Would you like that. Mother?" 



Two limbs draped with vines 

Weighted with flowers sweet. 

Mourn with the white notched blossoms. 

Wind breathed on my face 

Soft moist and oh, so tender. 

The rain soon followed. 

Time undulating 

Like a caterpillar 

From drowsiness to sleep. 

Dede Griswold 

Wandering Alice 
Brimming with child innocence 
Beaming with unanalyzed happiness 
shrinks to slide to somewhere land 
Where someone opened Pandora's box 
(besides the former) 
and latterly unclasped 
child hand from aged one 

l n v 

Shirley Walsh 

The darkness falls without a sound 
That mortal ears will ever hear, 
A black lace curtain swirling down, 
The falling of a crystal tear. 

So quick it cuts away the sun; 

A teardrop on a candle flame, 

And darkness comes to mark the place 

That's empty now but for a name. 

But many times 'tween dusk and dawn, 
Half hidden through a swirling mist, 
We will return to as before, 
Remembering some sunlit morn. 


J. Michael Hopkins 



It is somehow not enough 

That we're given peace 

Which comes with dying. 


All this is beatific — 

This crossed austerity 

This tranquill passion of praise 

This God — 
But Life is not yet served! 

The Fathers all forgot 

That Springs would come, 

And man 

His fires unquenched 
By "Balm of Prayer" 

Might spurn Yahweh 

To seek again Ishtar. 

Paula Stahls 


It snowed again last night. 

It shimmered white against the frozen ink 

and pricked old feelings 

until they yawned and raced about my stomach pit. 
And in the black I thought about the warm-glow room 

and felt alone. 

So, high out there, 
above them all, 
alone on icy iron, 
I watched the snow tonight 
and felt the animal shake his trap chain 
on my ribs. 

Joe Loupe 



NELROSE ANDERSON, a sophomore from Rayville, La., is one of the 
editors of Insights. 

LUCIENNE BOND is a senior art major from Shreveport, La. She illustrated 
"The Choosing of Edgar." 

CHARLIE BROWN of Shreveport, La., is a junior majoring in drama. 

ROBERT BURCH, a sophomore, is from Shreveport, La., and is majoring in 

CHRISTIE EYSEL of Shreveport, La., is a display artist in a local depart- 
ment store. She illustrated "Modern Poetry." 

WILL FINNIN of Dubach, La., is a junior majoring in religion. 

DOUG FRAZIER, a sophomore, is from Milan, Italy, and an English major. 

GEORGE GIBBENS, a former Centenary student, is a free-lance photographer 
and scene designer from Bossier City, La. 

JOHN GOODWIN, a senior from Houston, Tex., is a drama major and an 
editor of Insights. 

DEDE GRISWOLD, also of Houston, Tex., is a sophomore majoring in 

MICHAEL HOPKINS, a chemistry major, is a junior and from Shreveport, 

JANIS L. JINKS, a freshman majoring in sociology, is from Shreveport, La. 

BART KELLY, formerly of Fitchburg, Mass., and now of Shreveport, La., is 
a sophmore majoring in English. 

JOE LOUPE of New Roads, La., is a junior majoring in history and 

LINDA McLENDON, a sophomore from Little Rock, Ark., is an English 

MICHAEL POE, of Norwalk, Conn., is a sophomore majoring in English. 

PATRICK POSEY, the illustrator of "Summer Shells", is a sophomore at 
Northwestern State College in Natchitoches, La. 

PAULA STAHLS, a history and drama major, is a senior from Shreveport, 

FRANCES VICTORY, a junior from Shreveport, La., is one of the editors 
of Insights. 

SHIRLEY WALSH, a sophomore from Urania, La., is an English major. 

RODGER WEDGEWORTH, from Shreveport, La., is a junior majoring in 
art and English. 


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