THE NEBRASKAN Pace 3 Four Poems the nebrask evww iter ary Friday, Morch 24, 956 i i n . i Suffer me not to see again the pearl misted handling of morning upon the pebble mosaiced crescent the dove breasted beach the youth fevered girl of salt in the sea, of shivered laugh, skirt gathered safe from the sea salt rush of edge, the quick-breath tracking pace of her numbed feet in the sand; for I am older and fear the sea. II Bell upon white scarved bell beat rung to praise her name In the white chrysanthemum garden walled in the wrought iron night, rung to reach a cloistered tower sounded in rock fitted chamber groin rung through her green robes opened wing wide the gardener's hand weave drowned in her hair, My pealing bells sounded only as stone, stones to be flung beneath the sea. The black wet brush stroke twigs rain pocked rims of new grained earth break through the morning robbed of pearls fling up the cruel noon day sun the black heart sun of island killers banish far my long haired lbve my dove cool girl of the early dew into the land of lion maned beasts shagging their manes in the black heart sun the towerless land of the black heart sun. IV In dawn of wet noon curtained were set torches to the drowsy owl's nest, were ribs sabered from the lover's heart, naively, as death unto love parts sea from land, as semen-wall jaws of vinegared flesh or serpent reaches in marrow red sockets hammer the tooth through the heart, the cactus through stone. And eyeless, heart shouting the air, I hobbled from the fire on the bones of my crutches aching for the song to begin, each voice in its gentle turn. Frank English ... a fable The Ant Who Said He Hated Spider By Ana Gerike Once upon a time an ant lived on the 93rd floor of the Em pire State Building. He didn't like to work very well, so he often secretly crawled up to the tower to watch the spiders. He thought it would be great fun to swing out into space on nothing. But whenever he was with his friends and saw a spider, he told them he thought spiders were the ugliest, most useless things on this earth and he certainly was glad he he was an ant. One August evening after a scorching hot day, one of the ants found a jug of hard cider in a closet on the 88th floor. Pretty soon, the word got around to all the ants from the 75th floor on up, and they gathered in the closet and had a big party. By the time the jug was almost empty, everyone was feeling pretty good. They began to brag, and the ant who said he didn't like spiders said he could do anything a spider could. "You're talking through your feelers," challenged one of the ants. "Ill prove it! Lesht's go up the tower," retorted the ant, and they all staggered up the stairs to the tower. They crawled up on a ledge, the ant spun an imaginary web and everyone laughed. Just as the ant was going to pretend to jump into space, a gust of wind blew him into the blade of a passing helicopter. The rest of the ants were so surprised that they fell back wards and were trampled by a group of passing tourists. MORAL: Do not pretend to be a spider whea yen are full of hardened cider. The Literary Review Today's edition of the Literary Review isn't the first time that The Nebraskan has tried to publish a literary supplement of some kind. Back in the mid-20's, a four page tabloid, containing creative material written by University students, was distributed at five cents a copy. Response to the literary publication was poor, however, and the project was disbanded after two editions. Since then, as far as The Nebraskan knows, the University community has been without a campus literary publication. Today, nearly 30 years after the original venture, The Ne braskan presents the Literary Review experimentally on a one issue trial basis. In doing so, The Nebraskan has tried to do two things: (1) provide a necessary outlet for the creative writing talents here at Nebraska, and (2) give the campus community a glimpse of the creative material produced by its own citizens. If the Nebraskan has been successful, even in a small way, on these two points, it will be satisfied whether the supple ment is accepted or not. LITTLE MAN ON CAMPUS by Oick Bibler ma i iii - How Green Was My Psyche . . . r 4m. iHwi, fc By ANN GERIKE There Is obviously a pessimistic, fatalistic trend in modern writing. A certain group of writers, which could, perhaps, be called the Capote school, specializes in making its fatalism symbolic and almost incomprehensible. Undoubtedly, such writing is art, just as abstract art is art; but, as I sometimes wonder if some modern artists throw their paint on the canvas with tongue in cheek, I also wonder if some of these symbolic writers may not occasionally write in the same way. Their symbols are psychological and abundant; they use chil dren, colors, objects, anything within reach and, as Buttercup says in "H. M. S. Pinafore," "Things are seldom what they seem." Their writings are wanderings in a decadent mind; they walk in a world of Freudian unreality. I sat down at the typewriter and tossed up a Capote salad with malice (any nothing else) aforethought. I threw In repeated sym bols, extensive similes, sadism, monosyllable dialogue, cryptic sen tences, a color scheme, a child and a dash of Freud. I serve it up with my tongue in my cheek; but if anyone wants to take it seriously, I won't mind. Since it's straight from my subconscious, it's probably conclusive evidence of my inhibitions, frustrations and complexes. . 'Emily . . . Emily . . . Emily." He heard the sound from far away; it rose and fell as the tides of the sea, rising and falling with the changes of the moon. It echoed off the walls of his mind and shat tered into a million pieces, like a champagne bottle hitting the side walk. "Em.Em, em, em," the sound floated into the distance. He shook his head and opened his eyes. He had been writing at his desk and had just closed his eyes for a moment, but he was certain that he hadn't been asleep. i Where had that voice come from? Walking over to the window, he looked out. A strange child was playing in the sand, drawing mean ingless signs in it with her fin gers. "Hello," be said. "Were you calling for Emily?" The child stared up at him soberly; her eyes seemed to bore into him like a sharp corkscrew into the cork of a champagne bot tle. "No, I wasn't calling Emily," she said, in an oddly mature voice. "I wasn't calling anybody." She smiled at him and shook her blond hair, so that the long waves shone in the sun. "Emily," he murmured, look ing at her. "Emily." She continued to smile at him, and the screen blurred her smile into a grimace. "What is your name?" he said. "Rose-Marie," she said, still smiling. "Where do you live, Rose-Marie," he said. "Over the hills in grandma's house," she answered, her voice running over the words in the lilt of a rhythmic fairy tale. Her eyes seemed to be laughing at him; sparks leaped from them with the light of an evening campfire. "What are you drawing in the sand?" "Signs." "What kind of signs?" "Just signs." The world outside was green and yellow; the child's fingernails gleamed red. Where are you, Em ily? his mind said. Are you Emily, with the blond hair and the red fingernails? The child drew an "E" in the dirt. "What does the 'E' stand for?" "Rose-Marie." "But Rose-Marie start with a 'R!" "I know," she said. She threw back ber head, and the laughter bubbled up in her like champagna bubbles in a newly opened bottle. There is something strange about this child, he thought. She remind ed him of something in his pre natal past, some dim memory which throbbed in his mind with the pain of a hammerstruck thumb. His eyes turned inward, and bt saw long, waving blond hair being carressed with red fingernails. "Emily," a voice said, "Emily." "Did you say something?" ha said to the child. "No. Did you?' "Did I?" "No." They both were silent. He turned away from the window and looked at the walls of his room, the corpse-green walls which flashed nauseating purple in the glow of the setting sun. His face stared at him from the mirror a death haggard face with eyes darting lika pursued gnat. He took the cham pagne bottle which was standing on the dresser and threw it across the room. It shattered against tht wall. There was a moment of silence following the delicate tinkling of falling glass, the tinkling of crys tallized tears. Then, "Why did you throw the bottle?" came tha strange voice from outside, under the window. He did not answer. Her face was pressed against the window screen, her nose flat tened against the dozens of tiny squares. "It's broken," she said, sadly. "Why did you break the bottle?" "Because I felt like breaking it, Emily," he said. She smiled an empty smile and said, "But my name isn't Emily." Then night came, and with tha blackness he .lay on the floor in (Continued on Page 6.) elp From The Skies ... a short sfory . . by Abraham Dash "I can't see a damn thing!" Waldo turned around. "Damn it, Bob don't you have any idea where we are?" Bob, who was trying to peer out between the two pilots, shook his head. He didn't look at Waldo or at Ritts, the co-pilot. His face, normally a mirror of good humor, was twisted into a worried pucker; a trace of fear was in his eyes. He was squinting as if he could force the appearance of land out there through the cockpit window. "Damn, Waldo, we were in the scud for over three hours. I couldnt shoot the sun, I couldn't read drift, the radar and loran Isn't worth a damn. I'm not a magician. According to my D.R., we should be over the Island, but, hell, we could be anywhere in the Atlantic." Waldo shook his head. "What a Oi me Your time cut Christ to ribbons of dark (Pitted with Silver and yellow Crushed wetness) sorrow. It came with Ice shaving Fritael's "La soupe seulement" Reddancing air greyed Blackened hair and eyes . Of yourself Now away. All iodisceniable. Waliy Simpsoa stinking mess. Ritts, can you get anything on the bird dog?" Ritts didn't answer. He was working with the radio-compass. His fingers expertly turned the fre quency dial, while his eyes were glued to the small white needle that drifted aimlessly around the compass rose. Every so often he would clamp the ear phones tight to his ears with his free hand, and strain to catch some signal. Finally he shrugged, took off the ear phones and looked at Waldo. "Not one blessed thing; just static over all ranges. Can't even get that high-powered range from Spain." Waldo nodded. "O.K. So now we start earning our money." He flicked on the intercom. "Dave?" "Yes, sir?" "Get on your short-wave set and try to reach somebody, I don't care who. We need radio steers bad. Report back when you get someone." "Roger, sir." Waldo grunted, then called again on the intercom. "Mac. Mac!" He cursed and turned around. He could see the engineer back at his position writing in the log. His ear phones were on the table. Waldo shouted at him, and Mac looked up. Waldo pointed at the ear phones, waited until the engi neer had put them on, and heard him say, "Yes, sir. Engineer on intercom." "Look, Mac. Check our fuel; find out our best altitude for con sumption. We might need all the time we can get. Report back to me as soon as you can." "Roger, sir." Waldo took off his ear phones, rubbed his ears, then turned to the navigator. "Bob, get back to your crystal ball and see what you can do." He grinned. "I dont care if you hold a seance back there, but find out something. I ain't too good at swimming. I'm gettin' a little too old for that kind of stuff." Bob laughed, the strain lifting a little from his eyes. "O.K., grandpop. I'll do my best." He turned and left the cockpit deck. Waldo, still grinning, turned to the co-pilot. "Well, all we do now is sit and wait." Ritts shook his head. "You're a cool customer, Waldo. Here we are over the middle of the Atlantic with even odds of being fish food in a couple hours and you grin like an ape! What do we do if Bob can't find us and Dave can't pick up anything? Do we all sit around and try to out-grin each other?" Waldo looked at him thoughtfully foi a few seconds and then said, "Take it easy, fellah. I got many years and many hours behind me in the flying game. I been in many lousy spots, and this kind of spot is the worst kind. "Lost over water with a couple hour's fuel is everyone's night mare, but flipping your lid and bit ing the panic button isn't going to change anything. We've gone by the book. Chances are on our side that the radio will get somebody or that Bob will pull a heading out of his hat. "But if they don't, then we will worry about the next step. We still got a coupes hours yet before the sweat; so take it easy and keep grinding away at the radio com pass. If it doesn't do anything else, it will keep you busy." Ritts shrugged and turned back to the radio dials. Waldo watched him, his eyes narrowed ironically. Hell, be thought, Ritts is right. There's nothing to grin about. He leaned back and looked out the window at the vast expanse of water, disturbed every so often by a white fleecy cloud that passed below. Over six thousand flying hours and over twelve years of fly ins lay behind Eut none of the hard-earned ex perience and flying know-how could help. Lost like a cadet! Over an ocean. The one thing that you don't let happen. He knew he had made mistakes this time, costly mistakes born of the tedium and confidence gained through dozens of cross-ocean hops. He could have checked the weather more thoroughly back at Goose Bay. He could have turned back after that first hour in the soup. Yeah, there are a lot of "could haves" behind every acci dent report. But, hell, to be lost! That's in excusable in a kid out of flying school! For him it was a crime. No, a sin. And he very well could pay a helluva lot for it. He shook his head. No sense getting panicky like Ritts. There was still a lot that could be done. Where the hell was Mac and the fuel report? He grabbed the mike and said roughly, "Mac, whet's the hold up? Can't you read your goddamn gauges?" "Easy, Captain. I was just going to call you. Those consumption charts are designed for a math teacher, not an engineer." "O.K., Mac. I didn't mean to ruffle your professional pride. Can I get the info now, or should I come back with hat in hand?" Mac's aggravated voice ans wered, "Al right, goddamn it. j What's wrong with everybody? We got one hour and thirty minutes fuel left. Maybe we can stretch fifteen more minutes if we drop to 10,000 feet, that is, if the pilots keep their hands off the throttle and let me set the power." Waldo laughed. "Mac, I'm sorry. Just a 'little edgy. You be boss of the power. You know, boy, that we might have to swim for home. How's your back stroke?" "Mine's all right. Captain, It's you old guys who should be worry ing." Waldo laughed again. He glanced at Ritts who was watching him with fear in his eyes. "Pick up anything, Ritts?" "Nothing. Damn it, Waldo, only an hour and a half! What . . . ." "Stow it, Ritts. We ain't through Album Verse How well the Japanese under stood the word for 'going' was 'snow' how the absence of one just gone changes the world, as freshly breaks the plum Or news of his return! Richard Hagelberger yet. You keep trying at the bird dog." He grabbed the mike again. "Boob, any luck?" He waited, then heard Dave say, "This is radio, Captain. The navi gator is shooting the sun right now." "Thanks, Dave. How about you, any luck?" Dave sounded puzzled. "Well, I don't know, sir. I been receiving signals, but they don't make sense. They seem to be, 'Hello, Earth men. Hello, Earthmen.' " Waldo snarled back. "Let's cut the funny stuff, Dave. This isn't the time or place. Have you or haven't .you got to anybody yet?" "I'm serious, Captain. T h a t 's what I been picking up the last ten minutes on all frequencies. It's garbled, and letters are missing, but that's what the dit-dah's say, 'Hello, Earthmen." "Well, IU be damned," Waldo sighed. "Of all the times to pick up a joker. O.K., Dave, keep try ing." He put down the mike and shook his bead slowly. Of all the goddamn times to pick up some EPILOGUE (to "Petits Poems en Prose") My heart is quiet. Having climbed the hill, I look down on the city where it looms Hospital, whorehouse, purgatory, bell, Prisoa where every evil flower blooms. Sataa, saint of my misery, well yon know I went, not tearfully to water tombs, But as old rakes to their old doxies go: For hell's ow n beauty and drunkenness With hell and ail the fire it caa show. Whether you sleep, your aching bones distress Veiled by the morning light, or come and strut Through my heart's alleys in your gilded dress, I love yon, infamy! The prostitute , And bandit only know your happiness. That puzzles all the vulgar and astute. Charles Baudelaire (Tr. by G. Thomas Fairclcmgh) ham operator, and he has to be a joker. He looked at Ritts ruefully. "O.K., let's start losing some alti tude, slow like." He reached to turn off the automatic pilot when a hand grabbed his shoulder violent ly. Bob was yelling in his ear. "There's a ship out there, Waldo, the craziest damn thing. I saw it from the Astro deme. It's a god damn flying su;er. I must be nuts!" Waldo whirled around and looked at Bob. Oh, he thought. The kid has flipped his lid. The strain and all. Suddenly he heard Ritts gasping out, "For Pete's sake, Wal do, look out there at eleven o'clock." Waldo turned and looked. He blinked his eyes and looked again. His mouth dropped and he stared. Dimly he heard Bob yelling, "Oh, there it is. I ain't nuts! It's there. Will you look at it!" It was about a hundred yards away, off the rose of the plane. It was a large oval shaped object that glinted silvery in the sunlight. It kept pace with the aircraft with out noticeable power. Its lines were slender and beautifully curved. Apparently there was no engine. Ritts was the first one to speak. Waldo shook his head. "That baby isn't Russian, American or anything. Look at it, for Pete's sake. Do you see an engine, any thing for lift?" Dave and Mac were now up on the cockpit deck staring out. Dave said excitedly, "M a y b e that's what's been sending those queer messages!" Waldo turned around. "You may be right, Dave. Get back on the radio pronto and see if you can pick up anything." Dave whirled around and disap peared. Waldo looked at Mac. "Well, Mac, what do you call that? You're the engineer." Mac shook his head. "It must be a mirage or an optical illusion." Bob laughed weakly. "Yeah, op tical illusion. First time I heard of five people seeing the same opti cal illusion at the same time." Mac scowled. "WelL I've beard of it happening. Read it some where last year when that big flying-saucer scare was going around." Dave came running up and fought his way past Bob and Mac. "Let me through, will you. Cap tain, I just got a message from that thing. It wants to know if we receive them." He passed up a clip of paper to Waldo which had the message on it as received. Waldo read aloud. "Earthmen,, we have come as close as we dare for your safety. Can you receive us now?" Waldo looked up. "D a v e, get back there and send the following, 'Yes, we receive you. Who are you? What do you want?' " "Roger, sir," and Dave dashed away. Ritts looked at Mac. "Well, Ein stein, there goes your illusion the ory, p- did the book you read say tr -c nirages can work the Morse co .."', Mac shrugged. "Look, that ain't any more crazy than saying that we are seeing one of those saucer things from another world. What do you say, captain?" Waldo shook his head. "One thing is sure, that is a ship out there. That's no illusion. Whether it is from another world or not is another question. It might be a new Russian design and that 'Earthman' stuff could be their poor attempt at humor. Let's wait for what they have to say. Damn it! Wish we could contact some base. Hey, Bob, tell Dave to read anything he gets, over the inter com, and then switch fast to the Azores frequency. We may need help real soon." Bob frowned, "You don't think it's going to try and shoot us down, do you?" "I don't know, fellah, but we got to expect anything, no matter who they are. Besides, we are still lost, you know, and the fuel is getting lower and lower. Go on, tell Dave what I said." Bob looked as if he were going to say something else, then bit his lip and went back. A few min utes later Dave's voice came bub bling through the intercom. "Listen to this. Those guys want to help us. They know where we are." Waldo cursed. "Damn it, Dave. Read their message, every word. Don't try and explain it for us." "Yes, sir . . , 'Earthmen, we are glad that you can receive our sig nals. We have heard your distress calls and your request for assist ance. Thirty-five degrees to the north, as your direction finder measures it, there is the place we believe you are seeking. At your present rate of speed you should be there in forty of your minutes.' That's it, sir. Nothing else." Waldo whirled around to Ritts. "O.K., boy, let's see how good these babies are. Take her around." Ritts banked the big plane around until the compass was pointing thirty-five degrees more to the north. Wa.do called over the intercom., "Dave, tell them 'thanks and ask them again who they are. What the . . . ." There was a brilliant, bright blue glow coming from the apparent rear of the strange craft. Then, while Waldo and Ritts watched, she disappeared. A thin trail of smoke could ba dimly seen spiraling upwards. Ritts whispered in an awed man ner, "Did you see that?" Did you see that? That guy can really get up and go." Waldo said weakly, "That was no Russian aircraft." Dave, Bob and Mac gathered around the front and looked out. There was nothing but the ocean down below and the vastness of sky around them. Waldo turned wearily around. "O.K, guys, we still got to get ourselves on dry land." Bob turned with the others and started back to his position when Waldo caught his arm. Bob bent down and Waldo spoke into his ear. Sex And the Id pushed through to society. Eyes gossiped through snshaded windows. Unwitting desire became the tool of business, and art. And a sacrament amnesia of the intellect. -Janet Whitsoi "What do you think of the bead ing that . . . ."he paused for a word "that they gave us? Does it look good 'to you?" Bob nodded. "I shot the sun a while back. I couldnt get a posi tion from it, but it indicated wo were pretty far right of course. I was just going to ask you to make a correction left when I saw that . . . that thing." They flew on for about fifteen minutes. Waldo listened to the ex cited chatter over the inter-phone. Mac was saying that tbey would be famous once they landed and told their story. Bob said that probably a movie would be mad of their experience. All were agreed that they would get shipped back to the States. Ritts suddenly broke in over tha intercom. "Waldo, everybody. I got the Azores on the radio com pass, strong as helL The bird dog is pointing straight ahead. Man, oh, man! WeH be in Washington living like heroes within a week!" There were yeHs of delight over the intercom. Waldo granted mid looked at the needle on the radio compass. It had stopped its aim less wandering and pointed, r.is a little quiver, straight ahead. Waldo released a tegT;il of air. iCeaLiauti ee Page S.J t s 5, V1- rv' yr 5