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
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