Ayiait'iop.lie to ,lfoutlt Ebbing youth that breathed to the flow of time Did you know life’s brutal game? Did you hear its voiceless claim ? You bragged to make all barriers sublime. Did you loose your Anal strength? Were your dreams too great in length? Ah goading youth driven by'the flux of souless time. Probation I have never feared that my body would some day die of star vation. But there is a hunger that my soul has felt, and I was poor in that long past. But in that one unforgettable hour, I was poorer than I had ever been before .... my soul was starving. I cannot remember the day; I have long lost count of them. But I know it was winter—tor tne whole earth was as dismal and empty as my soul. It seemed that the earth’s fire too had gone out forever. There was the sky, somber and dark while the moaning wind sang her dirge in a low disconsolate wail. Time was no longer going on; there was no measuring of eter nity. The earth, too, had stopped revolving—now it was as people had feared long ago. Those upon the other side had already fallen off. Here was the wind deploring a great silent, motionless earth. Eventually the sphere would give one great twist, and then we on this side would also fall off—after that there would be nothing. An ineffible, abnormal silence would envelope the earth like an ever lasting shadow. The sound of man would be gone forever . . . but the wind would forget man and his infant existence; time would for get . . . There would be a bit of stone, the remnents of the mortals. But after the first breath of eter nity that, too, would be gone. It was then, as I was waiting for that great twist that would cast me out into the measureless space that I realized my soul was pleading to my senses, and I could not answer. This was a kind of death . . . this was life within the womb, mute, deaf . . . forever un seeing . . . Forever Unknown All morning I walked along the gray streets, wondering if I would die before I found the food for which I craved. I wondered if among all those others that walked so hurriedly on their way, there was perhaps one like me whose soul was hungry. Perhaps he too visioned himself lying dead upon the cold warted street. Per haps as the small curious crowd would gather about the body, he too would see his own spirit stand ing apart from them invisible, in audible . . . forever unknown . . . “Yes,” I thought that would be my death. They would say “Poor wretch, died of starvation, and in a Country like this one! Why didn’t he beg? Some one would have helped him.” They would never know, never IT know that my soul starved before my body. They would find the address in my pocket. And when they found that wretched little room, they would find the echo of my lost soul there. They would not understand, not even then. Per haps they would laugh ... a little ; ironically, “A poet, you might have guessed it . . . proud lot . . . wouldn’t beg . . . never did know one that begged. Always poor . . . never any money . . . silent too, always thinking. It's a miserable world!” Yes, it’s a miserable world . . . such a poor poor world, but 1 would be from it. Ah, poor mor tals! Perhaps one of them would understand, would know ... or perhaps none would see. ‘‘Mad . . . speaks here of another world ... crazy . . . poets usually are, well he's better off now.” Death Better off now? Now? Where am I now? And as suddenly as I had come to man, I would be gone from him. I would look around, so this is death . . . but what is this ? Perhaps it would be gray and dismal like the lonely, warped street. Perhaps I would walk, walk and search, ever searching for that something with which to nourish my soul. Or perhaps . . . The street stopped there, and I had stopped with it. I was alive, and no one wondered whether I was mad or not. No one knew that my soul was starving ... no one knew ... Afternoon had come, and the shadows, becoming long, crept out of the corners and moved silently across the streets. I stood there for a moment where the street had Stopped and stared back the way I had come. The confusion and turmoil of the busier streets came to me only as a sound from far away, like that ever lamenting murmur of distant surf. Yet the sound was not the same. They were both doleful, ever deploring. . . . one bewailing his own incur able self-made ills . . . the other having no ignobleness yet ever in condolence. There is something about the sound of the sea that is patient and eternal, something - =TI We Specialize in GOOD FOOD AND GOOD SERVICE George’s Grotto 764 WILLAMETTE Ph. 4527 Open 10 to 10 LITERARY PAGE /}p,a4,t*LQpJte ia $<j,e Vanished, silenced now through the bittered years. Age, how dormant are your dreams. How lost tlie echo of your schemes. Now \ outli comes you feel .forboding fears. Mocked by sorrow, you shall lave Alone in \ outh’s new-dug grave. Ah grieving Age. entombed by the hands or new-born years. LITERARY STAFF Literary Editors Valerie Overland and Marjorie Wener Contributions Anga Storm This page is devoted to short stories and poems contributed by students and faculty members ot the University. Contributions should be turned in to the literary editors, in care of the editor, journalism building. that the sound of that busy street could never possess. Gulf It was not until the rain began to fall that I realized I was still standing on that lonely street that had been soundlessly enmantled by a darkening mist. There was a silence too that had enveloped the earth. It seemed as though all time had stopped. Yesterday, now, to morrow all merged into one, there was no measurement, no space or distance, no time . . . nothing . . . nothing but emptiness . . . nothing but a great hollowness ... I stood tense, afraid, alone, forever alone . . . then I heard the rain again. It intervened upon the stillness like the breath from out of the tomb. I began to walk quickly back toward the inner city. I could see dim lights through the haze on the street. Then came the sound and the confusion, yes, even the confusion was better than that emptiness. But it all came across a great gulf. A gulf that was more than distance. A gulf that was im measureable with either space or time. A gulf over which no soul could ever pass. I stood there for a moment try ing to reach them. There was a small crowd standing hushed and solemn in a circle. Then someone spoke. What was it they said? Starved? Someone starved ... “In this land? Why didn’t he beg? Some one would have helped him. Starved in this land? Starved?” I remember I had asked, “Did his soul starve? Was it his body? Won’t some one tell me? Did his soul starve?” I stood above the dead form on the street. I looked into the face . . . the face. They took some papers from his pocket. “A poet, you might have guessed, proud lot . . . wouldn’t beg . . . never did know one that would. Always poor . . . never any money . . . silent too, always thinking. It’s a miserable world. Funny one, this one . . . crazy . . . listen to this . . . Probation “Oh Master—author of my soul, hear me now this final hour . . . Earthy freedom I possess though my mind is an unchained slave, parolled from m a d n e s s—from which this passion is the dower.” “Wonder what he meant . . . crazy . . . poets usually are, well he’s better off now.” I looked again at the dead face . . . Better off now? Where am I now ? Where is the light ? The sound? Don’t disappear! The mist is here again! Where is yesterday? Tomorrow? They are one! No dis tance . . . No space . . . Time? What is time ? Nothing but empty ness, nothing but a great hollow ness . . . Better off? There is the gray dismal street ... I must walk . . . walk . . . walk. Search ... I must search . . . search . . . search ? No, no, not search. Searching is for the living. There is light and a sound . . . One sound, I can answer now. “Oh master, probation ends with the grave.” WANTED: One “White Christmas” by Lois Coleman. If you can comply—Call 772. StiUluVut A hand full of dust Forbidden the wind that blows. Forbidden the sea that flows. Devoid of all virtue or sin. Each grain the ruin of what it might have been. Some lonely heart, pregnant with passioned fire. Unwritten. Lost. Soul of sound, gifted ear of song. Unborn rhapsody. Forever lost. Mind with inward eye, sight for visioned beauty. Eternally lost. From the dungeon of the womb. To the prison of the tomb ! Retribution She was kneeling on a patch of earth, her bare head bent over the little seedlings as she gently pressed the soil about their stems. I remember when nothing but weeds had covered that vacant space that had gaped forlornly before the doorstep of the little gray house. But now the great empty space looked smaller. A hedge encircled the yard and specks of color had sprung up from the brown earth. Her first words had startled me. “Goot morgen.” She threw her head back as she spoke. ‘‘Good morning,” I said. “I think your garden is very pretty.” She smiled ^broadly. Her strength was not just in her hands and arms, but in her eyes and in the sound of her voice. ‘‘Ja,” she mused, ‘‘flowers make the earth beautiful.” I agreed and passed on my way. It was early summer when I saw Annya Stroub again. She had come to borrow an egg. I asked her about the garden. She laughed and said the garden was growing fast “Goot.” She added that it grew even better here than it did “at home.” I didn't ask where “at home” was. Repayment Early the next afternoon her eight-year-old son, Jon, brought back two eggs. “Your mother only borrowed one egg,” I told him. But he had backed away from me with a painful shyness and before I could speak again was gone. The next time she borrowed a cup of sugar. When she returned the following afternoon with two (Please turn to pa ye seven) CO-EDS! CO-EDS! Sweaters of All Colors Skirts of the Latest Style Every type of campus wear! IT'S / Gordons of course!