1981_12 The Daily Collegian December 1981

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Poetry/Artwork/Photography
Meeting a
Famous Poet
When you run into a famous poet
Do not blush and bow your head
To the ground in reverence.
Don' t turn your face away
Because you did not wash your mouth;
He may be smoking tobacco or eating Kola
nuts,
His teeth red like laterite.
He could just be coming out of a palm wine
shack,
A tavern,
His breath nourished with garlic.
Do not stutter like a rooster,
Ask him to read your poems.
Even though he just finished a speech, a lecture
He might not be arrogant.
If he says your poems are alright
Don' t swagger or run back home
Expecting your joy to crow
The sun out of sleep.
Your success would not bring the village
To kneel before you.
The world is not in your trouser pocket.
By Egbunlwe John Nwoko
Theatre arts/English major
The Cry at the
Sea of the Stones
stones of the river
carve into these barefeet that cup them
as closely as water
that wears down these stones
washes them into the sea
washing stones
hands rub them
finger them
drop the chosen into pockets or bags,  like
caskets
as if they were wells or seas
of separation
the age of this separation is cut well
into the land like stones
like hands & feet of this body
that stare without eyes
until the sea finds theirpalms
and they cry out
By Chris Reynolds
Journalism major
Senior
By Kathy Sue McMurry
Liberal arts major
Senior
Veteran's
Day, 1981
By Greg Qalther
English major
The single split cinder
of a lodge pole pine
rests and dies alone before me;
There is no flame in this hearth,
no raging voice against the growing wind,
only a whisper like the
rustling of pale corn stalks
in an October breeze.
The shrunken log
dies slowly now,
its body a —
weather worn horizon of craggy granite.
One small spiral of white smoke
reaches from its center
and below it on a galaxy of ash,
pinpoints of orange stars
flare and burn out.
The wall of heat its dying has built
still stands, although it too is faltering.
Early November and already
winter has her thumb out,
trekking South.
It is Autumn.
No maples in the yard, only oaks
and almonds shedding their final fruit.
Out beyond the trees,
the fields wet with morning,
the houses warmed by breakfast lights,
bridges with frost.
There is a red road from here to there •„
reaching into its own yellow lines
pulling me from my bed
down to its edges.
I search each cloud of dirt
crumbling the bugs, the grasses.
The fields beckon their labors.
There is a swarm of tiny
black birds heading south
and a dog is barking somewhere.
Autumn
By Sharon Halper
Geology major
Junior
By Kevin Allen
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'Jean looked for a moment into
the calm, wise faces of her
children and felt horror.'
Page 9
Fiction
Jean     Bannion     held     her
youngest  son close to  her
 and   blinked   to   ease   the
sudden stinging in her eyes.
The eight-year-old nestled submis-
ively into her shoulder. His forehead
felt dry and cool, and his hair was
filled with the 'smell of fresh air,
reminding her of walking in the park
with her little baby. She felt her
lips begin to tremble.
'Look at her,' said Doug Bannion
somewfiat disgustedly. "Beginning
to sniff I What'd she be like if Phillip
were going to be away at school for
years?" Looming over her as she
knelt with the boy in her arms, he
patted his wife on the head, looking
professorial and amused. The two
older boys smiled appreciatively.
'Mother is an emotional spend¬
thrift," said ten-year-old Boyd.
'She has a tendency towards
spiritual self-immolation," said
eleven-year-old Theodore.
Jean glared at them helplessly, and
they looked back at her with wise eyes
full of the quality she had come to
hate most since they had travelled
the Royal Road—their damnable
unwavering maturity.
"Boys I* Doug Bannion spoke
sharply. "Show more respect for your
mother.*
"Thanks,* said Jean without
gratitude. She understood that Doug
had not reprimanded his sons out of
regard for her feelings, but to correct
any incipient flaws which might mar
their developing' characters. Her
arms tightened around Phillip, and he
began to move uneasily, reminding
her that she might be losing him in
a few years anyway.
'Phillip,' she whispered desper¬
ately into his cold-rimmed ear, 'what
did we see at the movies yester¬
day?'    .
"Pinnochiol'
"Wasn't it fun I'
'JeanI* Doug Bannion separated
them almost roughly.
'Come on, Phillip, we can't have
you being late on your one and only
day at school."
He took Phillip's hand and they
walked away across the gleaming,
slightly resilient floor of the Acad¬
emy's icy blue reception hall. Jean
watched them go hand-in-hand to
mingle with the groups of children
and parents converging on the in¬
duction suite. Phillips's toes were
trailing slightly, in the way she knew
so well, and she sensed, with a sud¬
den pang of concern, that he was
afraid, but he did not look back at
her.
'Well, there be goes," ten-year-
old Boyd said proudly. 'I hope Dad
brings him into the office tomorrow;
I could do with his help.'
'There's more room in my office,''
said eleven-year-old Theodore.
"Besides, the new Fiduciary Tax
proposal gets its final reading next
week, and I'm-going to be involved in
a dozen compensation suits, so I
need him more than you do.'
They were both junior partners in
Doug   Bannion's   law  firm.      Jean
looked for a moment into the calm,
wise faces of her children and felt
horror. She turned and walked
blindly away from them, trying to
prevent her features from contorting
into a mask of tears. All around her
were groups of other parents, compla¬
cent, coolly triumphant, and the sight
of them caused her control to slip
even further.
Finally, she seized the only avenue
of escape available. She ran into the
Academy's almost deserted exhibi¬
tion hall, where its proud history was
recounted in glowing holograms and
well-modulated recordings. The first
display suspended two shimmering
quotes in the air, against a back¬
ground of midnight blue. As the
slideway carried her along on silent
rollers, Jean read: 'Learning by
study must be won, 'twas ne'er
entailed from sire to son.'--Cay.
Then, 'If Cay could; only see us
now.'-Martinelli.
The next display showed a solid
portrait of Edward Martinelli, founder
of the Academy, and head of the sci¬
entific research team that had per¬
fected the cortical manipulation
procedure. A recording-of Martin-
elli's own voice, made a few months
before his death, began to. drone in
Jean's ear with the unnerving in-
' timacy of accurately beamed sound.
'Ever since knowledge became the
principle weapon in man's arsenal,
his chief ally in his battle for survival,
men have sought ways to accelerate
the learning process. By the middle
of the twentieth century, the com¬
plexity of the human condition had
reached the point at which members
of the professional classes were re¬
quired to spend almost a third of their
useful lives in the unproductive
data absorption phase and...''
Jean's attention wandered from the
carefully modulated words. She has
heard the recording before, and its
emotionless technicalities would
never have any meaning for her.
The complex means the Academy
employed; multi-level hypnosis,
psychoactive drugs, high-energy
modifications of the synaptic path¬
ways in the brain, multiple recor¬
dings—all were unimportant to her
compared to the end result'. And the
result was that any child, provided
he had the required level of intelli¬
gence, could have all the formal edu¬
cation which would have been gained
in some ten years of conventional
high school and university training,
implanted in his mind in just a little
over two hours.
To be eligible, the child must
have an I.Q. of not less than 140, and
a family that could afford to pay, in
one lump sum, an amount roughly
equal to what ten years of traditional
education would have cost. This was
why the faces in the reception hall
had been taut with pride. This was
why Doug Bannion, who made a
profession out of being phlegmatic,
had been looking about him with the
hard, bright eyes of one who had
found fulfillment. He had fathered
three flawless sons, each with an I .Q.
in the genius range, and had success¬
fully steered them through the selec¬
tion procedures which had blocked
the Royal Road to so many. Few men
has achieved so much, few women
had had the honor of sharing that
achievement.
But why, Jean wondered, did it
have to happen to me? To my child¬
ren? Or why couldn't I have had a
mind like Doug's, so the Royal Road
would bring the boys closed to me
instead of..,
As the sidewalk continued carry¬
ing her on its rounds, the animated
displays spoke persuasively of the
Royal Road's superiority to the old,'
prolonged, wasteful system of edu¬
cation. They told her of young Phil¬
lip's fantastic good luck in being born
at the precise moment in history
when, supported on a pinnacle of
technology, he could earn an honor's
degree in law in two short hours.
But inside her prison of despair,
Jean heard nothing.
Immediately following the gradua¬
tion ceremony, Jean excused herself
from Doug and the two older boys.
Before they could protest, she hurried
out of the auditorium and went back
to the car. The sun-baked plastic
of the rear seat felt uncomfortably
hot through the thin material of her
dress.
She lit a cigarette, and sat staring
across the arrayed, shimmering
curvatures of the other cars until
Doug and the boys arrived. Doug slid
into the driver's seat, and the boys
got in beside him, without any laugh¬
ing or struggling. Sitting in the back,
Jean felt shut off from her family.
She was unable to take her gaze
away from the back of Phillip's neat
burnished head. There was no out¬
ward sign of the change that had
been wrought in his mind, he looked
like any other normal, healthy eight-
year-old.
'Phillipl' she blurted instinc¬
tively.
"What is it mother?" He turned
his head, and, hearing the emotion in
her voice, Theodore and Boyd looked
around as well. Three pink, almost
identical faces regarded her with
calm curiosity.
"Nothing, I..." Jean's throat
closed painfully, choking off the
words.
'Jean I'Doug Bannion's voice was
harsh with exasperation as he
hunched over the steering wheel.
His knuckles shone through his skin,
the color of old ivory.
"It's all right, Dad," said ten-year-
old Boyd. "For most women the
severing of the psychological umbil¬
ical cord is a decidedly traumatic
experience."
'Don't worry, mother," Phillip
said, and patted jean on the shoulder
in an oddly adult gesture.
She brushed his hand away while
the tears began to spill hotly down
her cheeks, and this time there was
no stopping them, for she knew, with¬
out looking, that the eyes of her eight-
year-old son would be wise, hard
and old.
LIFE'S
HAPPIEST
DAY
By Garth Harley
Zoology major
Junior
The Mower War
Continued from page 2 .
'That have anything to do witnthe fire?' the captain asked     .tlM€titAiti .
Hertsmeg just nodded again, and then started weakly, 'Yeah, I guess it dicj.
•What happened?' the captain asked. I moved a little closer.
-Well I Was filling the lawn mower there while it was running, and I guess a
spark just caught the whole thing on,flre. I ran away and the whole thing ex¬
ploded, and before I knew it my house was on fire.' TT~~1   »
The bullet-riddled gas can was nowhere to be seen. I made a mental note to
search and destroy all evidence as soon as possible. T^i'jTu. ^
Hertsmeg was looking down at his shoes. The captain wrote something on
the clipboard he was holding.
'Did you see anything?' he asked me.
•Uhh.no sir, I was inside the whole time.   I felt like a rat.
After kicking over all the boards and drowning every last spark the firemen
packed up their gear and left. It was nowjate afternoon.         -_J.
Hertsmeg stood in the middle of the road, staring at his house, or, what was left
of it. I grabbed a couple beers out of the icebox, walked out and stood beside
Smeg, and offered him a beer. He emptied half of it in one draw, burped, and con¬
tinued staring. We had stood there in the middle of the road for what seemed
like three days when Hertsmeg, now through with his beer, let out a little laugh.
Avery little laugh.
'You know,' he said, *l thought I had finally pulled one over on you. I was
gonna "sit there all day and let that thing drive you crazy. Instead, I end up burning
my bouse down.'
'Yea, its a damn shame,' I said, *l always kind of looked forward to these
friendly little contests."
Neither of us spoke for a while.
•Well, I m gonna build another house on the same spot,'.he said, "and this
time I' m gonna plant a huge lawn.'
WeJpoked at each for a second, and then turned back toward the charred re¬
mains.
'But this time,* he said.a 'I'm gonna buy an electric mower, or maybe even a
push job." « 	
I went in the house for a second and carry out ^th a six-pack. _ :_