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The Rebel is a Student publication of
East Carolina University. Offices are
located on the campus at 215 Wright
Annex. Inquiries and contributions
Should be directed to P.O. Box 2607,
Greenville, North Carolina, 27834.
Copyright 1972, East Carolina University
Student Government Association. None
of the materials herein may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission. Subscription
per year, $6.00.

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Editor
Art Director

Managing Editor
Business Manager

Phillip K. Arrington
William Carrig
Sandy Penfield
Kelly Almond

ci CR a OP RRR S85 ANN NR AY AOI cM LT it he

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Editorial

untitled

untitled

Birthdays

Stars and Fireflies
To Close the Door
untitled
Friendship
untitled

untitled

untitled

untitled

untitled

Mona

untitled

untitled

Film Review
Feature Article
Whispers

Where is Beauty

John Wallace

Edwin H. Bloomfeld
Michael Kovachevich
Maxim Tabory

John Wallace

John Wallace >
Maxim Tabory
Edwin H. Bloomfeld
William E. Bender
Jo Lee Penny

Edwin H. Bloomfeld
Donna Lowry

Donna Lowry

Donna Lowry

Edwin H. Bloomfeld
John Wallace

Maxim Tabory
Sydney Ann Green
Michael Kovachevich

Since manTs technology has
chosen to recreate his existence in
sheer mechanical terms, it leaves
most of us in a confused state of
affairs. The apostles of greed
and violence, present in any
mechanical society, seem bent on
overwhelming not only the indi-
vidual but the artistic individual
as well. Perhaps being overpowered
by our own creation doesnTt
bother most of us but it definitely
grates on the nerve of artistic
consciousness. How the artist or
poet reacts in such a situation is
often a curious combination of
Spiritual ecstasy and personal
detachment. Such reactions, in all
probability, will receive less praise
from our society than resentment.

Of course, we might only
wonder at these reactions. It could

be said that it is foolish to even
consider artistic forces aligned
with social interests. Even further,
we might wonder whether the
Situation lends itself to the black
and white distinctions we are
making. Choosing up sides on
questions of this kind sounds not
Only absurd but childishly over-
Simplified.

Yet, a conflict exists and that
cannot be denied or ignored.
To resolve the problem is well
beyond my means but, as | think
these pages point out, the conflict
may be the only meaningful one
left. We must remember that
without conflict, life ceases to be
dramatic and is transformed into
a perpetual yawn of indifference.

| taste

you still
within me
my mouth
my tongue
feels your
essence
tingling
and

| remember
all over
and over
again

your sweetness

your movement

your words

after the rain-city-
Sunglossed-like laughter
after last tears-

ad : = Ss 5 AES ate " a 2, " me P > 7 "
sas ce me " ee et re see cae MR ee antl

cea tryentn ipa nesses etm ete tage ER AER Ee

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SE TSE Se Se

Stars and fireflies

The cymbals are lowered to
unquavering rest
air columns in the woodwinds lie
undistrubed
scattered notes echo
resonant memory of melodies

Darkness seeps way
through losely spread fingers of bushes
lone arc of a last flying frisbee

extends the conductorTs final gesture
to usher silence to the mall

Afterglow leisurely lingers " iW
there a pair in |
trembling togetherness __ leaves i
merged as one :
completness in

their good night kiss
consolingly seals

half parted lips of

Night

Behind Joyner
lights blink out :
in its window-eyes |

millions printed words | |
read to weariness | |

find rest |

around only two dominant |

hues of colorless color as
shadow melts into shadow of shadows

tall tree trunks
contours of columns

support the sky
branches with upstretched tentacles
probe the texture of space 7

RRR:

alone sprawled
into cool comforting caress
of grass

From down here
fireflies are larger
than stars
while 10 street is beyond
the Universe

Thought does not crowd on thought
they spread thin over the decade of
night
from corners of eyes
karmic shadows of the Material
fade "
painless reminiscence

Din dims
silence seeps into seamless space
soul streams skyward
to share in the Whole

For my Essence in this drop of tear

do do bestow on me

Love boundless

that | may strain through the twines
of this unraveling moment
to a lighter and whiter
nearness of
You

by JohnWallace

ITve seen that house so often
before"white and gray, big and
A) dirty. ItTs always different, each
time | really see it. But then
everything is that way. Everything
is new when we see it, really see
it. New like truth. We forget so
much and feel so peculiar when we
rediscover what we've forgotten.
Like the sun right now starting
x to move over my hand, or the lines
it makes along the wall and floor.
ITve sat here before at this same
time of day, but it was different.
® ITve never thought of that line of
light and shadow as ITm thinking
of it now. How light on one side
and dark on the other. ItTs all
contrast. What we see, what we
feel. How light, how dark.

And the trees and bushes,
how individual each leaf seems,
how few the leaves are and how
bare the branches, all at the same
time. The cars pass between these
branches and those across the
street, between this house and
that one, every house divided from
its neighbor by driveways and
streets.

The warmth of the sun on my
dress. How whitely faded the light
blue seems, and the folds"how
Thaa(cmeelave mm ar-lage))ar-lalemaley i melgey-le
they are. The wrinkles and the

10

folds. How different they both are
from each other and for different
reasons. They are what they are.
The folds from my body and the
wrinkles from the material. The
cloth just drapes over my legs
or arms, or over the chair. ...
which isnTt too comfortable but
it serves its purpose like every
economical thing. It fills a space
because no one sits in this room
to watch the cars pass or see the
Singular people, or the paired ones
pass up and down the sidewalks.
When the doorTs open, | can
sometimes hear snatches of the
conversations, the few words that
reach here"the few words, the
few people who walk by in frag-
ments. Sometimes they even walk
by in threes, like these three
windows, one, two, three and yet
the effect is one of one series of
windows joined by casements for
decoration and support, joined as
the groups, the little troups are by
society. Society joins and covers
with clothes and color. Color and
Clothes that like wallpaper cover
the real person, the bones and
studs and the hidden beams.

The people hidden behind what
they think themselves to be begin
to blend harmoniously. And no
matter what color they wear, thev
never offend the lawn or the trees
or the sidewalks or the pavement,
or the railroad tracks. Colors can
offend in a painting, but they canTt
offend in real life, but paintings
are real life and mismatched
clothes can offend. ItTs only a mat-
ter of nearness, of perspective.

How far | am away from some
one or something. That house,
that house is setting, a white cul�
tain, a bland backdrop against
which people stand out, against
which they contrast. The visito!
are like bubbles of wax that rise
and fall in one of those funny lam
that never give enough light.
They separate their own shape a!
color for a little while before the)
settle to the bottom like those
creatures in marl and coal.

And how the atmosphere of tha:
house is like the liquid that hold$
the wax, the balls of wax and the
people, different sizes and differe!
shapes, but all one"all related
if it's only by the front steps or thé
sidewalk or the pavement. They!
all connected and related like t!
leaves and the bushes and the
sun.

Even the leaves bleach out
like my skirt where the sun hits
them, the sun, moving like people
along a path, up and down and
up its road.

These windows, this glass, eve!
with its bubbles, remain clear,
unknowing and unseeing althoug"
they allow sight. How humorous
that seems, the glass of our eye !9
like that window. The glass does
nothing but prevent air from
passing through it into this room:
The glass keeps out the outside;
but allows its light and images i�

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2)

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sf

And everything | can see comes .

in through these big windows.
How sweetly the sun passes, how
quietly in here because there is no
noise, nothing to disturb it. Cars,
radios, television, and even music
make the sun pass with noise and
sound.

All images reflect on and pass
through glass, and warmth also
passes through because the air in
here is undisturbed, warm like
my hand now the sun its on it"
warmth from energy, warmth
from motion, heat from the people
who move. Branches move in the

wind without heat perhaps, but
the wind is as good a motivation
for movement as anything. We move
because we want to or think we
want to. Our wants and the wind,
our present and the eternal past,
invisibly passing through windows,
these windows, this altar to the
outside.

SomeoneTs going into the
house. Oh, no one new, no one

new. ITm glad | have this room.

| guess thatTs all | have. ThatTs

all thatTs left, only the place
where you are, and the only hope
is that you can stay there, that
people wonTt push you out. Be-
cause they will, they will push you
out if you canTt pay. If you canTt
afford to stay, then you must move
on, you must go.

You canTt afford to pay for life,
and yet you canTt afford not to
live it. ItTs a gift like everything
else, something we play with for a
little while. To play for a while
and be bored, and life does become
boring, too... . if children tire
of gifts, why canTt people tire of
life? Why canTt they just put itina
closet and close the door?

Close the door. ThatTs such a
nice way of thinking about it.
And this chair isnTt comfortable.
The couch is big enough to stretch
out on.

But | canTt look out the window,
and | know ITll close my eyes, and
then itTll be my night, but the sun
will still be shining, shining,
shining through the glass, the
three part window, the altar that
really shows life, shows us God.
The beginning on the outside and
the ending on the inside.

The sofa is more comfortable.
Let me close the blinds and then it
wonTt matter if the sun is still
Shining when | lie down on the
sofa, when | lie down in my own
darkness, when | lie down to close
the door to the silent halls and

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corridors, when | lie down to sleep.

11

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my left hand

shaven face

purely young

| am going

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oFor love " as friendship "
grows by being showered
upon others.�

Edgar Cayce

The art of singing
Breathes audible life

Into still musical notes " |
Delight in melodies. |
A poem might be read | |
But through reciting

We fathom its full beauty.
Friendship " eloquent word
Yet only if pronounced
Expressed given and taken
Finds fulfillment "

Blessing

Given by the unordained

Holy and spiritual

| Minister of God

Most precious gift

Its value

More than material.

We " Souls in our cycles "
Are separated by

Life.

Let Friendship

Dwindle the depth of distance
Between

You and me

Pr cn a
ogo Sle

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SP PART SP.

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Eran, my friends, was born of a man
in a land that needed growing"

you can hear the trains

on the plains when the wind

tears through the trees"

His father, in praise, said the da)

would come when heTd see his §
grow to a man
and take a stand
to protect his land
and his woman too.
And Eran grew,
and the day did dawn
to see him gone
down the lonely road to fight a war"
His father looked back
at his motherTs tears
and the cracks in the house
from aging wind and rain
and he waved him on
Saying,
oEran, my son, the time has co!
and youTre a man,
make a stand
to protect this land
and your family too.�

7

"

Wives et

Eran fought.

He-would crawl through the dust

and the death in every breath he drew.

He could see through the smoke

of the joke the dimming skies

and the crying eyes

from the dead

and the hate

and all the waste of leisure time.

the starving eyes

of each country

that claimed to be free

but hid their dead

in the mask

of a task that wore angel wings.
And Eran thought
the day would not come
when heTd see his home
and hear the trains
on the plains play their tune
to the June winds passing
through the trees.

And he turned to run

but a gun and a man

who was absolutely sure

that every youth

must make a strong stand

to protect this land

and its freedom dear

shot him down.

Eran, my friends, was born of a man
in a land that needed growing"

you can hear the trains on

the plains when the wind

tears through the trees.

RAIA RRA GP

ste tems ect sgt rate noes tears rz eset ete its ee MEN REE ae
pi gg gg i Nagging nig .

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a a IR ian haat

were es meer ae hh ta oid

- ORR R ALIS TARDE DLL ELSI SILI PLCS SOAPS AL ELT HET ARS AAD
AD LRT A TUEE FAI, ERP IT MER IRILIL SS SOBE SBREL LEE: GLP LAF

Two hands absentmindedly

creating a perfect ballet
as two lovers walk and talk.

birds know not their names
nor have they words
for their music

we are beyond words now
and have thrown away loveTs nam

but still we sing

Morning cries

and the sun rudely breaks
the shadows. It is day"

and another love.

:

ws buster Jester wonder wOR
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ha on) et Bd hin 3 o Me.
2 a i ee Age
eid Wo Extuse to USE te feo),
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OR 5 pac AN mules

pe blender hustleas
whe fil] fhenselves fox fol

of heir own a meat
}hew ¥ off and die

ARNT

with the 300 san thei al

(
a Lowry feeis an integral part of her
try is in its handwritten form"Ed.)

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- + x \ 6 Sr mie ie

Moma

MONA
Au if

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stares theough eyls that Jook into NOTHING,

Acc den
info them

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ho]fowness,

persisfenfne $$

So hay ica GJa
hay 0, Mona, ou')] meke uch a

Buf Some would

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good mother ~ youre So sfab)e

Buf Moms though} herself

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Her cfimafe ould ejimb nd

Upon oe Lead ** her fawfas
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res a @--So �,�a53 i
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waded through
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that che was
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hiding 41n Some hide o. aN OU
with the vesidve pe hn aed her ial t

an old cee unescapab]. placenta

Ar d when she wa]ked,
it sfirved the waste eJand edges

about js

=e she owed for 3 moment 1N the chauee
fee SY es a gees

as she viewe

Memories
that roth wen os reusical ]y
ayeres er e
As hea wen] mevri fy on W Same.

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XINTER CAME AND TOOK THE LIFE mn
SPRING DREW IN FAT BLAck LINES
AND THERE waAswT'T THE CHILD

79 CoLoR THEM IW

PND T¥Q ONE to TURN ThE BOOK

79 ANOTHER PRE.

dalommaarcia

sells realities
you choose the one you want
you pay him all the money
you decide the time and place

but the man

sells realities ~~
and profits fromyour pain
you choose the one you want

oleh amals

knows theyTre

all the same

ee ee

Film Review

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22

Rossini. Sex. Beethoven. Vio-
lence. Kubrick. Terror. And oA
Clockwork Orange.� Uncertainty.
oClockwork� had no monolith of
hope giving reason to the failures
of mankind to cope with the prob-
lems of humanity. One does not
float through the protagonist's
world with the effortless ease one
was Carried from the beginning
of creation to the resurrection of a
new world in o2001.�

A Clockwork Orange makes an
entirely different statement, a
statement that reinforces the heart
and its consequential battle with
the forces of the intellect. But
it is the heart and the head that
have given the world symphonic
orchestras capable of Supporting
art and beauty, totalitarianism,
and violence. The heart and the
head designed public housing
complexes that owe allegiance, at
best, to inhumanity.

The intellect tries to bring Alex
in line with the standardization of

wealth that built the pyramids,
the White House, and the now
destroyed Roxy Theatre. The intel
lect made the first straight line
and ever since then the heart ha$
been trying to bend it, trying to
crumple, spindle, and mutilate
everything Big Brother says is
right. And Big Brother has been
Speaking to mankind ever since
Sinai.

Conformity is the cry of the age®
Conformity builds society and
civilization. Conformity has
erected every great monument,
every artistic success, and every
Suffering mankind has known. Thé
hope and defeat of society are
synonomous. The Roc lunges forth
in his rebirth because art, like
man, needs to be reborn. Knowl-
edge stullifies and defeats itself
as soon as it is understood. New
perceptions are as necessary as
new sunrises and sunsets.

Kubrick unites what appears
to be opposites. BeethovenTs hope

in the Ninth Symphony is that
ounder the wings of joy all men
will be brothers.� That is a beauti-
ful thought but really it is quite
ironic. Joy is the one force that
is opposed to conformity, opposed
to civilization, opposed to the
accepted and right. Perhaps
DonneTs bell tolls for a feast
instead of a funeral.

oA Clockwork Orange�T rings
with the incongruities of humanity.
The traditionally beautiful is united
with the traditionally horrible, the
traditionally puritanically un-
speakable. oClockwork� condemns
everything its intellect is capable
of achieving. The movie is caught
within its own problem of creating
a world it hates in order to show
how hateful the world is.

Civilization offers little to the
heart, and western civilization
offers the very violence we are
taught to abhor. The movie theatres
we hate consume us. We think

weTre buying the ticket to forget,

to go somewhere else for two hours
or so, but that is the trick we do

not see. The theatre devours its
viewers who are as helpless as
when faced with a full bag of
groceries. There is no choice but
to reach into the bag. There is no
choice but to buy the ticket.

Kubrick shocks, but if he didnTt
the movie would make no money,
and the theatre would close and
then there would be no place to go.
What is intellectualism but re-
cycled thought, repackaged in
Warhol boxes or cans? What is a
movie experience but the same
show with different people.

So donTt be shocked. Kubrick
has done nothing that the public
has not wanted him to do. Alex
pays for his acts of violence, and if
Alex.is western civilization, one
only wonders when it, too, will pay
for its deeds of progress?

"John Wallace

ote MEE

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1 oSible SR Rep

Feature Article

TAR RIVER POETS

edited by
Vernon Ward
(East Carolina University, 1972 )

In holding the new, eleventh
issue of TAR RIVER POETS in
hand, one hardly can fail to notice
the fresh approach in the design of
the cover. This is a striking de-
parture from its predecessors,
especially from the previous non-
descript looking TRIOs. A photo of
Julia Fields decorates it. Her
oMary� is full of powerful expres-
sions and rough beauty. A robust
work, written in the modern
idiom, it is a realistic blend of
humor, tenderness, down-to-earth
emotions and tragedy. The pro-
tagonist in this poem is much more
than a single, hardworking black
housemaid, for she embodies
many thousands of her sisters,
with their suffering, longings, joy
of life and vitality. The parallel!
and contrasting arrangement of
oDichotomy� maximizes the dra-
matic impact. Even this limited
selection indicates that Fields has
considerable talent.

Phyl SmithTs oGentle Times For
You� is full of tender emotions.

It is easy while reading it to
become immersed in the un-
harassed, unregimented oTimes�
about which she writes. In this
noise-polluted world it increases
the readerTs longings for otender
moments to be silent.� This poem
is abundant in fresh, vivid images:
oTimes to match our breathing

and our eyes,� owhen each }
memory makes one more pathway
and oTo jump in a pile of
memories.� Her oIl DonTt Know�
in a few simple words tells of the
awesome feeling of being over-
whelmed by another personTs inne!
world.

Karen Ray Dawes shows the
weaknesses typical of beginners,
but also some promise. In oThe
Muse Bemused� a gloomy day
matches the dearth of inspiration
of the frustrated poet. Her ~Pepsi
Cola Song� can serve as a good
example of how much the Forum
is able to do for a beginning poet:
This work, after various transfor-
mations made by Karen under thé
guidance of the members, in its
present form is much more
effective than the first copy was.

Some poets, especially begin-
ners, often object to changing eve!"
one word in their omasterpiece.�
Whatever their personal excuses
or justifications may be, the
impression they create is that they
judge their own work as operfect.� |
In world literature only a few
perfect or nearly perfect poems
may be found. Usually they have
been written by giants of the
literary world. Masterpieces are
nearly always born from combina-
tion of technical skill, many years
of experience, rarely occurring
Superb inspiration and immense
creative power.

Mary ArnetteTs oThis Was God's
World� is a naively written prose
in verse form. It sounds more
contrived than sincere. No doubt

iin, NN a meme ii i le a
ae eg ge ee Sit alas ee a

ef

it is a result of intense feeling and
bitterness, but these alone do not
make it a poem. Donna LoweryTs
short poem is straightforward and
beautiful. Its encouraging words
have the rare quality of being
meaningful to every reader.

| think Regina KearTs oThe
Amusement Pier At Atlantic City�
is one of her best. Unfortunately
the title is too prosaic and also
identifies the place. A more vague
title could have given this sensitive
work wider scope and a more
encompassing quality. Douglas
McReynolds in his oProfessor
Nilman Spends An Evening At
Home� effectively expresses the
frustration and desperation in the
private life of a highly educated
individual: ~the perfunctory kiss...
family squabble . . . the inevitable
descent... .�

While Paula DavisTs oThor�
pulsates with life and excitement,
Ted MaloneTs oHurricane� is a
pale description of what is happen-
ing. | am certain that all the
veteran members of the Forum
who know well the hero of Anita
BrehmTs oThe Party� will find it
exceedingly funny. Her oMy Side
Of The Wall� is thought provoking.

A ~o~media man� myself, | wish
to deal in some detail with the
illustrations. The pleasing effect of
Ted MaloneTs handsome lettering
on the cover is weakened by his
first drawing. There is a womanTs
head, resembling that of Julia
Fields. From her mouth little
daggers are flying menacingly
toward something which looks like
a U.S. flag in which the swastika

replaces most of the stars. In my
opinion this illustration is on a par
with the worst of his products
in the FOUNTAINHEAD. It lacks
taste and adds not one iota to our
knowledge of FieldTs work as it is
represented in this selection. One
just wonders how this substandard
illustration could have passed
the editorTs desk.

On the other hand the joyfully
frolicking children in the pile
of leaves are most charming. His
last drawing, which precedes the
miscellaneous poems, is so excel-
lent that it almost makes me to
forgive him his past sins committed
on paper. Some of his poems
in this issue, especially oGrandmaTs
Last Illness� and ~~Kenan Stadium,
Back Row� show originality and
talent.

The editor of the TAR RIVER
POETS is Mr. Vernon Ward, who
is also Director of the Forum,
the members of which meet every
other week to discuss and criticize
their works. The meetings vary
from dull to exciting. It all depends
on the people present and the
poems read. Because of Mr.
WardTs snail-paced leadership,
part of the time at the meetings
is often wasted. He is also in the
habit of changing parts of some of
the poems he selects for the TAR
RIVER POETS, without consult-
ing, or even notifying the poets
concerned. On the positive side,
his advice and suggestions have
been helpful to several members.
The Forum also fulfills the im-
portant task of discovering and
nurturing local talents.

"Maxim Tabory

Whispers

This house whispers.
Tonight | heard the soft, Slinking sounds
, of a whispered conversation.
Running down the halls and
bouncing off the corners
if it found its way to my ear.
i | | turned,
| In search of the lips that
| whispered those wavering words.
But nothing; only air.
This house whispers.

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