Orange and White literary Snppieraent THE UNIVERSITY OF TENNESSEE Knoxville, Tennessee
contents SONNET L. Beatrice Hutzler....................................................................11
editor LAURA JEAN GOSS
THE INTRUDER James A. Sparks ........................................................................12 BLUES FOR GEMMA Franklin Kendig ........................................................................13
assistant editor CHICA COLEBANK
TWO HAIKU Kurt Harris ............................................................................... 14 CREATIVE WRITING CONTEST Details and Rules ......................................................................15
section editors literary
JAMES A. SPARKS
review and ex-position
THE BRIDGE Jan Knippers ....................................................
REVIEW: WE THE LIVING by Ayn Rand Anne Dempster ..........................................................................17 AQUA VITAE J-ude ............................................................................................. 18 I WALK ON TIP TOE Jean Burns Johnson ................................................................. 18 THE INNOCENT Lihhy Williams ..........................................................................19
staff SALLY POPE KURT HARRIS
TELL MY LOVER Kurt Harris ............................................................................... 20 ON HEARING BACH’S GOLDBERG VARIATIONS nik ash ...................................................................................... .20 WE SHALL HEAR MORE OF THIS . . . Laura Jean Goss ....................................................................... 21
business manager JOAN SHORT
TO HIS WATCH WHEN HE COULD NOT SLEEP’ Eugene Hollahan ..................................................................... 23 JUDWALI LINES nik ash ...................................................................................... .23
advisory hoard Dr. Percy G. Adams, Dr. Dale G. Cleaver, Dr. James F. Davidson, Prof. James E. Kalshoven, Mrs. Carolyn Martin, Prof. Frank Thornburg.
Sonnet by I,. Beatrice Butaier
The shades of winter hang upon the land While golden leaves go whirling down the wind And pile against the fence to lie there pinned In windrow, nameless as the grains of sand. The death of leaves we need to understand And know they simply are; they have not sinned, That simple logic shows they must he thinned; Eternal cycle; death at lifeâ€™s command. We see eternity in seasonâ€™s swing, But singly leaves drop sadly from the tree; One dying, spins and gaily takes to wing, En point, she pirouettes to be debris. Suspended vision; goes to make our spring. V.
Her passing, brief and lovely, bravery. /
The Intruder by Jfawnes A.. Sparks
Who could have known There would be those two, Away from all paths, Where the sun fell through? (I should have stepped right back. But anxious of the sound My boots had made in coming Through that brushy ground, I stayed awhile. And half-ashamedly, in smile. To see that they should not awake.) What happenstance conspired To bring them there I haven’t tried to fathom out. And who would care? I’m sure that those two Didn’t think about it much; The how and why of things aren’t needed After some initial touch. And even less some thought Of where to go. Once you are there. They slept a soft, unmoving sleep A1 if that smooth tanned brow Had lain forever in the keep Of two small hands. In the way, perhaps. That one might hold a fragile dove. He bound her close to him With arms that knew a certainty of love. And so, I stood until the beauty Of those two together gave me pain, 'Then strode toward home Through my dry fields. And later in the day it rained. 12
BLUES FOR GEMMA by Franhiin Mendiy
as the young colored hoys scampered up the fire escape outside his room. He rolled over gently, like a man used to ivaking beside the body of a woman, and then, realizing the empti ness of the room, he sat up. His feet dangled off the bed while he tried, for a minute, to stare away the mist that comes from too late hours and too much booze, and, finally regaining his clarity, he searched the small room for some justi fication of the sudden quiet. The dull grayness of the afternoon fed rich chords to the soft melodic line of light which squeezed around the drawn shades that tried desperately to keep out the warm October sun. Eddie whistled a nasal improvisation on the changes of “All the things you are” that seemed to be the missing voice of the minor lament of the room, and then finding the dark ness disturbing he let in the day. The light slid across the floor and up the dust yellow plaster stopping sharply at the bell of the trumpet that stood on the dresser. The glare from the curved maze of brass reached out across the room and touched Eddie, naked except for a pair of tooworn shorts, by the freshly opened window. The glitter of the horn against the faded walls made his thoughts wander aimlessly . . . the brass ring on a merry-go-round, rain on the bus windows, an old silver comet, his wife. Gemma was quite a girl. She was heavier than the models you see in the fashion magazines, but not as busty as the pornography set, and she had the damndest eyes you’ve ever seen. They were like a chameleon turning blue when she wore blue, green when she wore green, and when her passion called, or maybe just when, they turned black, very black. Philadelphia never turned out a society girl like Gemma . . . yellow convertible, home on the main line, house on the Jersey shore, the works. She went to the best private schools, came out at the charity ball, dated only Haverford boys, and spoke Erench like a native. Her mother had gone to Vassar, and her father studied law at Penn, so at the somber age of seventeen she enrolled in Bryn Mawr. Here she Eddie's
did well, was engaged twice, voted most popular girl in her class, and at the beginning of her junior year she left for Europe. Europe was the same as Bryn Mawr. She took study tours, skied in the Alp>s, and on the whole showed real well for herself. She spent most of her free hours with a Harvard exchange student on whose arm she saw the night life of Paris. Then she met Eddie. He was dressed now. He sat again on the bed, this time with the horn and played softly . . . always the same, always different. His hands, which had been so nervous—so hesitant, as he fumbled with his clothes held the horn with an assured, professional confidence. He thought of how he sat on another bed and played, ever so softly, while she slept. As he played on, a different feeling, a strange yet familiar sound, something before Gemma, left the horn. At first it became a deep void, and then slowly filled with the innovators: Dizzy, Bird, Monk, Bud, ... It laughed of Ray, Horace, Junior, ... It stood strong with Duke, Gount, Stan, Pres. There was the boldness of Tristano, Mulligan, Bags, and then sud denly the warmth of a woman. He thought at first it was Gemma again pushing out the others, but then the glow of Sarah, Bessie, Mary Lou, Lady Day de voured the shadow. Their presence made him wander back to the beginning . . . the first session where he had been so badly cut, the months of wood-sheading that followed as he tried to prove his existence, the final acceptance of him as an artist. He thought of the small club in Paris where the blue spot was so bright and the smoke was so thick that you couldn’t see the faded green edges of the charts that lay on the stand. He could picture Max lightly stroking the drums while Junior stabbed sharply at the piano trying to give him a subtle sign to the changes. He could also see Tommy feverishly pumping the bass, and right over his second valve he could see Gemma, sitting as if she had every right to be there.
(Continued on page 14)
Blues (Continued from page 13)
Woke up this mornin’ Found a note pinned on my door. Woke up this momin’ Found a note pinned on my door. Said that my lovin’ baby Ain’t cornin’ home to daddy-o No more, no more, no more, no more. Eddie rose slowly from the bed and put the horn in a brown canvas bag. He walked outside, and with a profound assurance he closed the door behind him.
The vision of Gemma made him leave the simple line he had been playing and revert to a series of complexities of harmony and rhythm. He made the difficult changes at a break-neck pace and just when it seemed that his hands would melt with the horn he stopped in an exhausted daze. Outside, an old Negro climbed slowly up the steps of the fire escape. Eddie, lying fully dressed on the bed, listened to the old man’s song, with an almost frightening interest;
TWO HAIKU hy Kutri Bgarris
It is evening; in The sky, white chrysanthemums Floating on black pools
Wind on wet leaves and Insect calls; night sounds; and lovers Listening to night sounds
AWARDS CA for CREATIVE WRITING
Through the generosity of the late Dr. and Mrs. Glen
Swiggett and of the late Captain and Mrs. Robert Arnold Burke, the University of Tennessee has been enabled to offer three awards for creative writing to University students this year. To the students who submit the best poem Cor group of poems), short story and/or literary criticism of their own compo sition will go the following awards: $50.00—Bain-Swiggett Poetry Award for the best poem (or group of poems) $40.00—Robert Arnold Burke Fiction Award for the best short story $40.00—Eleanor Richards Burke Literary Award for the best literary criticism The following principles will govern the competition for all three competitions: 1. Contestants must be students of the University of Tennessee; that is, they must have been enrolled for at least one quarter since Sep tember, 1961. 2. Each entry must be accompanied by an Official Entry Blank to be found in the first issue of The Phoenix for 1961-62. 3. Manuscripts must be typed, double-spaced, on one side of the paper. Each sheet of paper submitted should have the entrant’s name, ad dress, and phone number on it in the upper right-hand comer. Those accompanied by suf ficient postage will be returned. 4. Manuscripts must be in the hands of Laura Jean Goss, Box 509, 821 Temple Avenue, or submitted to the English Department Office, 128 Ayres Hall by noon Saturday, March 31, 1962. All entries will be judged by a com mittee consisting of faculty members, and the decision of the judges is final.
5. The winning entries will be published in the issue of The Phoenix that is scheduled to ap pear at the end of May, 1962. These additional principles will govern the poetry competition: 1. To be considered, compositions “must conform to the standards of traditional English verse.” Free verse does not fulfill this condition. 2. English translations of poems in other lan guages and modernizations of Old and Middle English poems will be eligible. 3. Poems already published or accepted for publi cation, except by undergraduate college peri odicals, will not be eligible. 3. Poems already published or accepted for pub lication, except by undergraduate college periodicals, will not be eligible. Members of the staff of the Orange and White and of The Phoenix are eligible to enter. There is no set length for the poem (or poems). Recommended short story length is from 20005000 words, and a maximum of 3000 words for the literary criticism is suggested.
LITERARY CONTEST ENTRY BLANK Name ........................................... Knox. Phone............... Knox. Address .................................................................. Classification ........................................... Major.............. Minor.............. Home Address
by Jan Knippers
We The Living
by Ayn Rand
hy Anne Dempster
Ed. Note—In view of the current and growing discussion
concerning Miss Rand and her philosophy of Objectivism, THE PHOENIX is presenting a series of reviews of her publications thus far. What follows is the first of this series and regards one of her earlier publications.
To the reader familiar with George Orwell’s 1984, We the Living's theme of the struggle of the indi vidual against the oppressive state comes as no inno vation. Here is the same story of people opposing the existing political order, set this time in the Russian twenties, the period of the crystalization of Com munism in a political system, rather than in Orwell’s post World War Three future. Here are the same crutches for the totalitarian state: the insidious in former, the regimented social life, the paradoxical slogans such as “THE COMMUNIST PARTY SPARES NO VICTIMS IN ITS FIGHT FOR THE FREEDOM OF MANKIND.’’ This time, though, they are rooted in the reality of Lenin’s state rather than in Orwell’s envisioned continental state. Here again is the inevitable tragedy of the main characters —Kira and Andrei—heedlessly refusing to prostitute their ideals for their own survival. (Interestingly enough, here again is seen the squalid life of the people cloaked under the shoddy garment of socialist promises.)
her youth in Soviet Russia: she says, “The specific events in Kira’s life were not mine; her ideas, her convictions, her values were and are.’’) is that the individual is of supreme value. Andrei, the dedicated Party man, begins to think like Kira instead of Mos cow when he says to her, “ . . . suddenly I discover what it’s like to feel things that have no purpose but myself, and I see suddenly how sacred a purpose that can be, . . . and I know, then, that a life is possible whose only justification is my own joy. . . .’’ This idea goes farther here than in 1984; it assumes almost Nietzschean proportions when Andrei cries, “. . . aren’t those who know how to live, aren’t they too precious to be sacrificed in the name of any cause? . . . Every honest man lives for himself.” The goals of the indi vidual are here sanctioned to the point that they pass outside the boundaries of ethical behavior. Gore Vidal comments on Miss Rand’s philosophy in saying, “She has declared war not only on Marx, but on Christ.” Her god becomes “I” and “to pull it off she must at times indulge in purest Orwellain newsjjeak of the ‘freedom is slavery’ sort.” (Witness, Miss Rand’s “The creed of sacrifice is a morality for the immoral.”) Her morality is an extreme one; one can not help thinking that truth lies somewhere between the two.
However, Ayn Rand does present in this novel an idea that is unusual in comparison to 1984. Her philosophy (one that perhaps originates as a reaction against the collectivist ideology that she witnessed in
Aqua Vitae by Jude* Have you never seen rain â€˘'l,
Dripping slowly over the gay window of life. Desecrating clear panes With hollow, gaunt images of sepulchural strife? Liquid of futile birth. Languidly distorting the view of reality; Scarring the lucid panes With fervent hopes of love and mystic salvation. Brineless tears of women Wailing for their lost lovers and their discalced sons. Gnashing the crystal panes With visions of wasted blood and tortured sorrow.
I Walk On Tip Toe hy JeatB Bums Johnson
I walk on tip toe From fear. I am not a brave pioneer who Dares to walk boldly. The fore of my feet Appears to be calloused, But I walk on tip toe Striving to elevate the sole Above earthling fronts. From years of walking thus Is it yet tender, Or only aloof and afraid? 18
THE INNOCENT hy Itibhy W^iiiitBtns
The day was unbearably hot as that blazing torch the sun climbed higher and higher into the heavens. The tall com blotted out everything except the sun, of course, and the far-off mountain ranges. As I stretched for an ear farther up the stalk, I kept think ing how good and cool a dipper of water from behind the old spring house would taste. As the bees played havoc with the com silk and the jar flies sang their choruses of sweltering heat, I wished with all my might that Mom would come plodding up the row before me in her faded blue bonnet and announce that it was time to fix Grandpa’s dinner. Dinner would consist of only combread, mashed potatoes and maybe a few green beans, but what a welcome relief from the fields! That is, until two o’clock when we would sling our hoes over our shoulders and march reluctantly down to the lower pasture. Grandjra mostly sat on the porch in his rocking chair—he was past seventy; and Dad had been away in the war over a year now. Still, Mom and me and Mary worked every day in the fields because we had to— to live.
bearded horseman was barking sharp orders to his scurrying ravagers. The guerrillas were robbing us of the very life we slaved for. At the foot of the split-rail fence lay Grandpa, limp and cold, his old white head at peace at last. But he was an old man—too old to fight, too old to offer hardly any form of resistance at all—and his life had been taken. But this was war —this was blood—the war that stood brother against brother, that brought tears of sorrow, and cries of fear, and blood and sweat and hate. And worst of all, these men believed in nothing; they fought for neither cause but harassed an already downtrodden people to satisfy their own ignoble lust for gain. And so my mother sobbed brokenly to the searchers, don’t take our corn: it’s all we have. But they took everything and left hate in its place. Except—when Mom re covered enough to coax me out from under the logs supporting the old homestead where I had crept in my terror—she found me still clutching my meager sack of com. The fields burned bare, the house plundered bare—we lived on that sack of corn—and our hate.
The eternity had passed and Mom had come. I could see the roof of the spring house now, and up one more rise and the battered, white-washed frame house would be in clear view. The honeysuckle filled the air with its sweetness as we passed a heavily-laden blackberry briar temptingly half hidden in the dark shade. The earth was firm but cool beneath my harefeet as the old road twisted and crawled around the side of the holler. The noisily tumbling creek—the water playground where we spent so many happy afternoons seining minnows and building dams when Dad was home—seemed to remind me that I was mighty lucky to be alive and living in this world of sunshine. But the report that screamed through the bushes shortened our drag to a snail’s pace and my p>eaceful reflections flew from me that same instant. The frightened whinny of a horse among the sounds of crashing dishes and slamming boards reached our well-knowing ears. Now, we ran. A roughly-clad. 19
Tell My Lover by Kurt Barris
Tell my lover I’m going away, For all the laughing mornings And blue-cool evenings Have found tears on my cheeks; And I have lain too many evenings In the arms of one Who is more tender Than morning breezes Blowing over lilacs.
ON HEARING Bach’s Goldberg Variations on the Harpsichord
hy niti ash There is that in strings Plucked, struck, stroked, bowed. Which seeks and finds in me answer. Intimate as a kiss at the neck’s nape Response sits, silent and trembling. Until all which keeps one Must surely, giving utterance. Burst.
Yet, there is that in me, 'Though drawn from, to exhaustion. And moaning for release. As the death wish. Which draws together still. Binding as with fine chords: Strings.
We Shall Hear More of This... by hanra Jean Goss of a farm trade program exists because France as well as a few smaller members, all big surplus food producers having low price supports, are now demand ing that the agricultural provisions of the Treaty of Rome be carried out before they give their vote for the second stage. The concessions to be made must come primarily from West Germany, who at present has very high price supports. The difficulty of this task and the strained situation can be more easily understood, if it is recalled that no nation in the modern woTld at this time practices free trade in agriculture. If a common farm policy can be settled to the satisfaction of all concerned, the EEC will pass triumphantly on to the second stage of their de velopment. They wall have set the stage for revo lutionizing not only the European agricultural problem, but also that of the world. Thus far they have agreed on all the main points of a new common financing system, but have not agreed on the scope and workings of a new “safeguard clause” that would still be available to shut off imports in the case of a real crisis. In addition, there has been no agree ment on probably the most difficult issue: how, and at what level, the new common support price will be fixed and how national prices are to be gradually brought together. The final decisions should be forthcoming shortly: success is not assured but chances look good in favor of agreement. That the union, in which there must be a great deal of willing concessions made by all members, has lasted this long is, in itself, proof of the determination of its individual members to subordinate their national interests in favor of the greater goal of improving the prospects of all. Should the farm issue be resolved some time soon, the Common Market can then turn its energies upon its next immediate problem, the application of Great Britain for membership. This move, announced last July by Prime Minister MacMillan, is a historic step toward closer British association with the Con tinent having a two-fold significance. By joining the EEC, England will leave behind a loose trading bloc of those nations excluded from the EEC, known as the “outer Seven,” composed of Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Switzerland, Austria, and Portugal in ad dition to England herself. This group, either because they feared membership in EEC would harm their traditional neutrality standing and/or because they
and blaring headlines over the Laotian and Viet Namese situations, there is, on the Continent of Europe, a quiet revolution steadily taking place which will be remembered long after these crises have faded to the background. The revo lution is the unification of Europe, slowly, but ef fectively being brought about by an organization known to most of us as the Common Market. Be cause of the potential power that the Common Market nations are gaining in shaping the economic future of Europe, and hence that of the world, it is necessary that we, as informed members of a world power, re view past events leading up to the present situation, take a look at the present state of affairs, and consider some possible moves in the near future by our nation regarding this federation. ’Midst
the loud talk
The Common Market is the outgrowth of the European Economic Community (EEC) formed by the signing of the Treaty of Rome in 1956 by the “inner Six” nations composed of Belgium, France, Italy, Luxembourg, Holland, and West Germany. The treaty went into effect in 1958 and provided for a gradual cut of all tariffs on industrial and agricul tural goods among the six nations over a period of twelve to fifteen years, while simultaneously creating a Common Market by erecting a uniform tariff wall against outsiders. By doing so, according to Belgian diplomat Zeeander, these nations hope to achieve their two-fold goal “to raise the economic prospects of all member states and bring a new contribution to eco nomic expansion in the world.” The Common Market, whose origin goes back to the Marshall Plan in the second half of 1947, is the biggest step toward European unity thus far taken. Its executive body, known as the Common Market Commission, is presided over by Walter Hallstein, a German law professor, and its headquarters is located in Brussels, Belgium. With the EEC has come a vast new market with a membership conservatively estimated at 166 million people with a growing and unforced sense of common identity. Already they visit one another’s countries without passports, ex change cultural programs, co-produce motion pictures and pool material and financial resources. At present the “Six” are in search of agreement on a common farm policy which will allow the Market to pass on to its second stage, a move requiring the unanimous vote of all member nations. The problem
(Continued on page 22)
We Shall Hear...
Congress gave the President power to set tariffs within limits) comes up for its eleventh renewal in June. Three alternatives lie ahead of Congress concerning our future trade policy. First, they can simply renew the TAA, probably the simplest, yet most short sighted, step to take in view of the fact that the TAA has been governing our trade' policy unchanged since 1934. Second, Congress could add amendments of various sorts to the present TAA and then renew it, thus incorporating into our present policies special provisions for dealing with the Common Market countries. This, at least, would be a step in the right direction. Thirdly, and most difficult of all, would be a complete revamping of our foreign trade policy. This would enable us not only to deal more effectively and to better advantage with the EEC nations, but would also take into consideration our policy toward the nations of the world that do not have the United States’ power to deal with the Market. (Increased trade discrimination against Japan and the underde veloped countries would drive them right into the arms of the Communists.) The liberal new proposals of the administration appear to concern themselves merely with Common Market dealings and hence, are too narrow in scope. Also, it is doubtful that giving the President more tariff authority will solve the multilateral situation which becomes more and more involved as the various interest groups add their sentiments to the controversy. It is time for the U.S. Government to make a more determined and imagi native effort than they have in the past to resolve this issue; let us see some of the optimism of theoretical New Frontierism carry over into a poetical New Frontierism in the form of a vigorous, encompassing foreign trade jxjlicy. In short, one can grasp, at least in part, the farreaching effects that the Common Market has had upon the Western World alone. What its develop ment means to the Communist world, one can only conjecture, since those behind the Iron Curtain have chosen to remain peculiarly silent on this topic. Be cause the Common Market means strength for the West, a sure guess would be that Russia is not happy with events thus far and is probably keeping a close eye on future events. The coming weeks will be a major turning point in the history of this union which shall emerge either greatly strengthened or completely dissolved. Should the former be the case, it is possible that the Common Market will stand as a reenforcing power behind the United Nations, giving real impetus to the U.N.’s decisions, or will stand as an alternative organization for world peace, should the U.N. fail.
(Continued from page 21)
wished to avoid the involving political commitments of the EEC, refused to join the Common Market. Instead, they formed a second trading bloc known as the European Eree Trade Association (EFTA). This loosely organized market, headed by Britain, hoped until recently to link themselves economically with the EEC without the close political commit ments of actual membership. Initially, Great Britain strongly rejected membership in the Market in favor of its greater American and Commonwealth trade areas. Politically, also, British traditional isolation has allowed her a certain freedom in East-West ne gotiations, whereas outright commitment to the Con tinent must necessarily link her interests strongly to the conditions there. First, it officially closes the era of English sovereignty and isolation and will tie England economically and politically to the Continent as never before. And, secondly, by Great Britain’s forthright application for membership in the Common Market, she tacitly gives recognition and reenforce ment to the fact that the Common Market now swings the balance of power in Western Europe above that of any particular nation or government. Insofar as the U.S. is concerned, there is a sharp division of opinion on the Common Market. To some, the Common Market is a beginning realization of objectives that the U.S. has long sought to pro mote by its support for the integration of Europe: the creation of a strong, dynamic and expanding economy, policy stability, and the forging of strong links between West Germany and her other partner nations in the West. The ultimate ideal is the emergence of a Europ>ean federation somewhat similar to the rise of the German nation from the North German Customs Union. The integration and sta bility of this federation would be such that it would not waver under political change nor weaken at economic adversity. To others, the deterioration in the balance of U.S.-European trade has given cause for grave con cern. A regional bloc, by its very nature, discriminates against outsiders by restrictions to outside commerce. Not only has this led to a drop in U.S. exports to Europe, but it has also begun a flight of American capital to the continent as firms begin setting up their industries in Common Market countries to try to get inside the tariff wall. This trade issue is of particular interest and importance to the U.S. this year, since the Trade Agreements Act (commonly known as the Reciprocal Trade Law by which 22
Judwali Lines by nik ush
WE INVITE YOU TO VISIT OUR PAPER BACK BOOK DEPARTMENT
A week has passed. Astonishing to me Is not the measure, Its length or brevity, But that time can be confined Concisely so; a week.
SEVERAL HUNDRED TITLES ARE AVAILABLE FROM . . . DOUBLEDAY PENGUIN-PELICAN GROVE PRESS MERIDIAN BANTAM COMPASS SIGNET-MENTOR POCKET BOOKS FAWCETT DELL HARVEST VINTAGE
A week has passed. And passing strange to see Is that a treasure, A gauge of life, should be Casually afforded mind What emotions still seek.
'To His Watch when he could not sleep'
We will be glad to Special Order any titles not in stock
by Muyenv Siolluhan Time is me And I it. Its tender tick Tells away What is lived.
What is me. Not to be used Is time. It spends itself And I me.
Suhmit contrihutions to: LAURA JEAN GOSS, Editor
The Phoenix Box 509 821 Temple Ave. Knoxville, Tennessee