Newspapers / Salem College Student Newspaper / March 8, 1957, edition 1 / Page 2
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Page Two THE SALEMITE March 8, 1957 ajf fioetn4f. in tUe- keanii 0/ *U tnen. .." 9nte^>fiAeten. He stands, with arms upraised, alone and yet surrounded, Poised, alert, and watchful. He nods his head, his arras swoop down, As one, the many instruments sweep into The inti’icate movement of the symphony. His body sways; his hands bring forth The glorious tones of muted violins. Deep cellos, trilling flutes, wailing oboes. Tinkling bells, beat of kettle drum, and clash of cymbal. But always as a full ensemble. They seem not to watch him, all these players. But out of the depths of rhythmical sense and musical knowledge They know his every wish for soft and loud, fast or slow. Crashing forte, whispering pianissimo. He stands above them, yet among them, And knows each note they play. His hands command them, caress, implore them. And weave the instruments through the in tricacies of the music. He is consumed by the power of the music; He lives it; he is lost in its beauty! The music sighs to an end, his arms fall to his sides. He stands oblivious for a moment to. the applause of the audience; The applause which is for each member of the orchestra, But which is primarily an ovation for him. An interpreter of art. —Marilyn Shull On /! HcUmj, Darkness in the sky looks o'er the earth, And covers all the world with deep despair, As raindrops misty soft disturb the air, And leaves man void of any thoughts of worth Of life, so filled v'ith Nature's bounteous mirth. Pleased if some mortal Beauty’s gift will share— The rainbow’s prisms, colors pure and rare; The leaves and grass to diamonds bright give birth. Oh man, so blind to lovely Nature’s powers, Take from your heart this darkness, hear and see The dancing smiles that lift the face of flowers. The penetrating laughter of the sea. Enjoy life’s gifts which eternally are ours, And leave life’s sorroAvs and despairs to me. —Lillian Allen /Ul QlUtefL6. On third finger of left hand I wear a ring, oh, so grand. And that entitles me to be A true and loving fiancee. But all that glitters is not gold.' There are disadvantages to be told. It’s Saturday night and where is he ? Seven hundred miles away — not with me! How to spend my blue week-end ? Well, in my life there still are men. Perry Como, Steve Allen, Ed Sul livan, too. God bless those channels 12 and 2. I never run to answer phone, ‘Cause he’s saving pennies for that home. And if I get a line a week My ego really hits a peak. When all the girls discuss their dates I point out what could be their fates. To sit and dream and sometimes ponder. Does he miss me way up yonder? And then I really stop and think: Why, I’m actually in the pink. Best things come to those who wait. Someday I’ll have a steady date. I guess I fall into the class Of the “low heels and high ideals” lass. So as not to corrupt your idea, I had just better end right here. I could go on and prove to you Advantages top disadvantages ten to two. Although at times complaints rank high, I would never trade for another guy. —Patti Ward 7a /! CacAn>aacU Oh, little Cockroach on the floor. Don’t you come out of your hole anymore; I bought a new dress so pretty and fine. And you ate out the whole behind. Last night as I lay half asleep on my bed, I felt you prancing all over my head; I jumped from the covers and onto the chair. And there you were carressing my hair.. I turned on the light and sprang to the floor. Screamed for help, and opened the door. And there in the halls stood all of| South Dorm, Wailing the troubles too long by them borne, The little men came and they sprayed and sprayed. But you little Cockroaches, you ain’t afraid. Though Mr. Yarborough and Otto have tried and tried. All you’ve done is multiplied. —The Cockroach Committee of South ^cUl tJfead The moon cast its silver beams o’er the sea, And each foaming wave reflected its light Which did illuminate the still black night, And revealed the dark world’s vast symmetry. The shoreline was washed by the glistening sea. And silver streaks sparkled in the wet sand, AVhen the waves threw white foam upon the land, And transformed it to a bright imag’ry. Tiny cottages nestled ’neath the dune, Silently watched the rolling tide come in. While Avaiting for the daAvn Avhich Avould come soon. And thoughts heard above the waves mighty din. On seeing this breathless scene ’neath the moon So insignificant the race of mep. —Elizabeth Smith 0de: ^o- Commode There you is sitting there, All white, and slick, and bare. You ain’t got no fret or care. Ain’t you glad ? Oh, I wish I could be like you And flush away my worries, too. ( But I is sad. —Lene Alston PnxineXi li’l pony tail so soft and fluffy now you look so like a powder puffy then you will grow I hope you’re able to be in a bun like a pony in stable beautiful hair so soft and joyish oh ?:rush, oh pity tomorrow you’ll be boyish —brenda goerdelf ^eHdndii Dear Lord, Sift the sands in my life’s container Through the mesh of Thy gold strainer When my soul is black as night, Cleanse it, make it pure and white. Wash it in Thy calmest streams; Polish it until it gleams. It is the very heart of me— Lead it toward eternity. —Erwin Robbins The rain is falling hard and straight Like steely arrows of ice. Be fore, it fell ■ Gently, softening the chipped brick in the Avail. When the brown vine creeping Up the wall turns green again. Then the rain will fall softly on The young leaves, and they A\dll Bend and nod with the weight oij the droplets But the sun comes and drys up The droplets; and sucks the strength from the fiber of the vine Alore and more and more. The chill of the wind sent from the Receding rays of the sun Shrinks the Source and chokes its remaining strength. The leaves strain, and curl, and Twist and writh until a Brown death creeps over their veined surface. The Vine-source hardens and Becomes brittle; and the wind Snaps the connecting stem of the leaves. But a few hold miserably to the Strengthless vine. And the rain, the February rain, soaks them. And they fall too. Miss Essie sweeps them up. ■—Jean Smitherman Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor News Editor ..9aq. o. Feature Editor Faculty Advisor _ Business Manager Advertising Manager Circulation Manager Pictorial Editors Jo Smitherman Carol Campbell Miriam Quarles Marda Stanley AWss Jess Byrd Ann Knight Published every Friday of the College year by the Student Body of Salem College Subscription Price—$3.50 a year OFFICES—Lower Floor Main Hall Downtown Office—304-306 South Main St. Printed by the Sun Printing Company Martha Jarvis Peggy Ingram Oottie Ervin, u-L M nj. Nancy Warren Make-Up Editor Jecme Smitherman Assistant News Editor, Mary Ann Hagwood Assistant Business Manager, . Suejette Davidson Circulation: Ronnie Alvis, Barbara Bell Eva Jo Butler, Helen Babington, Ruth Bennett, Laura Bible, Mary Calhoun, Nancy Jane Carroll, Susan Childs' Lina Farr, Betsy Guerrant, Ellie Mit- Merrie Jane Brown. ’TAvas in the country on a cold brisky night Everything Avas quite still. High above others on a hill Stood a house Avith little light. In the house sat mourners around a dim fire Shedding a feAV tears. Trying to conceal all their fears. Dressed in their complete black attire. The family had been on which was close Until the snows fell. Opening the doors of hell. When death had come on one they loved most, Leaving the mother and father alone With the death of the frozen child, not yet grown. —Jean Stone *7ke AwxikeniHa When morning breaks above the distant hills, But Salem girls are still asleep in peace In buildings shaded by the “virgin trees” Before the clock has chimed e’en seven trills. Then “Luke” and friends sit ’neath my windoAv sill. They build a smoldering fire that smells like hell. They run machines Avhose crashing sounds do SAvell Into my very bedroom, dark and still. My head leaps up as does the frightened deer, My dreams are shattered to the very core. My sleep is gone; I shake Avith startled fear. The AvindoAvs rattle Avith tympanic roar. Oh, could I but destroy the budding dorm, Or else, oh, quiet Wfake Forest, here I come! ■—Jane Bailey Mule, a>i *7f4e C&m 9d. Hoav many hours it is taking me To call on my Muse for inspiration! But it’s all in Amin, and I receive none. And here I still sit as the clock strikes three. Muse| grant me some thoughts to set doAvn in verse, I realize sunrise is draAving near And time is proving I’m no sonneteer. For my mind is as empty as my purse. Hoav free flowed my verse a few weeks ago! But my poetry was not Avell received By my love, who told me Avhere I could go! Please understand I’m not in the mood And I Avould like to get some sleep tonight. Muse, you A'e failed me is all that I conclude. —Anne Siler On Wondiwonik Upon a theoretic abacus Emotion in tranquillity recalled He calculates judiciously, appalled No longer by the mental incubus Of sorroAvs startling present stimulus; Pain, pleasure, sympathy, and longing—galled Him once though they may have, dumb emotion scald His soul though it did then^—now, thank God, are dust. This poet, in insulated comfort pent, (Some genial after-dinner circumstance,) Last season’s sorrow leavening his content. Eliminates emotion’s present tense, Domesticates the urge of eloquence, Tenders a polished shard of sentiment. ■—Shirley Bowers
Salem College Student Newspaper
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March 8, 1957, edition 1
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