Boston University - HUB Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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THE CITY AT NIGHT At night you are our concrete cradle By which you whisper humdrum in our ears And deep to dreams you alwa-ys play A lullaby to distant dissonance, Retreating day's diminuendo. Like raindrops on a rainbow pool Neon sequins adorn your cloistral heights And blinking at the starlit night These silent symbols, prostituting pleasure, Advance night's treble crescendo. And all around your soaring symmetry The daytime smog is gobbled by the night While in their bare anatomy New brothers bear the whistling scalpel of the wind, And old Sierra sisters, too. Now dawn the sanguine hunter stalks And coward darkness slouches behind your skirts As rays refract upon your eyes You blink and tremble stretching like a cat Rebounding to the daily beat. Ion Haywood CLA '66 Papillon and Orange: A Protest Painting Ul Down tumbling down the asphalt, down the clay orange citron melon acid the streets, the stucco halls. The whirling of seeds? Too ripe, too round to ascend the velvet stairs . . . UU The butterfly is still. Tissue wings flutter hard. Two black pins look down, reflect the sun. Morning rains clothe each purple vein and issue the sun Her driven yellow . . crushed in a gutter under flushing fruit catches Her eye. The ilood begins. The orange, seeding, becomes all wings and clay drives its pulp into her drowning veins . . . UVJ Now no one will reach down will pick up the once lived shells of fruit and flying until the velvet stairs flllj begin O Orgige to rot and swell . . . Oveprjpe Dianne Hoff Lincoln SFAA '66 bs if ,v. .I xx X4-J- X X X

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LEOS IANACEK fThe composer is sixty-seven years old. At sunset, he takes a walk in the garden.1 I. See the winding sun snap orange in the whirl of autumn's dry extinction. Hear the crackling balustrade of its fire- silver-peering sequins stitched in space. The corrosive fury of its musing silence weighs like an Egyptian lover on the mind, a prismatic seduction of the senses. fThere is shattered glass melted in the bush, No doubt, and the old man is inebriated on airj. So the vicissitudes of flying in the sunset. II. The world squares itself mercilessly in the far ruminations of a mad crow. Ti, ti, ti, ti, ti: So the universe is split plastic apart, and only the dusty, bright ochered pedals of the imagination can put it together. Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta: So the eyed-external ripens with rage at the wild, wordless workings of an inner lust- masquing the illusive core of things in wonder. Ill. Yet my wasping, withered intellect-dew born infirmity-is stilled the very sound of evening's asp-gray intentions, a welting of the violet sky, a molting, muted eye, and the cubed, black colors of mortality. The old monocle moon sloops, an anaesthesic dirge of sleep. IA hot toddy in a cracked, white cup: the lithe bed-its cool, light sheetsj. Yet ti, ti, ti, ti. . . IV. Who sleeps awaiting dawn, the drunk, the agitator, disturber of the public peace? Who sleeps awaiting the pink fields to come alive, speckled in the flight of sparrows, the angelic lisp of crickets, cackling in the grass? This aeolian cacophany is a corpse of ileshing sadness at one burn: the broken barn's sodden homogeneity: and the milk-iced landscape-loose, hazed, unredeemable in the thick transience of time. V. Ti, Ti, Ti, Ti, Ti: the venom stirs galled shakes in the back. Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta: irreverent gaity, ambiguous delight, incessant temptation of a tired, old man- taunting, vaunting the beggar's pride at the rich. A mystery is meandering in my soul, a disjointed rainbow waltz lit in willow. The kaleidoscope pares itself undone: sensate sound, I annex myself to thee. VI. No, I will not stoop nor sleep, but divine the crow's melifluous arrogance, raining lust through the blind starred opaque of evening. And springing, enfeebled fleetness, after my own voice to find the footprint, the camoutlaged shadow of the lost, loud bird-the agile obscurity, the exotic unattainable-I see, 'Stone is stone of marble mountains, and a breath of iire annihilates the wind.' Max I. Westler C.L.A. '66 Marvin Karp