The Threshold

we stand for nor to appear as just a freak movement. We believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God (he proved it by rising from the dead) who is alive today, and that he can be known as a personal friend. It is this relationship which is important; not trying to follow his ethics, or going through the proper motions of worship, or simply living "nice" and moral lives, but experiencing the change Jesus makes in people's lives, as shown most dramatically by the early Christians.

The CU was started by sixth-formers from St. Peter's and Queen Anne's and is run on informal lines. Meetings theoretically alternate between the two schools and are organised by a committee of the older members. In addition to these joint meetings we also hold weekly Bible studies on a Thursday lunchtime and we have appreciated the cooperation of the staff in organising these.

So what is the C.U. and what does it do? It is run by committed Christians and we make no attempt to hide that, but anyone who is interested, however vaguely, comes to meetings. The C.U. is united in as much as those who know Jesus as a person have a great deal in common. And this special kind of friendship is expressed by gathering together to sing (usually modern songs to guitar accompaniment), by meeting for discussions or to see films, though more often to listen to a speaker for twenty minutes on a topic of general interest such as "Science and Creation". Meetings are seldom serious occasions in any case but have included humorous interludes such as a balloon debate. In order to get to know each other better we also meet outside school for social evenings, sport or to go to the theatre. If there is any real sense of unity it is because of the mutual friend many of us share, or as one American Underground Newspaper put it: "Rumour has it that a brother died for sins, came hack to life three days later and is coming again. Guess who?"

I.J.A.

My Temporal Lady

Too long, my temporal lady, did I Measure my life by you, Gaze at your hour-glass figure And watch my love flow through. For, like so many others, My hands have traversed your face Only to come to rest upon The irony of your waist. Now, with so much more time to make, I follow more reliable paces And the circles in which my hands move Avoid all double faces. And what will I remember Of your everlasting teens— The ticking and the tocking Or just the tucking in between?

Flight

I lay on my back and listened, Riveted to Mother Earth yet lifted up by what I saw.

The skylark, moving, yet like a statue, Mocked me with his scornful song; His every graceful, commanding movement Humbled me.

I lay on my back and listened, The gradual crescendo came to a climax, The distant, daunting murmur became a deafening roar. This angular monster of the sky engulfed my senses, Its abstract form casting an evil shadow over me, And the shadow of death over life. Created to destroy. This man-made devil of the sky Revolted me.

I lay on my back and thought. One bomber is a trespasser when it flies But there can never be too many birds in the skies. - R. P. Jemmett, III A.

The River

All around the ship as they lay at anchor yellow water sucked and chuckled. The sluggish current carried past a splintered box, a spar, the bloated bodies of a dog and a pig, and then something covered in sodden rags—eyes already bitten out by the sharp-toothed fish—a native's body.

Across the river the bank trembled in the midday sun, bright as a fanned flame. The air was heavy and the wind slept. Temple bells rang faintly like tired tin cans. The river—the most sacred in all India— lay flat, oily, a serpent a mile wide reflecting the shimmering amber sun. The peasants laboured among the mustard flowers which stretched as far as the eye could see, into the lazy, misty foothills.

The crescent-shaped bank presented a panorama of buildings—an array of shrines, temples and palaces rising tier on tier from the water's edge. The bank was lined completely with stone, with steps for bathing and cremation. It was at these bathing steps that the pilgrims were thickest—like flies on carrion.

Some pilgrims washed themselves whilst in a boat, others clambered down the slimy green steps and walked in until the water lapped around their shoulders. Others merely washed their feet in the enigma which restored physical and mental vitality.

A leper was carried down the narrow maze of dirty, dusty lanes. The bearers on reaching the steps walked cautiously down them and immersed him in the water. He screamed as the water stung his terrible sores. He began to chant a Brahman verse and drank the water. He was then carried out.

As night drew in the smoke from the pilgrims' camp fires darkened the sky and their chantings drowned the ringing of countless bells. 37

On the bank a funeral pyre was just being lit. The group stood in the twilight, chanting. As the flames flared up the cantations grew louder. . . . The following morning when the flames had died down the natives came, picked up the ashes in baskets, walked solemnly down the steps and threw them into the river—the river to everlasting life.

R. M. Barron, IV A.

Le Condamne

Se tenant cloue hors de grace au mur blanchi, 11 cherit ses dernieres images du monde, Les imprimant avec soin sur son ame immonde; Bride du soleil maudit, it n'a plus d'ami. Des gouttes de sueur coulent sur sa figure; II les entend tomber par terre. La chaleur Lui fait engluer les paupieres de sueur, Aveuglant ses yeux d'une secretion impure. 11 sent la caresse de pluie sur sa peau, La grace de Dieu venue emporter sa peur. Sans honte it attend qu'on fasse arreter son coeur, Que les gouttes de son sang se melent aux eaux. Pourrie de guerre, sa vie n'est plus chere, Damne a la terre, sa mort, n'est plus amere. G. B. Brown, L VI.

Le Trois Mai

Voila la peinture, accrochee sur son clou, oil on peut voir les morts, pas caches dans leur trou. Its y seront toujours. Il faut qu'on les regarde. Mais quand on les a vus, on va, et on bavarde. On essaie d'oublier les cadavres taches De sang. On ne parle pas de vies arrachees. Ce n'est que la peinture rouge, on les voit comme Des formes. On n'avoue pas qu'ils sont des hommes. Les meurtriers muets, le fusil a la main, Pourquoi sont-ils toujours en'train d'assassiner? Les morts n'auront—ils pas de repos souterrain? Les morts y resteront toujours, ni froids, ni pales. Mais on ne pourra jamais les reanimer, Les memes hommes dont on lit dans un journal. P. S. Lancaster, L VI.

Pour Faire le Portrait d'un Motocycliste

Esquisser d'abord une moto Avec des pneus bien antiderapants; esquisser ensuite

des pompes a essence, des vetements en cuir pour le motocycliste; placer ensuite le papier contre une colline dans les montagnes ou bien dans une ville; se cacher dans l'herbe sans rien dire, sans bouger. Parfois le motocycliste arrive vite, mais it peut aussi bien mettre plusieurs jours. Quand le motocycliste arrive, s'il arrive, s'il essaie de s'asseoir sur la moto, esquisser immediatement la piste: ensuite esquisser la foule et des nuages de poussiere: s'il n'essaie pas de demarrer c'est mauvais signe, Mais s'il essaie de demarrer et s'il attend avec impatience le signal de depart C'est bon signe, signe que vous pouvez signer; alors vous arrachez tout doucement Un des rail de la roue et vous ecrivez votre nom dans un coin du papier. R. D. Burton, IV B.

Pour Faire le Portrait d'un Ours

(d'apres Jacques Prevert) Peindre d'abord une caverne avec une grande entrée: peindre ensuite quelque chose a manger, quelque chose a boire, quelque chose d'utile pour l'ours: placer ensuite la toile contre un rocher dans un bois ou dans la montagne, se cacher derriere un autre rocher sans bouger: parfois l'ours arrive vite, mais it peut aussi bien y mettre de longues annees. Quand l'ours arrive, s'il arrive, attendre que l'ours entre dans la caverne: si l'ours ne mugit pas c'est mauvais signe mais s'il mugit c'est bon signe: alors vous signez votre nom dans un coin du tableau. C. G. Rymer, IV A.