Another sophomore, Don Bloch, who reportedly "polishes his prose in Eliot House," has buffed his story Ooduina and the Dream to a high gloss indeed. If he had worked out the ending as sensitively as the rest, this delicate allegory of love would not wilt so incongruously.

Continuing this heartening trend of lean prose and effective dialogue, Anne Lindbergh focuses on incest in her short sketch about a brother and sister parting at an air terminal. September is a modest attempt that leaves one hoping for something more ambitious from Miss Lindbergh in the future.

From Roger Brown one begs more control. He reverberates with a noise that began a few years ago in San Francisco, full of images, full of lust, but so often formless and incantatory.

As for the others, they hardly merit close attention. Richard Sommer, a tutor in English, might be excused for his erratic rhyme schemes and his stammering metrics, if he had not labelled The Soldier a villanelle. There is, I submit, no point in pretending to a strict form if one violates it as flagrantly as Sommer does. If Sommer wants a proper category for this contorted piece, he might choose "virelay," defined as "a song or poem esp. with an intricate or monotonous rhyme scheme."

George Burns' On the First Day of Christmas is a Gothic shocker in modern dress, complete with Freudian visions and dexadrine. Suicide and castration are legitimate, if sensational, topics, but in this case their function is more emetic than literary.

As usual, the Pegasus and his cohorts have padded out their magazine with a plethora of poetasters, including the inevitable David Berman. But these unfortunate pages flip quickly, and a selective reading of the Advocate holds rewards for the present and promises of good things to come.