During the last few weeks, Harvard students have been looking up from their goolash-on-a-stick to see an unfamiliar face give a speech on poverty in Boston. But unlike the blaring megaphones in Harvard Square, or the threatening posters of the Spartacus Youth League, Edward "Ned" Coll offers easy access to activism, a tangible opportunity to help someone else, and a chance to come in contact with one of the most remarkable social activists in the nation.

The more you learn about Ned Coll the more you are certain he is a lunatic. Looking wildly around as he speaks, waving his hands madly or clenching his fists in manic frustration, he is the Evel Kneivel of activism, a man who has performed daring stunts in the name of social causes. He fasted for 40 days to call attention to the plight of the elderly in Hartford, Conn., he walked from Hartford to Washington to debate a fuel bill for the poor before Congress, he sloshed along the shores of Rhode Island all the way to Greenwich to protest the private ownership of beaches. Coll even ran for President in 1972, sharing a televised platform with George McGovern, Edmund Muskie and others. He drew attention to himself by waving a rubber rat in front of the t.v. camera to symbolize what he considered the central issue facing the nation.

Coll is currently involved with less eccentric activism. He heads the Revitalization Corps, an organization devoted to recruiting college students to battle urban poverty. The conditions of poor housing and education, however, aren't the only things he is trying to revitalize. Coll says the spirit of activism brought out by the war during the '60s is also worth rekindling, to be directed toward the more persistent problem of poverty.

Although he is now spending a couple of days a week here attempting to revitalize that spirit, Ned Coll isn't big on Harvard. In a recent organizational meeting against the draft, as Harvard students quibbled over semantics, motioning this, seconding that, Coll began his remarks, "I used to think Harvard was full of shit. Now I can smell it." It is hard to disagree when Harvard activism is sparked by self-interest, a yearning for the cliquishness of a popular cause, or a self-righteous condemnation of injustices thousands of miles away.

Coll throws his words and convictions at Harvard students in an attempt to refocus their energy and eliminate the more immediate problems of poverty and racism in Harvard's backyard. He stands in House dining halls, beneath gaudy chandeliers, surrounded by the gazes of past House masters, and tries to describe the Fidelis Way housing project where his revitalization corps is concentrating its efforts. "It's a goddam pit," he says with typical directness, "and it needs your help."

From some of the burned out apartments of Fidelis Way, through shattered windows, the spires of Harvard's River Houses gleam in the distance. The ground crunches underfoot, not with fresh snow, but with broken glass. The fenced-in project looks more like post-war Dresden. The hollow buildings and junkyard streets appear uninhabitable. Many of the apartments are occupied by squatters who arrive at night and stake out empty rooms. Periodic drug raids shake up the dismal day-to-day activities at Fidelis Way.

Adults living at the project seem desperate, concerned more about their children than themselves. One woman told a Harvard students, without asking who he was or why he was there, "I hope you're here to help us."

Help would simply involve a couple of hours one day a week, tutoring kids at the Mead School, adjacent to the housing project. Coll is trying to organize a shuttle bus to make getting there a matter of minutes from Johnston Gate.

Out at the school, the personalities are as memorable as Coll's. Dean Yarborough, the principal of the school and a black activist of the Martin Luther King years, teaches trumpet lessons in the afternoon; Father Jim, the cigar smoking priest, spends time fixing cement foundations; and the children all seemingly eager to latch on to a tutor.

Coll realizes that Harvard students will emerge in positions of leadership and wishes to expose them to the reality of poverty in America. He believes students from "across the river" provide an invaluable model for the kids, who need an incentive to work, a goal to strive for. But justifying activism is such a tired, tawdry subject, as though doing something for someone else were a new concept.

Coll's message is an old one, yet his style is quite refreshing. He combines a gruff manner, creative obscenities, and a J.F.K. idealism to entertain and inspire his volunteers. He feels this type of leadership is lacking in today's government or university administrations.

Yarborough feels Coll is on a par with any of the '60s activists. Coll inpsires youth into action, "guilt-trips" them into caring. He is the impetus of leadership, and he can make a difference.

Or can he? Two weeks ago, Coll waited for his volunteers in front of John Harvard's statue when a Crimson Key tour approached to hear "the three lies." "So you see, it is not a statue of John Harvard, John Harvard didn't found the school, and the school wasn't founded in 1638." Coll stepped on the base of the statue to speak to the tweeded parents and the prospective freshmen. "Folks, Harvard really is a great school. You have a tremendous city here, filled with arts and culture, all at your fingertips. But Boston is also recognized as the most racist city in America, and poverty exists here rivaling any in the nation." The parents recoiled and put their arms around their children. "These students here are about to go out to a housing project across the river to tutor 12-year-olds who read like six-year-olds should," Coll continued as the parents tried to hustle their kids back to the car. "Any of you want to come along?"

A girl in the front row lit up, stared him in the face, and asked, "Is there any money in it?"

Coll winced, turned, restrained himself from striking her and hissed, "Jeeesus, she's perfect for this place."