The Alma Blount Dance article sadly omits perhaps the oldest, largest, and most zestful dance group in town — CHIFDC. Since at least 1965, the Chapel Hill International Folkdance Club has danced in the Presbyterian Student Center (downstairs), Henderson Street, every Wednesday night: teaching from 7-8, then request dancing until about 10:30. It used to be free, but recently we’ve had to charge 25¢ to pay rent for the hall. We’re a friendly group, and welcome newcomers to share international folkdancing. About once a year we sponsor a weekend dance workshop. The next one is in January with a well-known Israeli teacher. Bob DeMaine, on Cameron Court, is our official contact person for more information.

Except for the startling omission of CHIFDC, it was an interesting issue.

Suze Evans
Chapel Hill

The written word is so important in allowing an exchange between people that cannot meet. Ever since I came to this country seven years ago, have I yearned for a publication that I felt would deal with people, thoughts and happenings without always bringing out the violent world we live in. Your SUN is an exchange between your contributing writers and me. I feel very much part of the SUN. You print many thought-provoking articles, or for that matter poetry. Leaf Diamant can be so inspirational when he allows me to share his thoughts. This last contribution in the latest issue was such a piece. Priscilla’s photography, Sy’s poetry — I could go on and on, just let me tell you, I look forward to meeting you all again and again. You have all become part of my family, thank you for letting me be inspired. Have a good 1977!

I want to end by sharing with you a poem written by the Swedish Poetress Karin Boye. She became a giant in her short life-time (1900-1941) in Swedish literature. Please, my translation is rough, allow for more rhythm if it was in my native language!

Karin Boye
Merciless One with eyes that have never seen
Liberator who with golden hammers breaks the ice,
                                                                                 save me.
Straight like thin lines — the stalks of the flowers
are drawn up —
The trees know their power, their might towards
your loveliness,
                                  only when they are up there, do
they spread their lifethirsty embrace — full with
Mankind — you took him from a rock with blind
        eyes to a wandering, swaying flower with winds
        of the sky around his forehead.
You are the stalk and the trunk
            you are my spine.
                  Save it.
Not my life. Not my skin. The Gods do not deal
with what is only surface.
With cold eyes and broken limbs, it is you who
lived straight.
You are with the one who dies straight, when
darkness engulfs darkness. The thunder rises.
         The night embarks.
Life shines so deeply —
           Save — God of Lights
What you created.

Ann C. Torres
Westport, Massachusetts