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<title>The Little Review, June-July 1916 (Vol. 3, No. 4) | Project Gutenberg</title>
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</head>
<body>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75854 ***</div>
<div class="frontmatter chapter">
<h1 class="title">
<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
</h1>
<p class="subt">
<em>Literature</em> <em>Drama</em> <em>Music</em> <em>Art</em>
</p>
<p class="ed">
<span class="line1">MARGARET C. ANDERSON</span><br>
<span class="line2">EDITOR</span>
</p>
<p class="issue">
JUNE-JULY, 1916
</p>
<div class="table">
<table class="tocn">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#MALMAISON">Malmaison</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Amy Lowell</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#THEPHILOSOPHER">The Philosopher</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Sherwood Anderson</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#SONGOFTHEKILLINGOFLIARS">Song of the Killing of Liars</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Richard Hunt</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#MLLEPOETRYMEETSMEATTHECHURCH">Mlle. Poetry Meets Me at the Church</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Roscoe Brink</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#SILHOUETTES">Silhouettes</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Harriet Dean</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#ANNOUNCEMENTS">Our Migratory Address</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#PSYCHOANALYSIS">Psycho-Analysis</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Florence Kiper Frank</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#ADYPTICH">A Dyptich:</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Skipwith Cannell</em></td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#WONDERSONG">Wonder Song</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#SCORN">Scorn</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#THEDEEPERSCORN">The Deeper Scorn</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#HOKKU">Hokku</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Edgar Lee Masters</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#POEMS">Poems:</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Mark Turbyfill</em></td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#THINDAY">Thin Day</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#THEROSEJAR">The Rose Jar</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#THEIRISHREVOLUTIONISTS">The Irish Revolutionists</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Padraic Colum</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#BRINGOUTYOURDEAD">Bring Out Your Dead:</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#BRAITHWAITESDEATHCART">Braithwaites Death-Cart</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Mitchell Dawson</em></td>
</tr>
<tr class="i">
<td class="col1"><a href="#HERBERTTREESMERCHANTOFVENICE">Tree’s “Merchant of Venice”</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Rollo Peters</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#SOMEIMAGISTPOETS1916YAY">Some Imagist Poets, 1916</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>Mary Aldis</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#THREEIMAGISTPOETS">Three Imagist Poets</a></td>
<td class="col2"><em>John Gould Fletcher</em></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#THEREADERCRITIC">The Reader Critic</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="col1"><a href="#AVERSLIBREPRIZECONTEST">A Vers Libre Prize Contest</a></td>
<td class="col2"> </td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</div>
<p class="monthly">
Published Monthly
</p>
<div class="table">
<div class="footer">
<p class="pricel">
15 cents a copy
</p>
<p class="pub">
MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher<br>
Montgomery Block<br>
SAN FRANCISCO, CAL.
</p>
<p class="pricer">
$1.50 a year
</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="postoffice">
Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, San Francisco, Cal.
</p>
</div>
<div class="frontmatter chapter">
<a id="page-1" class="pagenum" title="1"></a>
<p class="tit">
<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
</p>
<div class="table">
<div class="issue">
<p class="vol">
VOL. III
</p>
<p class="issue">
JUNE-JULY, 1916
</p>
<p class="number">
NO. 4
</p>
</div>
</div>
<p class="cop">
Copyright, 1916, by Margaret C. Anderson
</p>
</div>
<h2 class="article1" id="MALMAISON">
Malmaison
</h2>
<p class="aut">
AMY LOWELL
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="I">
I
</h3>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">ow</span> the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun, over there, over there,
beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops and
windings, over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside!
Like ships of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the
sky, over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving
river. A breeze quivers through the linden trees. Roses bloom at Malmaison.
Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already the Citoyenne
Beauharnais wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered
with dust, she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses with
smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves.... Roses.... They
have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs her shoulders and
makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she would be back in
time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine more likely.
</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p class="noindent">
The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles
in the sun.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="II">
<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a>
II
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
Gallop! Gallop! The General brooks no delay. Make way, good
people, and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs,
and your children. The General is returned from Egypt, and is come
in a calèche and four to visit his new property. Throw open the gates,
you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man, this is your
master, the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A jerk and a jingle
and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fi! It is for
joy at her husband’s return. Learn your place, Porter. A gentleman
here for two months? Fi! Fi, then! Since when have you taken to
gossiping? Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That—all green,
and red, and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony—that is a slave; a
blood-thirsty, stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries
to cure your tongue of idle whispering.
</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p class="noindent">
A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the trees.
</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p class="noindent">
“Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star I
pinned to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember
her prophecy. My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching;
send them away, and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb—Imperial,
but.... My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching
me! No, no, Bonaparte, not that—spare me that—did we not bury
that last night! You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong.
Not long, Dear, no, thank God, not long.”
</p>
<p>
The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It is getting
dark. Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate roof shines palely
milkily white.
</p>
<p>
The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the frost. What
need for roses? Smooth, open petals—her arms. Fragrant, outcurved
petals—her breasts. He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch
the petals, press them wider. Eagles. Bees. What are they to open
roses! A little shivering breeze runs through the linden trees, and the
tiered clouds blow across the sky like ships of the line, stately with
canvas.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="III">
III
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all day. The
gravel of the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels. An
officer gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops down with
his charger kicking. Valets-de-pied run about in ones, and twos, and
groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The guard is
changing, and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging
along the roads toward Paris.
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a>
The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles milkily, vaguely,
the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone and onyx now
for the sun’s mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison. New
rocks and fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars uprearing
antique temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of stone,
bridges of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere,
new flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed,
the roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled and
advancing, trundling a country ahead of it as though it were a hoop.
Laughter, and spur janglings in tesselated vestibules. Tripping of
clocked and embroidered stockings in little low-heeled shoes over smooth
grassplots. India muslins spangled with silver patterns slide through
trees—mingle—separate—white day-fireflies flashing moon-brilliance in
the shade of foliage.
</p>
<p>
“The kangeroos! I vow, Captain, I must see the kangeroos.”
</p>
<p>
“As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the shady linden
alley and feeding the cockatoos.”
</p>
<p>
“They say that Madame Bonaparte’s breed of sheep is the best in
all France.”
</p>
<p>
“And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar she planted
when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of <a id="corr-2"></a>Marengo?”
</p>
<p>
Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits to and fro. Over
the trees the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line bright
with canvas.
</p>
<p>
Prisoner’s-base, and its swooping, veering, racing, giggling, bumping.
The First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls.
But he picks himself up smartly, and starts after M. Isabey. Too late,
M. Le Premier Consul, Mademoiselle Hortense is out after you.
Quickly, my dear Sir! Stir your short legs, she is swift and eager,
and as graceful as her mother. She is there, that other, playing too,
but lightly, warily, bearing herself with care, rather floating out upon
the air than running, never far from goal. She is there, borne up
above her guests as something indefinably fair, a rose above periwinkles.
A blown rose, smooth as satin, reflexed, one loosened petal hanging
back and down. A rose that undulates languorously as the breeze takes
it, resting upon its leaves in a faintness of perfume.
</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p class="noindent">
There are rumours about the First Consul. Malmaison is full of
women, and Paris is only two leagues distant. Madame Bonaparte
stands on the wooden bridge at sunset, and watches a black swan pushing
the pink and silver water in front of him as he swims, crinkling its
smoothness into pleats of changing colour with his breast. Madame
Bonaparte presses against the parapet of the bridge, and the crushed
roses at her belt melt, petal by petal, into the pink water.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="IV">
<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a>
IV
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits about you. The Empress
will soon be here. Queer, without the Emperor! It is indeed, but best
not consider that. Scratch your head and prick up your ears. Divorce
is not for you to debate about. She is late? Ah, well, the roads are
muddy. The rain spears are as sharp as whetted knives. They dart
down and down, edged and shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop! A carriage
grows out of the mist. Hist, Porter. You can keep on your hat.
It is only Her Majesty’s dogs and her parrot. Clop-trop! The Ladies
in Waiting, Porter. Clop-trop! It is Her Majesty. At least, I suppose
it is, but the blinds are drawn.
</p>
<p>
“In all the years I have served Her Majesty she never before
passed the gate without giving me a smile!”
</p>
<p>
“You’re a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to put out her head
in the pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of her own to think
about.”
</p>
<p>
Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody else will be
coming to Malmaison tonight.
</p>
<p>
White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the
antechamber. Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished to
dust. Ashes of roses, ashes of youth. Empress forsooth!
</p>
<p>
Over the glass domes of the hot houses drenches the rain. Behind
her a clock ticks—ticks again. The sound knocks upon her thought
with the echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places her hands on her
ears, but the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And years
to come each knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years,
and tears, and cold pouring rain.
</p>
<p>
“I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation I have is that
I am no more.”
</p>
<p>
Rain! Heavy, thudding rain!
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="V">
V
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not only roses. Tulips,
myrtles, geraniums, camellias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths.
All the year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand,
die, and give way to others, always others. From distant countries
they have been brought, and taught to live in the cool temperateness of
France. There is the <em>Bonapartea</em> from Peru; the <em>Napoleone Impériale</em>;
the <em>Josephinia Imperatrix</em>, a pearl-white flower, purple-shadowed, the
calix pricked out with crimson points. Malmaison wears its flowers as
a lady wears her gems, flauntingly, assertively. Malmaison decks herself
to hide the hollow within.
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a>
The glass-houses grow and grow and every year fling up hotter
reflexions to the sailing sun.
</p>
<p>
The cost runs into millions, but a woman must have something to
console herself for a broken heart. One can play backgammon and
patience, and then patience and backgammon, and stake gold Napoleons
on each game won. Sport truly! It is an unruly spirit which could
ask better. With her jewels, her laces, her shawls; her two hundred
and twenty dresses, her fichus, her veils; her pictures, her busts, her
birds. It is absurd that she cannot be happy. The Emperor smarts
under the thought of her ingratitude. What could he do more? And
yet she spends, spends as never before. It is ridiculous. Can she not
enjoy life at a smaller figure? Was ever monarch plagued with so
extravagant an ex-wife? She owes her chocolate-merchant, her candle-merchant,
her sweetmeat purveyor; her grocer, her butcher, her poulterer;
her architect, and the shopkeeper who sells her rouge; her perfumer,
her dressmaker, her merchant of shoes. She owes for fans,
plants, engravings, and chairs. She owes masons and carpenters, vintners,
lingères. The lady’s affairs are in sad confusion.
</p>
<p>
And why? Why?
</p>
<p>
Can a river flow when the spring is dry?
</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p class="noindent">
Night. The Empress sits alone, and the clock ticks, one after one.
The clock nicks off the edges of her life. She is chipped like an old
bit of china; she is frayed like a garment of last year’s wearing. She is
soft, crinkled, like a fading rose. And each minute flows by brushing
against her, shearing off another and another petal. The Empress
crushes her breasts with her hands, and weeps. And the tall clouds
sail over Malmaison like a procession of stately ships bound for the
moon.
</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p class="noindent">
Scarlet, clear-blue, purple epauletted with gold. It is a parade of
soldiers sweeping up the avenue. Eight horses, eight Imperial harnesses,
four caparisoned postillions, a carriage with the Emperor’s arms
on the panels. Ho, Porter, pop out your eyes, and no wonder. Where
else under the Heavens could you see such splendour!
</p>
<p>
They sit on a stone seat. The little man in the green coat of a
colonel of Chasseurs, and the lady, beautiful as a satin seedpod, and
as pale. The house has memories. The satin seedpod holds his germs
of Empire. We will stay here, under the blue sky and the turreted
white clouds. She draws him; he feels her faded loveliness urge him
to replenish it. Her soft transparent texture woos his nervous fingering.
He speaks to her of debts, of resignation; of her children, and
his; he promises that she shall see the King of Rome; he says some
harsh things and some pleasant. But she is there, close to him, rose
<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a>
toned to amber, white shot with violet, pungent to his nostrils as embalmed
rose-leaves in a twilit room.
</p>
<p>
Suddenly the Emperor calls his carriage and rolls away across the
looping Seine.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="VI">
VI
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
Crystal-blue brightness over the glass-houses. Crystal-blue streaks
and ripples over the lake. A macaw on a gilded perch screams; they
have forgotten to take out his dinner. The windows shake. Boom!
Boom! It is the rumbling of Prussian cannon beyond Pecq. Roses
bloom at Malmaison. Roses! Roses! Swimming above their leaves,
rotting beneath them. Fallen flowers strew the unraked walks. Fallen
flowers for a fallen Emperor! The General in charge of him draws
back and watches. Snatches of music—snarling, sneering music of
bagpipes. They say a Scotch regiment is besieging St. Denis. The
Emperor wipes his face, or is it his eyes? His tired eyes which see
nowhere the grace they long for. Josephine! Somebody asks him a
question, he does not answer, somebody else does that. There are
voices, but one voice he does not hear, and yet he hears it all the time.
Josephine! The Emperor puts up his hand to screen his face. The
white light of a bright cloud spears sharply through the linden trees.
“Vive l’Empereur!” There are troops passing beyond the wall, troops
which sing and call. Boom! A pink rose is jarred off its stem and
falls at the Emperor’s feet.
</p>
<p>
“Very well. I go.” Where! Does it matter? There is no sword
to clatter. Nothing but soft brushing gravel and a gate which shuts
with a click.
</p>
<p>
“Quick, fellow, don’t spare your horses.”
</p>
<p>
A whip cracks, wheels turn, why burn one’s eyes following a fleck
of dust.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="VII">
VII
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
Over the slate roof tall clouds, like ships of the line, pass along
the sky. The glass-houses glitter splotchily, for many of their lights
are broken. Roses bloom, fiery cinders quenching under damp weeds.
Wreckage and misery, and a trailing of petty deeds smearing over old
recollections.
</p>
<p>
The musty rooms are empty and their shutters are closed, only in
the gallery there is a stuffed black swan, covered with dust. When you
touch it the feathers come off and float softly to the ground. Through
a chink in the shutters one can see the stately clouds crossing the sky
toward the Roman arches of the Marley Aqueduct.
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="THEPHILOSOPHER">
<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a>
The Philosopher
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
SHERWOOD ANDERSON
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">e</span> was an old man with a white beard and huge nose and hands.
Long before the time during which we will know him he was a
doctor, and drove a jaded white horse from house to house through the
streets of Winesburg, Ohio. Later he married a girl who had money.
She had been left a large fertile farm when her father died. The girl
was quiet, tall, and dark, and to many people she seemed very beautiful.
Everyone in Winesburg wondered why she married the doctor. Within
a year after the marriage she died.
</p>
<p>
The knuckles of the doctor’s hands were extraordinarily large.
When the hands were closed they looked like clusters of unpainted
wooden balls as large as walnuts fastened together by steel rods. He
smoked a cob pipe, and after his wife’s death sat all day in his empty
office close by a window that was covered with cobwebs. He never
opened the window. Once, on a hot day in August, he tried but found
it stuck fast, and after that he forgot all about it.
</p>
<p>
Winesburg had forgotten the old man, but in Doctor Reefy there
were the seeds of something. Alone in his musty office in the Heffner
block, above the Paris Dry Goods Company’s store, he worked ceaselessly,
building up something that he himself destroyed. Little pyramids
of truth he erected and after erecting knocked them down again that
he might have the truths to erect other pyramids.
</p>
<p>
Doctor Reefy was a tall man who had worn one suit of clothes
for ten years. It was frayed at the sleeves and little holes had appeared
at the knees and elbows. In the office he wore also a linen duster with
huge pockets into which he continually stuffed scraps of paper. After
some weeks the scraps of paper became little hard round balls and when
the pockets were filled with these he dumped them out upon the floor.
For ten years he had but one friend, another old man named John
Spaniard, who owned a tree nursery. Sometimes in a playful mood old
Doctor Reefy took from his pockets a handful of the paper balls and
threw them at the nurseryman. “That is to confound you, you blithering
old sentimentalist,” he cried, shaking with laughter.
</p>
<p>
The story of Doctor Reefy and of his courtship of the tall dark
girl, who became his wife and left her money to him, is a very curious
story. It is delicious like the twisted little apples that grow in the
orchards of Winesburg. In the fall one walks in the orchards and the
<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a>
ground is hard with frost underfoot. The apples have been taken from
the trees by the pickers. They have been put in barrels and shipped to
the cities where they will be eaten in apartments that are filled with
books, magazines, furniture and people. On the trees are only a few
knarled apples that the pickers have rejected. They look like the
knuckles of Doctor Reefy’s hands. One nibbles at them and they are
delicious. Into a little round place at the side of the apple has been
gathered all its sweetness. One runs from tree to tree over the frosted
ground picking the knarled, twisted apples and filling his pockets with
them. Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.
</p>
<p>
The girl and Doctor Reefy began their courtship on a summer
afternoon. He was forty-five then and already he had begun the practice
of filling his pockets with the scraps of paper that became hard balls
and were thrown away. The habit had been formed as he sat in his
buggy behind the jaded gray horse and went slowly along country
roads. On the papers were written thoughts, ends of thoughts, beginnings
of thoughts.
</p>
<p>
One by one the mind of Doctor Reefy had made the thoughts. Out
of many of them he formed a truth that rose gigantic in his mind. The
truth clouded the world. It became terrible and then faded away and
the little thoughts began again.
</p>
<p>
The tall dark girl came to see Doctor Reefy because she was going
to have a child and had become frightened. She was in that condition
because of a series of circumstances also curious.
</p>
<p>
The death of her father and mother and the rich acres of land that
had come down to her had set a train of suitors on her heels. For two
years she saw suitors almost every evening. With the exception of two
they were all alike. They talked to her of passion and there was a
strained eager quality in their voices and in their eyes when they looked
at her. The two who were different were much unlike the others. One
of them, a slender young man with white hands, the son of a jeweler
in Winesburg, talked continually of virginity. When he was with her
he was never off the subject. The other, a black-haired boy with large
ears, said nothing at all, but always managed to get her into the darkness
where he began to kiss her.
</p>
<p>
For a time the tall dark girl thought she would marry the jeweler’s
son. For hours she sat in silence listening as he talked, and then she
began to be afraid of something. Beneath his talk of virginity she
began to think there was a lust greater than in all of the others. At
times it seemed to her that as he talked he was holding her body in his
hands. She imagined him turning it slowly about in the white hands
and staring at it. At night she dreamed that he had bitten into her
body and that his jaws were dripping. She had the dream three times,
then she became pregnant by the one who said nothing at all, but who
<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a>
in the moment of his passion actually did bite her shoulder so that for
days the marks of his teeth showed.
</p>
<p>
After the tall dark girl came to know Doctor Reefy it seemed to
her that she never wanted to leave him again. She went into his office
in the morning and without her saying anything he seemed to know
what had happened to her.
</p>
<p>
In the office of the doctor there was a woman, the wife of the man
who kept the bookstore in Winesburg. Like all old-fashioned country
practitioners Doctor Reefy pulled teeth, and the woman who waited
held a handkerchief to her teeth and groaned. Her husband was with
her and when the tooth was taken out they both screamed and blood
ran down on the woman’s white dress. The tall dark girl did not pay
any attention. When the woman and the man had gone the doctor
smiled. “I will take you driving into the country with me,” he said.
</p>
<p>
For several weeks the tall dark girl and the doctor were together
almost every day. The condition that had brought her to him passed
in an illness, but she was like one who has discovered the sweetness of
the twisted apples and could not again get her mind fixed again upon
the round perfect fruit that is eaten in the apartments. In the fall after
the beginning of her acquaintanceship with him she married Doctor
Reefy and in the following spring she died. During the winter he read
to her all the odds and ends of thoughts he had scribbled on the bits of
paper. After he had read them he laughed and stuffed them away in
his pockets to become round hard balls.
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="SONGOFTHEKILLINGOFLIARS">
<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a>
Song of the Killing of Liars
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
RICHARD HUNT
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">My hands have grown strong</p>
<p class="verse">Wanting to clutch throats.</p>
<p class="verse">I have looked about me, Love,</p>
<p class="verse">And you are the only one</p>
<p class="verse">I do not want to kill.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">They tried to kill me</p>
<p class="verse">When I was young and helpless:</p>
<p class="verse">They almost did for me,</p>
<p class="verse">And I cannot forgive them.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Whom shall I choke first?—</p>
<p class="verse">The minister who told me a piece of bread</p>
<p class="verse">Was Christ’s body to be chewed weepingly?</p>
<p class="verse">Or my father who nearly frightened me to death</p>
<p class="verse">Because I dreamed about a girl?</p>
<p class="verse">Then there is my old teacher</p>
<p class="verse">Who made me write five hundred times,</p>
<p class="verse">“A man’s first duty is to his flag.”</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Liars!</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">First I will insult them</p>
<p class="verse">And strip them naked of their lies:</p>
<p class="verse">Then I will choke them dead,</p>
<p class="verse">And burn their institutions.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">There will be nothing left</p>
<p class="verse">But the clean earth and some children—</p>
<p class="verse">Our child, Love, and a child for it to mate with.</p>
<p class="verse">The air they breathe will be pure</p>
<p class="verse">For the lies will be all dead.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="MLLEPOETRYMEETSMEATTHECHURCH">
<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a>
Mlle. Poetry Meets Me at the Church
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
ROSCOE WILLIAM BRINK
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> a New York poetry society one night with a friend of a friend....
I had always wanted to see that society. Long have I
listened in awe to the unutterable rhythms of the city itself: the daily
ictus of the workward crowds in the morning, the beat again in the homeward
evening, lyric activity of the weeks rising to a crest like an Elizabethan
sonnet to end in a Saturday-Sunday couplet of application to the
heart of man, involved quatrains of the seasons, free verse epochs and
tensions, years and decades. As I listened to these bigger canticles of
New York City I have wanted to see its poetry society, fancying it some
homely cricket on its communal hearth—my pleasant heart-warming
dream. You see, also, besides listening in on this great, loud city voice,
I once wanted to write poetry myself—but that was long ago before,
under penalty of death by starvation, they took me and put me to work
and rediscovered vers libre.
</p>
<p>
As I sat beside the friend of a friend, gazing in glad surmise at an
elegant assembly of ladies and gentlemen, the poetry society meeting
came to order. Not since I was fourteen-fifteen, and went to prayer-meeting
because the girl I adored would be there, have I experienced
such emotions as I experienced then.
</p>
<p>
I don’t suppose you know my particular old white church prayer-meeting.
I used to go, rain or shine, every Friday night, and sit where
I could watch the door admit the pretty upward toss of curls of my affections’
desire. Sometimes she didn’t come and didn’t come. The opening
hymn would be sung and I would hear it not, for my eyes were upon
the door. Another hymn and the preacher would begin to speak with a
gentle, gushing, splashing sound at the mouth, but the door would remain
closed; and knotted, stifling disappointment be clutching at my
throat. Another hymn, and the discussion would be thrown open to the
congregation. Well, the door was stolid; I would slide back from the
edge of my chair and breathe thickly of the resisting air. So late, she
would not come now. To be sure, the congregation was some comfort:
there were the frisky young lady and the frisky middle-aged lady who
would pop to their feet with a squeal of enthusiasm, the deacons and
the elders, the sincere girls, the succinct young men with a duty to perform,
the conservatives and the infirm—all of them to speak. There came
one night when there was rejoicing in heaven’s hour. Somebody had
sent a check to pay for a new coat of white paint for the church. The
<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a>
treasurer arose from his chair and lifted up the check for all to see.
Then were hymns and glad talks with God and with woman and man.
The banks next day refused to honor the check.
</p>
<p>
In the New York poetry society meeting appeared no novelty for
me. I had been there before, so it seemed. Then, as of old, the meeting-room
was more charming, the congregation more elegant, but the same,
even to the frisky ones, with an exception in the authors’ literary agent
I saw just a few feet from me. Otherwise the same—a prayer-meeting,
the great American habit, a community impulse boiled down to four-square-wallsful.
</p>
<p>
As the meeting progressed I knew I had been there before. Absently
I looked toward the door for the pretty upward toss of curls again,
but I caught myself in time. Notices were read—again I looked toward
the door, and stopped. Jokes were made about vers libre; several very
interesting recitations were given; restlessly my eyes wandered doorward
again. One always forms such bad habits when he is young. Poems
now were being read, and criticized. But I had given up: I was looking
toward the door and willing to acknowledge it. But she for whom I
looked, came not. Then the leader with pleasure read a list of several
new members—one of them with the name of a certain rich person, a
name I had often seen associated with the millions of commerce but never
with the measures of verse. An uncrushed sigh of self-congratulation
went up over the room. I took my last look at the stolid door, slid back
from the edge of my chair; gave up. I knew She would not come. My
heart beat as of old, whimsically and sadly. She would not come.
</p>
<p>
I took my friend of a friend by the hand and sidled out of the room
into the night. A few corners away we came upon a news-stand, full
of magazines, upon every magazine a cover, upon every cover a girl,
one and the same forever and ever. “If She had come, would She have
been so grown that She would have looked like them?” I asked.
</p>
<p>
“Who come?” asked my friend of a friend.
</p>
<p>
“The Spirit of Poetry,” says I. “She hadda right, you know.”
</p>
<p>
American modernity, I bless thee through closed teeth—get thee to
thy prayer-meetings or some Billy Sunday will Carl Sanburg thee.
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="SILHOUETTES">
<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a>
Silhouettes
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
HARRIET DEAN
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="BARNYARDING">
Barn-Yarding
</h3>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">I</span> cannot joyously write little things. Perhaps that is why I write
none at all. The little people about me fill me with disgust. They
are cocksure bantam hens, loose and fertile, laying egg-thoughts carelessly.
The crack of shells is loud, but tiny wet chicks roll out, smaller
than the rest. God forbid that I am of the same breed! If I must linger
in the barn-yard for a few days, studying the swagger of these hens and
silently measuring my own, may I in the end fly away to my mountain-top—alone
in the night. Strut, if I must, but quite alone.
</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p class="noindent">
Their voices are splinters of sound which prick my desolation to
shreds. My one great fear is that clumsily they may stumble against my
loneliness. What matter if the tongue be unknown to me! These tone
arrows beat at my door like undesired rain; they hurl themselves against
my tissue walls until I shall go mad with their urgence.
</p>
<p>
The only true friendliness near me is the blank brick wall of the
house next door. I wrap myself in its unresponsiveness and stop up
my ears with its cold silence that I may have courage to go on with
my work.
</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p class="noindent">
Flame curtains flap in my grate and send grey indistinctness shivering
and stumbling over my walls.
</p>
<p>
A dusty mirror in a lonely house waits....
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="DEPARTURE">
Departure
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
“And now you, too, must go,” she said to me; I who had already
gone, silently, tenderly lest my steps break the stairs of her heart.
</p>
<div class="editorials chapter">
<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="editorials" id="ANNOUNCEMENTS">
Announcements
</h2>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="THEMIGRATORYMAGAZINE">
<em>The Migratory Magazine</em>
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
We have been invited to spend the summer in San Francisco,
so we decided to carry <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> along and publish
it there until October or November. Then we shall go back
to Chicago for a couple of months, and by the first of the year we
plan to establish ourselves in New York, where all good things
seem to turn at last. Our travels have been so exciting that it was
impossible to get out a June issue on the way. (In all honesty I
should add that the chronic low state of the treasury had even
more to do with it.) So we have combined the June and July
issues, as we did last year. Subscriptions will be extended accordingly.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="CHARLESKINNEYSARTICLE">
<em>Charles Kinney’s Article</em>
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
Mr. Kinney’s exposure of conditions at the Chicago Art
Institute, which was advertised in the last issue, has not
come in time to go in. The court procedures have taken much of
Mr. Kinney’s time. It will be published in the August issue.
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="PSYCHOANALYSIS">
<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a>
Psycho-Analysis
</h2>
</div>
<p class="subt">
Some Random Thoughts Thereon
</p>
<p class="aut">
FLORENCE KIPER FRANK
</p>
<div class="linespace">
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">hy</span> not history rewritten from the researches of the Freudians?
We have our economic determinism; why not our psycho-sexual?
The tendencies of the individual studied in their relations to world-breaking
and world-making! Hannibal and his mother, Queen Elizabeth
and her nurse, Frederick the Great and the Oedipus complex!
</p>
<p>
The priest of the future will be the Inspired Physician. All tendencies
seem so to point. The Christian Scientist and New Thought
healers are vague and emotional answers to this social demand, the
psycho-analytic physician a more sophisticated and precise one. The
functions of those who now minister separately to soul and to body
will, as in primitive society, again be united. The modern medicine-man
shall be the priest of the new order!
</p>
<p>
To the adolescent, the value of the Inspired Physician can scarcely
be over-stated. Jeanne D’Orge has thus written of the sixteen-year-old
period:
</p>
</div>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I wish there were Someone</p>
<p class="verse">Who would hear confession:</p>
<p class="verse">Not a priest—I do not want to be told of my sins;</p>
<p class="verse">Not a mother—I do not want to give sorrow;</p>
<p class="verse">Not a friend—she would not know enough;</p>
<p class="verse">Not a lover—he would be too partial;</p>
<p class="verse">Not God—he is far away;</p>
<p class="verse">But Someone that should be friend, lover, mother, priest, God all in one,</p>
<p class="verse">And a Stranger besides—who would not condemn nor interfere,</p>
<p class="verse">Who when everything is said from beginning to end</p>
<p class="verse">Would show the reason of it all</p>
<p class="verse">And tell you to go ahead</p>
<p class="verse">And work it out your own way.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="linespace">
<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a>
<p>
What of the functions of the physician-priest in marriage! The
possibilities are, to say the least, interesting. As substitute for the
churchly bunk talked at the average churchly ceremony, an intimate
tete-a-tete between, say, the Inspired Physician and the woman. It
might do much to validate the “sacredness” of wedlock. And, incidentally,
I wonder what data the Freudians are going to contribute
during the next ten years to feminism. Ellis states that sexual normality
isn’t possible to determine because there isn’t enough material by
which to base a norm. Especially, says he, is this true of the sexual
psychology of women. Valuable, then, will be the testimony of those
who have been hearing confessions!
</p>
<p>
One of the most powerful functions of the Catholic Church united
with modern scientific research! I wonder if the need for the confessional
isn’t eternal.
</p>
<p>
Amazing, isn’t it, that the most remarkable contributions to the
study of personality come out of the modern Prussianized Teutonic
empires? On the one hand men mowed down by the socialized thousands;
on the other this incredibly patient and exhaustive searching
into the bewildering complexities of the individual soul.
</p>
<p>
Break through the crust of any man as he thinks he is, and you
are plunged into currents undreamed of. And isn’t one amazed at how
much alike we all of us are—and how different!
</p>
<p>
The Freudian searching into motives is the accredited material of
the novelist; the use of dream symbols the very stuff of the poet. The
successful psycho-analytic physician ought to combine the adroitness of
the fictionist with the imagination of the versifier.
</p>
<p>
From the standpoint of medical technique Freud and Jung may
have diverged importantly—philosophically the younger man builds on
the Freudian researches and there is no break in the continuity. Freud
is perhaps more valuable to the physician; to the layman Jung opens up
a realm of speculation and discovery more fascinating than that of
Darwinism.
</p>
<p>
The old sweet mythos, as friend Browning says, has been rediscovered.
We are more wonderful than we thought. We are carrying
about in our compassed personalities all dreams and imaginings. What
avails the modernity of elevators and skyscrapers! You, betrousered
one, walking Michigan Avenue—in your psyche are the ancient Hindus
and the dancing sun-worshippers. You with the hand-bag and that
<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a>
1916 model frock, do you truly think you are thinking in terms of
American asphalted Chicago? Indeed! It was the symbolism of the
Eleusinian mysteries that was used in the image which flashed into your
mind just then. How was it recreated? Heaven knows—or Dr. Jung!
And in your dreams, when the censor is quite off guard—how did you,
prosaic being, become suddenly the wildest of poets?
</p>
<p>
The average man—by that I mean the average man of cultivation—is
not at all cognizant yet of the large significance of the psycho-analytic
studies. He thinks them some libidinous sex-stuff come out of
Germany, or perhaps one of the many new methods to be tried on the
insane and the neurotic. Their immense import for the normal (whatever
<em>he</em> is!) he has not yet understood. It will take perhaps another
five years, for the discoveries of psycho-analysis to penetrate the popular
consciousness. Perhaps less—for some Augustus Thomas (God save
us from such!) may before then write a play about it.
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="ADYPTICH">
A Dyptich
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
SKIPWITH CANNELL
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="WONDERSONG">
Wonder Song
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">No man who borrows</p>
<p class="verse">Should return the exact debt;</p>
<p class="verse">Let him return more,</p>
<p class="verse">Or let him return less.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I borrowed twelve dollars</p>
<p class="verse">From a rich uncle of mine:</p>
<p class="verse">I paid him back a hundred’s worth of poetry.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">He is not satisfied.</p>
<p class="verse">I am not forgotten.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a>
<p class="verse">I borrowed from a stranger</p>
<p class="verse">An old coat full of lice;</p>
<p class="verse">The cloth became strong serge,</p>
<p class="verse">The lice became buttons.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The stranger</p>
<p class="verse">Wanted his old coat back again,</p>
<p class="verse">He got an old joke instead</p>
<p class="verse">And went away laughing.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I gave my God some second-hand prayers,</p>
<p class="verse">Prayers that were used and fingered and worn;</p>
<p class="verse">In return He gave me</p>
<p class="verse">My heart’s desire.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I gave my God all the love that’s in me....</p>
<p class="verse">He put it in His pocket,</p>
<p class="verse">Absently,</p>
<p class="verse">With talk of the weather:</p>
<p class="verse">He’s a wise God, knowing His own worth.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">No one who borrows</p>
<p class="verse">Should make exact payment;</p>
<p class="verse">If he does as I say</p>
<p class="verse">He’ll be remembered forever.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="SCORN">
Scorn
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I will not lay bricks for the homes of other men;</p>
<p class="verse">I prefer to fell trees in the forest,</p>
<p class="verse">To fell them and let them lie.</p>
<p class="verse">If I go to the forests, I will starve;</p>
<p class="verse">If I lay bricks for those others,</p>
<p class="verse">They will feed me soup and black bread and onions.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I will fell trees</p>
<p class="verse">Angrily,</p>
<p class="verse">And I will let them lie.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="THEDEEPERSCORN">
<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a>
The Deeper Scorn
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I will lay many bricks:</p>
<p class="verse">And that I may lay them better,</p>
<p class="verse">I will take their bread and their soup ...</p>
<p class="verse">Courteously returning thanks</p>
<p class="verse">For the wages they offer....</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I will lay many bricks,</p>
<p class="verse">And in a straight row,</p>
<p class="verse">As befits one who has knowledge of his freedom.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="HOKKU">
Hokku
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
EDGAR LEE MASTERS
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I lift my eyes from the humus</p>
<p class="verse">Up the sea-green stalk to the flower.</p>
<p class="verse">The base of the petals is red as blood;</p>
<p class="verse">But I cannot see the line that divides</p>
<p class="verse">The rim of the petals from the sun light.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="POEMS">
<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a>
Poems
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
MARK TURBYFILL
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="THINDAY">
Thin Day
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Bright, alert,</p>
<p class="verse">Arise these wild blue buds</p>
<p class="verse">Above this crystal jar.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">But they have no soul,</p>
<p class="verse">And bear no sweetness</p>
<p class="verse">On their lips.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Oh pity of azure days</p>
<p class="verse">Like these blue flowers!</p>
<p class="verse">We cannot endure in their thinness:</p>
<p class="verse">Our hearts sink</p>
<p class="verse">Through their petal-gauze.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="THEROSEJAR">
The Rose Jar
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">O Earth,</p>
<p class="verse">You have brought me out too soon!</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">He whom I love</p>
<p class="verse">Still clings upon the branch,</p>
<p class="verse">Firm, a slender bud.</p>
<p class="verse">But you have spread me wide.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Take these broken leaves,</p>
<p class="verse">Now fallen from the core.</p>
<p class="verse">(O Earth,</p>
<p class="verse">You have brought me out too soon!)</p>
<p class="verse">Drop them into your Jar</p>
<p class="verse">For him who shall surely pass this way,</p>
<p class="verse">At last!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="THEIRISHREVOLUTIONISTS">
<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a>
The Irish Revolutionists
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
PADRAIC COLUM
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> British Government, which was quite willing to exploit the sympathy
felt here on the premature death of the young English poet,
Rupert Brooke, shot to death three Irish poets, Padraic Pearse, Thomas
MacDonagh, and Joseph Plunkett.
</p>
<p>
Not only in Ireland, but the whole world is at a loss by the extinction
of these three brave, honorable, and distinguished lives.
</p>
<p>
The English illustrated journals that have just come to New York
enable us to estimate by a contrast the world’s loss. They have published
the photographs of the Irish revolutionary leaders; and with them
they have published the photograph of the man who ordered their
execution, General Maxwell. On one side they give you intellectual and
spiritual faces—the faces of men who liberate the world. On the other
side they give you a heavy, non-intellectual, non-spiritual face—the
face of a man who could never liberate himself.
</p>
<p>
The vision and the aspiration of Pearse, MacDonagh, and Plunkett
is on record for the world to know. A man cannot lie when he speaks
of his vision or his aspiration in poetry. We know what Padraic Pearse
thought of personal life. He has recorded it in his poem <em>To Death</em>,
which has been translated from the Irish:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I have not gathered gold;</p>
<p class="verse">The fame that I won perished;</p>
<p class="verse">In love I found but sorrow</p>
<p class="verse4">That withered my life.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Of wealth or of glory</p>
<p class="verse">I shall leave nothing behind me</p>
<p class="verse">(I think it, O God, enough!)</p>
<p class="verse4">But my name in the heart of a child.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
And what vision of life had Thomas MacDonagh? We know, for
it is in his poem <em>Wishes For My Son</em>:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">But I found no enemy,</p>
<p class="verse">No man in a world of wrong,</p>
<p class="verse">That Christ’s word of Charity</p>
<p class="verse">Did not render clean and strong—</p>
<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a>
<p class="verse">Who was I to judge my kind,</p>
<p class="verse">Blindest groper of the blind?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">God to you may give the sight</p>
<p class="verse">And the clear undoubting strength</p>
<p class="verse">Wars to knit for single right,</p>
<p class="verse">Freedom’s war to knit at length;</p>
<p class="verse">And to win, through wrath and strife,</p>
<p class="verse">To the sequel of my life.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">But for you, so small and young,</p>
<p class="verse">Born of Saint Cecilia’s Day,</p>
<p class="verse">I in more harmonious song</p>
<p class="verse">Now for nearer joys should pray—</p>
<p class="verse">Simple joys: the natural growth</p>
<p class="verse">Of your childhood and your youth,</p>
<p class="verse">Courage, innocence, and truth:</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">These for you, so small and young,</p>
<p class="verse">In your hand and heart and tongue.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
And we know the vision of life that Joseph Plunkett had—it was
the same vision that the great mystics and the great religious had. It
is in his poem <em>I See His Blood Upon the Roses</em>:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I see his blood upon the rose</p>
<p class="verse">And in the stars the glory of his eyes,</p>
<p class="verse">His body gleams amid eternal snows,</p>
<p class="verse">His tears fall from the skies.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I see his face in every flower;</p>
<p class="verse">The thunder and the singing of the birds</p>
<p class="verse">Are but his voice—and carven by his power</p>
<p class="verse">Rocks are his written words.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">All pathways by his feet are worn,</p>
<p class="verse">His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,</p>
<p class="verse">His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,</p>
<p class="verse">His cross is every tree.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
These three men had a vision for their country that could not be
expressed in a proclamation, no matter how nobly worded that proclamation
might be.
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a>
Padraic Pearse gave all his thought and all his effort to bring
back a chivalry to Ireland—the Heroic Age of Celtic History, when,
as he said, “the greatest honor was for the hero with the most childlike
heart, for the King who had the largest pity, and for the poet who
visioned the truest image of beauty.” The first thing you saw when you
entered his school in Cullenswood House was a fresco representing the
boy Cuchullain taking arms. The Druid has warned him that the youth
who takes arms that day will make his name famous, but will have a
short life. And written round the fresco, in the old Irish words, was
Cuchullain’s answer, “I care not if my life have only the span of a day
and a night if my deeds be spoken of by the men of Ireland.” This
was the spirit that Padraic Pearse sought to kindle in his boys—this
was the spirit that he tried to bring back again into Ireland.
</p>
<p>
Thomas MacDonagh strove to create an Ireland that would be
free as his intelligence was free, as eager for deeds as he himself was
eager. Those who knew MacDonagh in his literary expression thought
of him as a poet with a tendency towards abstractions, as a scholar with
a bent towards philology. Those who knew him intimately knew him
as a man who was the best of comrades. And they knew that there was
something in MacDonagh that he never expressed. What was fundamental
in him was an eager search for the thing to which he could give
the whole devotion of his life. He found it in his vision of the Irish
Republic.
</p>
<p>
Joseph Mary Plunkett strove to bring back the spirit and the defiance
of the martyrs. He came of a family whose name has been
in Irish history for six hundred years. The proudest memory of his
people was the memory of martyrdom. The last priest martyred in
England—the Venerable Oliver Plunkett—was of his blood.
</p>
<p>
These men, with their comrades—the good and brave Connolly,
who gave all of his will and all of his ability to the workers of Ireland,
the upright Eamonn Ceant, the soldierly O’Rahilly, the adventurous
MacBride, Shaun MacDermott, “kindly Irish of the Irish,” and the
others—have done a great thing for our country at this great moment
of history.
</p>
<p>
They have made Ireland not a British question but a European
question.
</p>
<p>
They have shown us that the country should be redeemed by the
heroic spirit as well as by the political intelligence.
</p>
<p>
They have belittled danger and death for generations of Irish
nationalists.
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="BRINGOUTYOURDEAD">
<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a>
Bring Out Your Dead
</h2>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="BRAITHWAITESDEATHCART">
Braithwaite’s Death-Cart
</h3>
<p class="note">
<em>The Poetry Review of America, edited by William Stanley Braithwaite,
Cambridge, Massachusetts.</em>
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> plague being upon us—God knows whence it came—the plague
being upon us, poisoning men and women, and turning them into
minor and sub-minor poets, and catching some in their youth so that
they can never become men and women—the plague being upon us, I
suppose there must be men brave enough to fashion death-carts for the
corpses. It is a sanitary precaution. The more carts the better. The
builders should be commended; the drivers medalled and ultimately
pensioned. We should not bother much about the wheels—how they
bang and rattle. Let the corpses leer and quarrel. But keep the carts
well burdened and speed them to the pyres of oblivion.
</p>
<p>
This is not criticism, but the exaggeration of bitterness; and you,
Mr. Braithwaite, should not complain if our lips writhe back at the cup
which you have held out to us and if our tongues are twisted to a sincerity
that sounds like malice. When <em>Contemporary Verse</em> issued from
Philadelphia like an ancient tumbril reconstructed by children we
laughed and said, “God speed you while you last.” But when rumors
came of a new poetry magazine in Boston we waited with the wonderful
hope of eager youth. Ah, the new Poetry Review! The new Poetry
Review! And what have you done? You have given us the old doll
without even new tinsel. Do you wonder that I would smash your doll
and tear its frayed and tawdry clothing?
</p>
<p>
“To serve the art we all love,” you say. Does Benjamin R. C.
Low serve it with sentimental buncombe like <em>Jack O’Dreams</em>? Does
Amelia Josephine Burr serve it with a library tragedy like <em>Vengeance</em>?
And you, Mr. Braithwaite, do you serve it by writing a muddled article
on <em>The Substance of Poetry</em>? The bad grammar and proofreading
can be forgiven, but who can cleave his way through the jungle of incoherent
thought? And I may add seriously that Mr. Edwin F. Edgett,
with his puerile remarks about Shakespeare, sounds very much like your
younger brother.
</p>
<p>
There is the beginning of service in the competently written criticisms
by Messrs. Untermeyer, O’Brien and Colum, and especially in the
tantalizing quotations in fine print from Donald Evan’s new book <em>Two</em>
<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a>
<em>Deaths in the Bronx</em>. Amy Lowell contributes a short story in her
recent colloquial vein and Sara Teasdale a sincere lyric.
</p>
<p>
If live men and women have been sand-bagged and put in the
death-cart, let them awake and revive the corpses of their companions.
Let them turn the cart into a tally-ho and gallop on with daring and
exuberance, cracking a whip at critics.
</p>
<p>
I do not know your age, Mr. Braithwaite, but I feel that I have
the wisdom of greater youth. You have not quite killed hope in me,
for I know your true devotion to your work. What will you give us in
the forthcoming numbers of your magazine?
</p>
<p class="attr">
<span class="smallcaps">Mitchell Dawson.</span>
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="HERBERTTREESMERCHANTOFVENICE">
Herbert Tree’s “<em>Merchant of Venice</em>”
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
Could I invent some acid, bitter-stinging speech, some new tongue
far beyond English in sharpness, I might begin to describe the spectacle
of incredible vulgarity—of miserable intent and culmination—which is
to be viewed upon the New Amsterdam stage this month. English
shrinks—becomes the prattled language of babes—at thought of it.
</p>
<p>
Is the great wind which has blown the dust from the theatres of
Germany, bearing Craig and Reinhart and Barker upon its back, echoing
even here in America, to be completely discounted, silenced, by this vulgarian,
this soulless, thoughtless, casual, shambling buffoon?
</p>
<p>
To <em>The Merchant of Venice</em>—a rambling, untidy comedy at best,
a play for reading, or only to be played by a man of genius—he brings
a graceless cast, a marvelous pot-pourri of music (tom-toms for “Morrocco”
and Spanish jingles for “Arragon”), a quite distended and “improved”
version of the original play, himself (God save us), and a
theory of decoration quite incomprehensibly fearful. Brown palaces
shaking to the conversation of the players—brown palaces with hangings
of decayed green, a sham, paper Venice, elaborately stenciled, a Portia
in landlady’s pink, a <a id="corr-10"></a>Jessica (a spirited Cockney girl) in Turkish costume,
roysterers garbed with all the delicate art of Timbuctoo, a Shylock
in old dressing gown. No detail, no fragment of the picture of vulgarity
is lacking—from red-plush curtains to modern rattle-jacks for
the Carnival, from mouthed speeches to maudlin groupings—a complete
whole.
</p>
<p>
This to an apparently delighted audience, to a receptive press.
</p>
<p>
Barker departed from America, a semi-success, embittered towards
us. <em>The Weavers</em>, finely played and brilliantly produced, clung to the
shadow of an audience at the Garden Theatre, got as far as Chicago and
failed completely there. The two great things in the theatre of the past
year trodden out of sight of the easy public at the absurd and dolorous
prancing, at the loud cajoling of popularity of bourgeois neighbor Tree.
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a>
How long is the theatre to cling to ragged precedent; to these
mournful gentlemen of a dusty yesterday, raving through their paper
and lattice Venices, showing us their entrail-colored Belmonts, barring
sun and light and poetry and singing from the song-starved people of
America?
</p>
<p class="attr">
<span class="smallcaps">Rollo Peters.</span>
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="SOMEIMAGISTPOETS1916YAY">
Some Imagist Poets, 1916<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a>
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
MARY ALDIS
</p>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> is a matter of speculation why six poets of widely dissimilar viewpoints,
if similar technique, should <a id="corr-11"></a>choose to band themselves together
to publish in a yearly anthology selections from their works.
</p>
<p>
An examination into the prefaces and poems of the three anthologies
sent forth by the Imagists and a study of various articles on the subject
by individual members of the group fail to give adequate explanation.
</p>
<p>
The principle tenets of Imagism, i. e., clear presentation, the abolishing
of outworn phrases and extra adjectives, the necessity of rhythm
in all poetry, the absence of reflective comment, are those common
to most of the modern serious writers of verse; and although the
Imagists have done well to lay fresh emphasis on the difficulty and
desirability of putting these tenets into practice, this hardly constitutes
a new school. As for a definite understanding of the term
Imagism, God help the man who thinks he can explain to another its
meaning.
</p>
<p>
The Imagists, all six of them (there were more in the first
anthology, but seemingly some fell from grace), write poetry. That
they choose to employ a sub-title need not concern us; nor does their
exposition of certain theoretical ideals. What does concern us is the
quality of the poems they write. If it seems well to these six poets
to publish together a collection of chosen poems, let us pay our seventy-five
cents for the modest green paper volume, to read and re-read
those that please us best; or, let us go our way untroubled, giving our
affection to safe and sure collections—Rittenhouse, Braithwaite, or even
good Edmund Clarence Stedman.
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a>
There is a patient note discernible in the preface of this third
volume which seems to say, “Once again we will endeavor to make clear
what we are trying to do. Kindly make an effort to understand.” One
may question the desirability of any preface, but it is not surprising
that the Imagists wish to make clear their aims and purposes. One
wonders at the breath expended in attacks on them. There are disadvantages
in this banding together: if one of the group makes a misstep
the whole six are anathematized; but, after all, it is quite futile,
this effort to kill by ridicule. Denunciation, however fierce, has never
yet crushed anything which had in it the living flame of beauty, as
much Imagist poetry has.
</p>
<p>
Miss Amy Lowell is represented in this 1916 Anthology by three
poems. The first is her <em>Patterns</em>, named by Braithwaite as the first of
the five best poems of 1915. It is difficult to quote, as the poem must
be taken in its entirety to appreciate its beauty. Here are the first two
stanzas:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I walk down the garden paths,</p>
<p class="verse">And all the daffodils</p>
<p class="verse">Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.</p>
<p class="verse">I walk down the patterned garden paths</p>
<p class="verse">In my stiff, brocaded gown.</p>
<p class="verse">With my powdered hair and jewelled fan.</p>
<p class="verse">I too am a rare</p>
<p class="verse">Pattern. As I wander down</p>
<p class="verse">The garden paths.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">My dress is richly figured,</p>
<p class="verse">And the train</p>
<p class="verse">Makes a pink and silver stain</p>
<p class="verse">On the gravel, and the thrift</p>
<p class="verse">Of the borders.</p>
<p class="verse">Just a plate of current fashion,</p>
<p class="verse">Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.</p>
<p class="verse">Not a softness anywhere about me,</p>
<p class="verse">Only whale-bone and brocade.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Studying it again one finds new beauties—the delicacy of the occasional
rhyme, used as a musician uses the flute in an orchestra, the
curious “pattern” of the rhythm, which cannot be defined and yet fits
the theme with inimitable grace; the unforgettable picture of the garden
with its stiff paths, its white fountain, its carelessly gorgeous flowers,
and the woman walking down the path with slow and stately tread.
Her head is straight and high, pink and silver is her stiff brocaded
gown, yet one knows that underneath it throbs a human heart for which
there is no place in the pattern. Here is certainly a new way of conveying
emotion. We are stirred by the passion of the poem up to its
terrible climax—“Christ! what are patterns for?”
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a>
A masterpiece this poem, one to learn and repeat and make one’s
own. There follows by Miss Lowell <em>A Spring Day</em> in polyphonic prose,
a series of word pictures scintillating with color and dancing light. The
day has five color divisions: the Bath, where “little spots of sunshine
lie on the surface of the water and dance, and their reflections wabble
deliciously over the ceiling”; the Breakfast Table, where golden coffee,
yellow butter and silver and white make another symphony. Then
comes the Walk, with more color, from boys with black and red,
amber and blue marbles, “spitting crimson” when they are hit, to a
man’s hat careering down the street in front of white dust “jarring
the sunlight into spokes of rose-color and green.” Next comes Midday
and Afternoon, then Night and Sleep. “Wrap me close, sheets of
lavender. Pour your blue and purple dreams into my ears.... Pale
blue lavender, you are the color of the sky when it is fresh-washed and
fair.”
</p>
<p>
Miss Lowell also includes her amazing paraphrase of Stravinsky’s
<em>Grotesques</em>, too amazing for an unmusical person’s comment.
</p>
<p>
Richard Aldington has seven poems. The finest is a short Elizabethan
lyric named <em>After Two Years</em>. It is a lovely bit, but why it
should be published in an “Imagist” collection no man may say. Its
delicate beauty is indefinable.
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<h3 class="excerpt" id="AFTERTWOYEARS">
After Two Years
</h3>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">She is all so slight</p>
<p class="verse">And tender and white</p>
<p class="verse3">As a May morning.</p>
<p class="verse">She walks without hood</p>
<p class="verse">At dusk. It is good</p>
<p class="verse3">To hear her sing.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">It is God’s will</p>
<p class="verse">That I shall love her still</p>
<p class="verse3">As He loves Mary.</p>
<p class="verse">And night and day</p>
<p class="verse">I will go forth to pray</p>
<p class="verse3">That she loves me.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">She is as gold</p>
<p class="verse">Lovely, and far more cold.</p>
<p class="verse3">Do thou pray with me,</p>
<p class="verse">For if I win grace</p>
<p class="verse">To kiss twice her face</p>
<p class="verse3">God has done well to me.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Aldington’s <em>Eros and Psyche</em> has both beauty and distinction, but
no one of the seven poems by him can compare with his <em>Choricos</em> in
the Anthology of 1915. That is an achievement not easily repeated.
</p>
<p>
<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a>
Perhaps H. D. is the purest Imagist of the group. To the uninitiated
she is the most obscure because the most abstract. She loves
the sea and high, windy places and her poems catch something of the
freshness one feels standing on a headland, beaten and buffeted by the
wind and the salt spray. Nature is to her as a living presence, sometimes
gentle, more often cruel. She vibrates to beauty as sensitively as
a Greek dryad, and in reading her poems one has a curious sense of a
worshipper offering incense to the gods. Here are some lines from the
last one of the four poems she contributes. It is called <em>Temple—The
Cliff</em>:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">High—high and no hill-goat</p>
<p class="verse">Tramples—no mountain-sheep</p>
<p class="verse">Has set foot on your fine grass.</p>
<p class="verse">You lift, you are the world-edge,</p>
<p class="verse">Pillar for the sky-arch.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The world heaved—</p>
<p class="verse">We are next to the sky.</p>
<p class="verse">Over us, sea-hawks shout,</p>
<p class="verse">Gulls sweep past.</p>
<p class="verse">The terrible breakers are silent.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Shall I hurl myself from here.</p>
<p class="verse">Shall I leap and be nearer you?</p>
<p class="verse">Shall I drop, beloved, beloved.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Over me the wind swirls.</p>
<p class="verse">I have stood on your portal</p>
<p class="verse">And I know—</p>
<p class="verse">You are further than this,</p>
<p class="verse">Still further on another cliff.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
In their passion for clearness, for the exact word, Imagists often
use certain words which sound ugly. In this poem of fourteen stanzas,
the word “lurch” occurs three times. It is not a pretty word, it does
not suggest a graceful action, yet apparently no other will do.
</p>
<p>
John Gould Fletcher is, first of all, pictorial. His conception of
Imagism differs slightly, it would seem, from his confreres. His imagination
is so strong he sees significance in every changing image of this
changing world. His rhythm is so vague that sometimes it is hardly
discoverable. His poetry could be printed about as well in block as in
line, as doubtless he would admit. He loves color—revels, glories, riots
in color; and he has a way of seeing resemblances to dragons and
serpents and other ungodly things in the simplest of natural phenomena—trees
or clouds or rain or even sunrise. His vocabulary is astonishing.
He plunges into a sea of words and plays with them, tossing them
up like jewels to sparkle in the sun, or burying them in pits to see if
they will still shine. He loves words, caresses them with a lover’s
touch, kisses them for luck, and then hurls them together in such an
<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a>
incredible combination that the critics blink. A serious workman withal,
with much to say seething in his mind and a determination to say it in
his own way. There is perhaps no line in the six poems in this
Anthology equal to the much-quoted “Vermillion pavilion against a
jade balustrade.” <em>The Mexican Quarter</em> is a poem of forty-two lines
wherein is depicted and symbolized the very spirit of Mexican life and
love. It ends with an unexpected little lyric. One can almost hear the
twang of the guitar. Here is Fletcher’s picture of <em>An Unquiet Street</em>:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">By day and night this street is not still:</p>
<p class="verse">Omnibuses with red tail-lamps,</p>
<p class="verse">Taxicabs with shiny eyes,</p>
<p class="verse">Rumble, shunning its ugliness.</p>
<p class="verse">It is corrugated with wheel-ruts,</p>
<p class="verse">It is dented and pockmarked with traffic,</p>
<p class="verse">If has no time for sleep.</p>
<p class="verse">It heaves its old scarred countenance</p>
<p class="verse">Skyward between the buildings</p>
<p class="verse">And never says a word.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">On rainy nights</p>
<p class="verse">It dully gleams</p>
<p class="verse">Like the cold tarnished scales of a snake:</p>
<p class="verse">And over it hang arc-lamps,</p>
<p class="verse">Blue-white death-lilies on black stems.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
I think only a poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling could see in our
municipal arc lamps “blue-white death-lilies on black stems,” but I am
going to look more carefully after this.
</p>
<p>
F. S. Flint has given us more beauty in his earlier work, notably
in <em>London My Beautiful</em> and <em>The Swan</em>, than is to be found here, save
perhaps in <em>Chalfont Saint Giles</em>, which has simplicity and dignified
stateliness. It is a picture of village folk gravely filing into church, past
ivy and lilac, as the bell rings. The sadness of England in war-time is
in the picture. Here are two stanzas:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Walk quietly</p>
<p class="verse">along the mossy paths;</p>
<p class="verse">the stones of the humble dead</p>
<p class="verse">are hidden behind the blue mantle</p>
<p class="verse">of their forget-me-nots;</p>
<p class="verse">and before one grave so hidden</p>
<p class="verse">a widow kneels, with head bowed,</p>
<p class="verse">and the crape falling</p>
<p class="verse">over her shoulders.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The bells for evening church are ringing,</p>
<p class="verse">and the people come gravely</p>
<p class="verse">and with red, sun-burnt faces</p>
<p class="verse">through the gates in the wall.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a>
D. H. Lawrence contributes what may be considered, except for
<em>Patterns</em>, the most notable poem in the book, <em>Erinnyes</em>, although again
why it should be called Imagism is a mystery. It is certainly, however,
a poem, and a profound and beautiful one. In its form and its long,
slow, melancholy rhythm it suggests Aldington’s <em>Choricos</em>, and the
theme is the same—Death. Here are five stanzas:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">There are so many dead,</p>
<p class="verse">Many have died unconsenting,</p>
<p class="verse">Theirs ghosts are angry, unappeased.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">They come back, over the white sea, in the mist,</p>
<p class="verse">Invisible, trooping home, the unassuaged ghosts</p>
<p class="verse">Endlessly returning on the uneasy sea.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">What do they want, the ghosts, what is it</p>
<p class="verse">They demand as they stand in menace over against us?</p>
<p class="verse">How shall we now appease whom we have raised up?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Must we open the doors, and admit them, receive them home,</p>
<p class="verse">And in the silence, reverently, welcome them,</p>
<p class="verse">And give them place and honour and service meet?</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">For one year’s space, attend on our angry dead,</p>
<p class="verse">Soothe them with service and honour, and silence meet,</p>
<p class="verse">Strengthen, prepare them for the journey hence,</p>
<p class="verse">Then lead them to the gates of the unknown,</p>
<p class="verse">And bid farewell, oh stately travellers,</p>
<p class="verse">And wait till they are lost upon our sight.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
There is another poem of Lawrence’s called <em>Perfidy</em> that gives an
elusive sense of horror and calamity. This effect lies partially in the
five-line stanza formation with the first, third, and fourth lines rhyming.
There is no particular reason for calling this poem Imagism either; but
we have agreed by now, I trust, that is not our first consideration. No
less a person than Miss Lowell herself gives us justification in this
viewpoint, for in a review of the poems of Aldington and Flint in the
June <em>Poetry Review</em> she says, “Let us take these little volumes as
poetry pure and simple, forgetting schools and creeds.”
</p>
<p>
There are thirty-two poems in all in the book. One person will like
this one best, another that. Suffice that the book is a valuable contribution
to contemporary literature.
</p>
<hr class="footnote">
<p class="footnote">
<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> <em>Some Imagist Poets, 1916: An Annual Anthology. Boston:
Houghton Mifflin.</em>
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="THREEIMAGISTPOETS">
<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a>
Three Imagist Poets
</h2>
</div>
<p class="aut">
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
</p>
<p class="note">
(<em>Continued from the May issue</em>)
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="III3">
III
</h3>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> pass from the poetry of Mr. Aldington to the poetry of H. D. is to
pass into another world. For H. D. not only is a modern poet,
she is in the best sense of the word a primitive poet. She deals with
Greek themes in the same way as the Greeks of the seventh century
B. C. might have dealt with them. She is not like Mr. Aldington, a
sceptic enamoured of their lost beauty. In a sense she is indifferent to
beauty. Something speaks to her in every rock, wave, or pine tree of
those sunlit landscapes in which she seems to live. For her the decadence
of antiquity, the Middle Ages, the modern world seem never to
have existed. She is purely and frankly pagan.
</p>
<p>
How is it that so many people interested in Imagism seem never to
have grasped this essential distinction between her work and Mr. Aldington’s?
I must suppose it is because very few people have ever tried to
analyze and rank the Imagist poets on any other basis than that of form.
But as I have already pointed out, the form of the Imagists is, after all, a
matter of lesser importance than the spirit, with which they approach that
form. Aldington writes about life: H. D. is almost completely a nature
poet. Nature to her is not mere inanimate scenery or beautiful decoration:
it is packed with a life and significance which is beyond our individual
lives, and all her poems are in a sense acts of worship towards it.
Civilization for her does not exist, in our modern sense: she seeks a
civilization based only on the complete realization of natural and physical
law, without any ethical problems except the need of merging and compounding
all one’s desires and emotions in that law. Her poetry is like
a series of hymns of some forgotten and primitive religion.
</p>
<p>
I like to think that this primitive quality in H. D.’s poetry comes
from the fact that she is an American. There can be no doubt that we
are an uncultivated, a barbarous people. Our ancestors, by migrating to
an immense and utterly undeveloped continent, without traditions, were
thrown face to face with nature and lost, in consequence, nearly all feeling
<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a>
for their previous culture. If you take a child of civilized parents
and bring him up among savages, he will revert to savagery, and in the
same way our forefathers, as soon as they ceased to cling to the Atlantic
seaboard, changed, through contact with the immense wilderness of the
interior, not only mentally but physically. For example, Washington
was physically and mentally an English squire of his period: Lincoln,
about a hundred years later, was, in appearance and habits of thought,
like a man of another race. The Indian, although conquered, gave to his
conquerors the Indian way of thinking; or rather the Indian’s surroundings—the
endless forest—produced in the newcomers’ minds something
of the same way of thinking as the Indian had before their coming.
What a pity it has been for art that we, as a nation, did not admit without
shame this return to nature! But instead, we were ashamed of our
barbarism, and we have striven and are still striving to outdo Europe on
its own grounds, with the result that so much of our art seems merely
transplanted, exotic, and false. We might have been the Russians of the
western hemisphere; instead of that we were almost the provincial
English. Instead of Fenimore Cooper and <em>The Song of Hiawatha</em>, we
might have given to the world a new national epic. But the opportunity
is now lost and whatever fragments of that epic may be written will have
to be very sophisticated and in a sense artificial products.
</p>
<p>
To make an end of this long digression, I can truly say that I find
nothing transplanted in H. D.’s poetry. She has borrowed a few names
of gods from the early Greek, but that was because she found herself in
complete sympathy with this people, who, if we are to believe the
modern school of archaeology, were quite as barbarian themselves in the
Homeric period as the Red Indians, and who lived in the closest contact
with nature. Let us take an early example:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<h4 class="excerpt" id="HERMESOFTHEWAYS">
Hermes of the Ways
</h4>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The hard sand breaks,</p>
<p class="verse">And the grains of it</p>
<p class="verse">Are clear as wine.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Far off over the leagues of it,</p>
<p class="verse">The wind,</p>
<p class="verse">Playing on the wide shore,</p>
<p class="verse">Piles little ridges,</p>
<p class="verse">And the great waves</p>
<p class="verse">Break over it.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">But more than the many-foamed ways</p>
<p class="verse">Of the sea,</p>
<p class="verse">I know him</p>
<p class="verse">Of the triple path-ways,</p>
<p class="verse">Hermes,</p>
<p class="verse">Who awaiteth.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a>
<p class="verse">Dubious,</p>
<p class="verse">Facing three ways,</p>
<p class="verse">Welcoming wayfarers,</p>
<p class="verse">He whom the sea-orchard</p>
<p class="verse">Shelters from the west,</p>
<p class="verse">From the east,</p>
<p class="verse">Weathers sea-wind:</p>
<p class="verse">Fronts the great dunes.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Wind rushes</p>
<p class="verse">Over the dunes,</p>
<p class="verse">And the coarse salt-crusted grass</p>
<p class="verse">Answers.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Heu,</p>
<p class="verse">It whips round my ankles!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
This is only one-half of the poem, but it will serve to show this
poet’s method. Here Hermes is identified with the yellow barrier of
sand dunes which breaks the wind, and splits it into three directions, as
it comes in from the sea. The scenery and the feeling are not Greek.
In fact, as someone has pointed out, the whole poem might have been
called “The Coast of New Jersey.” But just as Coleridge found a way
to give a feeling of the emptiness of the sea by narrating the tale of a
legendary voyage on it, so H. D. has given us the eternal quality of the
New Jersey coast by identifying its savagery with Greek myth.
</p>
<p>
The difference between H. D.’s poetry and Aldington’s is therefore
a difference between an apparent complexity which cannot be analysed,
since it is really the simplest synthesis of primitive feeling, and a studied
simplicity which on analysis, reveals itself as something very complex
and modern. Aldington’s work when studied carefully, raises questions
about our life: H. D. goes deeper and offers us an eternal answer.
With the single exception of the <em>Choricos</em>, I know of no work of H. D.’s
which is not superior to Aldington’s in rhythm, as I know of no work
of Aldington’s which does not seem to have more unsolved problems
underlying its thought. Aldington is monodic, H. D. is strophaic:
Aldington writes on many themes: H. D. on two or three: H. D.’s art is
more perfect within its limits; Aldington’s is more interesting because of
its very human imperfection.
</p>
<p>
There is another short thing of H. D.’s which fulfils perfectly the
Greek dictum that a picture is a silent poem, a poem a speaking picture:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Whirl up, sea—</p>
<p class="verse">whirl your pointed pines,</p>
<p class="verse">splash your great pines,</p>
<p class="verse">over our rocks.</p>
<p class="verse">Hurl your green over us,</p>
<p class="verse">cover us with your pools of fir.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a>
A chorus of Oreads might very well have sung that to the wind.
Over and over again, H. D. never tires of giving us the sea, the rocks,
the pines, the sunlight. There is such a hard brightness of sunlight in
some of the poems that it makes us fairly dizzy with its intensity:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">O wind,</p>
<p class="verse">rend open the heat,</p>
<p class="verse">cut apart the heat,</p>
<p class="verse">rend it sideways.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Fruit cannot drop</p>
<p class="verse">through this thick air:</p>
<p class="verse">fruit cannot fall into heat</p>
<p class="verse">that presses up and blunts</p>
<p class="verse">the points of pears</p>
<p class="verse">and rounds the grapes.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Cut the heat,</p>
<p class="verse">plough through it,</p>
<p class="verse">turning it on either side</p>
<p class="verse">of your path.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
These poems are like cries to unknown gods. Some are simply
stark in their dramatic magnificence:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<h4 class="excerpt" id="THEWINDSLEEPERS">
The Wind Sleepers
</h4>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Whiter</p>
<p class="verse">than the crust</p>
<p class="verse">left by the tide,</p>
<p class="verse">we are stung by the hurled sand</p>
<p class="verse">and the broken shells.</p>
<p class="verse">We no longer sleep,</p>
<p class="verse">sleep in the wind,</p>
<p class="verse">we awoke and fled</p>
<p class="verse">through the Peiraeic gate.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Tear,</p>
<p class="verse">tear us an altar,</p>
<p class="verse">tug at the cliff-boulders,</p>
<p class="verse">pile them with the rough stones.</p>
<p class="verse">We no longer</p>
<p class="verse">sleep in the wind.</p>
<p class="verse">Propitiate us.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Chant in a wail</p>
<p class="verse">that never halts;</p>
<p class="verse">pace a circle and pay tribute</p>
<p class="verse">with a song.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">When the roar of a dropped wave</p>
<p class="verse">breaks into it,</p>
<p class="verse">pour meted words</p>
<p class="verse">of sea-hawks and gulls</p>
<p class="verse">and sea-birds that cry</p>
<p class="verse">discords.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a>
Recently H. D. has been giving us longer and more complex poems—condensed
dramas of nature and life. Her style has become broader
and deeper, and her thought more weighty. I wish I could quote all of a
poem of this nature called <em>Sea-Gods</em>. I can only give a brief analysis
of it.
</p>
<p>
The entire poem is a sort of invocation and service of propitiation
to the powers of the sea. In its opening lines the poet cries out:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">They say there is no hope—</p>
<p class="verse">sand—drift—rocks—rubble of the sea,</p>
<p class="verse">the broken hulk of a ship,</p>
<p class="verse">hung with shreds of rope,</p>
<p class="verse">pallid under the cracked pitch.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">They say there is no hope</p>
<p class="verse">to conjure you.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
In short, the gods are merely broken wrecks of the past. The forces
of nature cannot help us, it is useless to cry out to them, for they are
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">—cut, torn, mangled,</p>
<p class="verse">torn by the stress and beat,</p>
<p class="verse">no stronger than the strips of sand</p>
<p class="verse">along your ragged beach.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
But, says the poet, in a beautiful passage:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">But we bring violets,</p>
<p class="verse">great masses, single, sweet:</p>
<p class="verse">wood-violets, stream-violets,</p>
<p class="verse">violets from a wet marsh,</p>
<p class="verse">violets in clumps from the hills.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Every kind of violet is brought and strewn on the sea. For what
reason? Here is the answer:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">You will yet come,</p>
<p class="verse">you will yet haunt men in ships—</p>
<p class="verse">you will thunder along the cliff,</p>
<p class="verse">break—retreat—get fresh strength—</p>
<p class="verse">gather and pour weight upon the beach.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">You will bring myrrh-bark,</p>
<p class="verse">and drift laurel wood from hot coasts;</p>
<p class="verse">when you hurl, high—high—</p>
<p class="verse">We will answer with a shout.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">For you will come,</p>
<p class="verse">you will answer our taut hearts,</p>
<p class="verse">you will break the lie of men’s thoughts,</p>
<p class="verse">and shelter us for our trust.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a>
Has the sea, then, in this poem been used in some way as a symbol
of the eternal drift, change and reflux of our life which we have tried
to conceal under theories of ethics, of progress, of immortality, of civilization?
Perhaps it has. And the violets—what, then, are they but simply
the recollections of our earlier sea-state, of our endless, unconscious
drift with the tides of life?
</p>
<p>
I do not propose here to examine H. D.’s mystic philosophy. That
philosophy cannot be disengaged from its context. But from a quite
recent poem of hers—a poem very beautiful and baffling, I may perhaps
be permitted to quote these few lines, wrenched from their context, without
comment:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Sleepless nights,</p>
<p class="verse">I remember the initiates,</p>
<p class="verse">their gesture, their calm glance,</p>
<p class="verse">I have heard how, in rapt thought,</p>
<p class="verse">in vision they speak</p>
<p class="verse">with another race</p>
<p class="verse">More beautiful, more intense than this—</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">I reason:</p>
<p class="verse">another life holds what this lacks:</p>
<p class="verse">a sea, unmoving, quiet,</p>
<p class="verse">not forcing our strength</p>
<p class="verse">to rise to it, beat on beat,</p>
<p class="verse">a hill not set with black violets,</p>
<p class="verse">but stones, stones, bare rocks,</p>
<p class="verse">dwarf-trees, twisted, no beauty,</p>
<p class="verse">to distract—to crowd</p>
<p class="verse">madness upon madness.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Only a still place,</p>
<p class="verse">and perhaps some outer horror,</p>
<p class="verse">some hideousness to stamp beauty—</p>
<p class="verse">on our hearts.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3 class="section" id="IV3">
IV
</h3>
<p class="noindent">
The third poet whose work I have to examine, Mr. F. S. Flint, was
already an accomplished writer of rhymed vers libre before he joined the
Imagist movement. Mr. Flint’s early work is contained in a volume
entitled, <em>In the Net of the Stars</em>, a volume which is still worth reading.
<em>The Net of the Stars</em> told a love-story in rather uncommon fashion. The
poet and his beloved were presented throughout the book, against the
background of the starry sky:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Little knots in the net of light</p>
<p class="verse">That is held by the infinite Dragon, Night.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
This bringing into relation of a quite human love-story, with the
impassive and changeless order of the Universe, threw a flavour of
supreme irony over the whole book. The work is otherwise remarkable
<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a>
technically. At the date when it was published, 1909, Mr. Flint already
revealed that he was an assiduous student of Verhaeren, De Regnier,
and other French vers-librists. Hence its importance as a document in
the Imagist movement.
</p>
<p>
But to come to Mr. Flint’s later work which has been assembled
under the title of <em>Cadences</em>. We find here a poet, first of all, of sentiment.
What, you say, an Imagist who deals with sentiment? My reply
to that is, that it is time people understood that an Imagist is free to
deal with whatever he chooses, so long as he is sincere and honest about
it. Mr. Flint’s sincerity is his finest point. He is in some sense the
Paul Verlaine of the Imagist movement. His work gives one the same
delicacy of nuance, the same fresh fragrance, the same direct simplicity,
the same brooding melancholy. He lacks the strain of coarseness which
ruined Verlaine; he has, in place of it, a refined nobility. He has not
humour. At times he has attempted irony, but I cannot think he has
altogether succeeded in it. He feels life too poignantly to ever mock at
life. There remains tenderness, wistful pathos, imaginative beauty.
</p>
<p>
On reading Mr. Flint one obtains a very distinct impression of Mr.
Flint’s personality. One pictures him as a shy, sensitive, lonely dreamer
filled with a desire to attain to the noblest and finest life, but somehow
kept back from it. Mr. Flint is one of the few poets I know who have
preserved intact today a spark of the old lyrical idealism. He is, perhaps,
though he may not realize it, even closer to Keats and Shelley than
to Verlaine—he might almost be called a modern Shelley. His affiliation
with these earlier and greater romantics is more marked because it is
an affiliation of spirit, not of form. Mr. Flint’s form has always been
his own, and by holding conscientiously to his own form, he has come
closer, to my way of thinking, to poets like Keats and Shelley than the
innumerable tribe of imitators who have rashly taken the form for the
substance.
</p>
<p>
Here is an early example of Mr. Flint’s work:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">London, my beautiful,</p>
<p class="verse">it is not the sunset,</p>
<p class="verse">nor the pale green sky</p>
<p class="verse">shimmering through the curtain</p>
<p class="verse">of the silver birch,</p>
<p class="verse">nor the quietness;</p>
<p class="verse">it is not the hopping</p>
<p class="verse">of the little birds</p>
<p class="verse">upon the lawn,</p>
<p class="verse">nor the darkness</p>
<p class="verse">stealing over all things</p>
<p class="verse">that moves me.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a>
<p class="verse">But as the moon creeps slowly</p>
<p class="verse">over the treetops</p>
<p class="verse">among the stars;</p>
<p class="verse">I think of her,</p>
<p class="verse">and the glow her passing</p>
<p class="verse">sheds on men.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">London, my beautiful,</p>
<p class="verse">I will climb</p>
<p class="verse">into the branches</p>
<p class="verse">to the moonlit treetops</p>
<p class="verse">that my blood may be cooled</p>
<p class="verse">by the wind.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
And here is another, equally beautiful:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Under the lily shadow,</p>
<p class="verse">and the gold,</p>
<p class="verse">and the blue, and the mauve,</p>
<p class="verse">that the whin and the lilac</p>
<p class="verse">pour down upon the water,</p>
<p class="verse">the fishes quiver.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Over the green cold leaves,</p>
<p class="verse">and the rippled silver,</p>
<p class="verse">and the tarnished copper</p>
<p class="verse">of its neck and beak,</p>
<p class="verse">toward the deep black water,</p>
<p class="verse">beneath the arches,</p>
<p class="verse">the swan floats slowly.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Into the dark of the arch the swan floats,</p>
<p class="verse">and the black depths of my sorrow</p>
<p class="verse">bears a white rose of flame.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
If Mr. Flint had written nothing else but these two poems he would
be immortal for their sake, in spite of his disregard—shared by H. D.—of
the convenient device which begins each line of a poem with a capital
letter, and of the laws of punctuation. They weave a perfect hypnotic
spell in my mind, and they fulfill completely a recent definition of Mr.
E. A. Robinson, that poetry is a language which expresses through an
emotional reaction something which cannot be said in ordinary speech.
</p>
<p>
Mr. Flint has given us other poems not less beautiful, but with a
strain of greater pathos:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Tired faces,</p>
<p class="verse">eyes that have never seen the world,</p>
<p class="verse">bodies that have never lived in air,</p>
<p class="verse">lips that have never minted speech;</p>
<p class="verse">they are the clipped and garbled</p>
<p class="verse">blocking the highway.</p>
<p class="verse">They swarm and eddy</p>
<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a>
<p class="verse">between the banks of glowing shops</p>
<p class="verse">towards the red meat,</p>
<p class="verse">the potherbs,</p>
<p class="verse">the cheapjacks,</p>
<p class="verse">or surge in</p>
<p class="verse">before the swift rush of the charging teams;</p>
<p class="verse">pitiful, ugly, mean,</p>
<p class="verse">encumbering.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Immortal?</p>
<p class="verse">In a wood</p>
<p class="verse">watching the shadow of a bird,</p>
<p class="verse">leap from frond to frond of bracken,</p>
<p class="verse">I am immortal,</p>
<p class="verse">perhaps.</p>
<p class="verse">But these?</p>
<p class="verse">Their souls are naphtha lamps,</p>
<p class="verse">guttering in an odour of carious teeth,</p>
<p class="verse">and I die with them.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
Perhaps the last poem in Mr. Flint’s book will give the most complete
exposition of his art and vision:
</p>
<div class="excerpt">
<h4 class="excerpt" id="THESTAR">
The Star
</h4>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">Bright Star of Life,</p>
<p class="verse">Who shattered creeds at Bethlehem,</p>
<p class="verse">And saw</p>
<p class="verse">In the irradiance of your vision shining,</p>
<p class="verse">Children and maidens, youths and men and women,</p>
<p class="verse">Dancing barefoot among the grasses, singing,</p>
<p class="verse">Dancing,</p>
<p class="verse">Over the waving flowery meadows;</p>
<p class="verse">So calmly watched the universe and men,</p>
<p class="verse">And yet</p>
<p class="verse">So fiery was the heart behind the light;</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The creeds have been re-made by men</p>
<p class="verse">Who followed as you walked abroad,</p>
<p class="verse">And gathered up their shattered shards;</p>
<p class="verse">Then with a wax of sticky zeal,</p>
<p class="verse">Each little piece unto its fellow joined;</p>
<p class="verse">But over the meadows comes the wind</p>
<p class="verse">Remembering your voice:</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse"><em>O my love,</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>O my golden-haired, my golden-hearted,</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>I will sing this song to you of Him,</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>This golden afternoon.</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>This song of you;</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>For where love is, is He,</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>Whose name has echoed in the halls of Time,</em></p>
<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a>
<p class="verse"><em>Who caught the wise eternal music, ay,</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>And passed it on—</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>For men to sing it since</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>In false and shifting keys—</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>Who hears it now?</em></p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">But the hearts of those who have heard it rightly,</p>
<p class="verse">Grew great;</p>
<p class="verse">And behind the walls and barriers of the world,</p>
<p class="verse">Their voices have gone up in sweetness</p>
<p class="verse">Unheeded,</p>
<p class="verse">Yet imminent in the wings and flight of change;</p>
<p class="verse">Comes there a time when men shall shout it,</p>
<p class="verse">And say to Life:</p>
<p class="verse">You have the strength of the seas,</p>
<p class="verse">And the glory of the vine;</p>
<p class="verse">You shall have the wisdom of the hills,</p>
<p class="verse">The daring of the eagle’s wings,</p>
<p class="verse">The yearning of the swallow’s quest.</p>
<p class="verse">And, in the <a id="corr-13"></a>mighty organ of the world,</p>
<p class="verse">Great men shall be as pipes and nations stops</p>
<p class="verse">To harmonize your Song.</p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse"><em>O my love,</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>Like a cornfield in summer</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>Is your body to me;</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>Golden and bending with the wind,</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>And on the tallest ear a bird is piping</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>The lonely song.</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>And scarlet poppies thread the golden ways.</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>Out of the purple haze of the sea behind it</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>Appears a white ship sailing,</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>And its passengers are harvesters.</em></p>
<p class="verse"><em>But who dares sing of love?</em></p>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">The jackals howl; the vultures gorge dead flesh.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">
In despite of the last line, which is undoubtedly true, and, under
the present circumstances, certainly necessary to the context of all that
precedes it, yet I feel I cannot share Mr. Flint’s despair of this world.
For as long as there is any poet who can have such visions as this is, in
such a world as ours, the earth cannot be altogether given over to crime
and slaughter. Which one of the Imagists could have given us with so
direct and poignant sincerity—scorning all artifice—such a vision of
beauty? Or, for that matter, which one of the poets of today?
</p>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC">
<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a>
The Reader Critic
</h2>
</div>
<div class="letters">
<h3 class="section" id="WHATISANARCHY">
What Is Anarchy?
</h3>
<p class="from">
<em>Alan Adair, London</em>:
</p>
<p>
In the March number of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, Miss Alice Groff criticises Anarchy.
She criticises it badly and unfairly. She writes as though she did not understand
what anarchy is. Have you room in your paper for me to tell her?
</p>
<p>
Anarchy is the name given to those periods in the life of a people during which
the principle of domination is held in abeyance and men are no longer accountable
to any magistracy. It is properly a political word. It has no philosophical significance.
All it means is absence of material government. It is in that sense that
Milton uses it and Swift uses it. It is in that sense that writers of history books
employ it. It is a term, and the only correct term, for a certain condition of society.
That condition has occurred in the past and will doubtless occur in the future. It is
the result of an equality of strength among the different elements, or “social-egos”
that make up a community. There is Anarchy only so long as these forces remain
equal. Once they cease to be equal, so soon as one begins to tend towards dominance,
so soon does the Anarchy end. According to the “social-ego” that has triumphed,
the changed commonwealth becomes an oligarchy or a kingdom; a military
republic, an ochlocracy or a federation of communes. But until then, while there is
still absence of supreme coercive power, while there is still <em>no dominant “social-ego,”</em>
so long is the community correctly termed an Anarchy.
</p>
<p>
Between this, the Anarchy of fact and of history, and the Anarchy of theory
and modern revolutionists, there is no substantial difference. The anarchist, in any
age, is simply and without qualification, a man who desires an end put to the political
power under which he lives. The reason <em>why</em> he desires such a thing does not
matter. He may think government to be eternally an evil or only presently an evil.
He may be egoist or communist. What makes him an anarchist is that he hates the
social order around him and would precipitate its destruction by paralyzing the centers
of its administrative and legislative authority.
</p>
<p>
The theoretical case against government has little part in the mind of the modern
anarchist. Miss Groff altogether overestimates the importance that he attaches to it.
The war against authority <em>as authority</em> is past. We are beyond that kind of mysticism.
Scepticism is a big ingredient of Anarchy and the anarchist knows only too
well that we know too little of psychology and too little of philosophy to judge the
worth of abstractions like justice or liberty or the principle of domination. We can
only fix temporary, conditional values to such things. Actual, modern authority is
the only sphinx that troubles the contemporary anarchist. He has no desire to control
the destinies of his people and, as anarchist, he has no theories about the future
form of its political institutions. His business is solely with present facts. His task
is simply destruction. It may be that he does not start from a “basis of reason.” He
has seen and thought too much to trouble greatly about reason. He knows too many
books to have much optimism. He sees sprawled across the earth a tragic and incoherent
civilization and he sees the most virile of the races of man lose under its
influence the spontaneity of their actions and the region of their instincts. That,
possibly more than the desire to “complete a circuit of reason,” is at the root of his
attitude to society. The question of the moral significance of archist or an-archist
is beyond the answering of Miss Groff or any one else. The question of whether it
is well to endure the present order; to be dwarfed and poisoned by its ideals; to be
<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a>
devoted by its economy to contemptible pursuits; to be forced to conjunction with
base influences by every circumstance that past power has created for the control of
present humanity; that is at least an answerable question. Of the value of the anarchist
answer there may be many opinions, but that it is an intelligible answer is not to
be denied. It is simple and coherent. Society is sick of its many counsellors and
rulers. Its sources of spiritual vitality are dried up. It is full of confusion; bereft
of consistent purpose; continuing only in mechanical existence. To precipitate its
decay is the one wise action possible to mankind. All things are grown fatigued;
without simplicity of soul or rigour of desire. Religions, institutions and codes of
law are no longer animated; solely the dead weight of the past holds them in position.
Of what use to plan, meditate or invent, to conquer elements or to evoke from
the earth new, fantastic and wonder-working metals, when that which has custody
of all such things, that which alone can give continuity to the works and achievements
of man our mother civilization itself is in dissolution?
</p>
<p>
To the mind of the anarchist, there are but two courses open to humanity.
First: there may be a continuance of the present conditions: a society stratified as
now, <a id="corr-14"></a>stupidified as now, completely organized, of antique institutions, growing perpetually
enfeebled in spirit, the current of its vitality becoming attenuated until lost
in the morass of an enormous racial degeneracy. Or else, secondly, the mechanism
of civilization may break and a period of administrative and moral chaos not easily
distinguishable from barbarism supervene upon dilatory decadence. It is this second
course that commends itself to the anarchist. Only in a partial cessation of its continuity,
only in a barbaric forgetfulness of its eternal problems and speculations can
an exhausted humanity come once more to a zest for existence and the will to achievement.
</p>
<p>
And an Anarchy is commonly an epoch of such confusion and recovery.
</p>
<h3 class="section" id="IMPRESSIONSOFTHELOOP">
Impressions of the Loop
</h3>
<p class="from">
<em>A Boy Reader, Chicago</em>:
</p>
<p>
Is the following good enough for you to print?
</p>
<div class="poem-container">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<p class="verse">As I walk through the streets of the Loop,</p>
<p class="verse">Big, fat, double-chinned women fan by;</p>
<p class="verse">They reek of Melba perfume:</p>
<p class="verse">They might have used some other kind,</p>
<p class="verse">But they like Melba: fat women, I mean.</p>
<p class="verse">Then there are whining old ladies;</p>
<p class="verse">They look disdainfully at the gay styles,</p>
<p class="verse">Whining, because they are disgusted—</p>
<p class="verse">(Envious disgust).</p>
<p class="verse">They are old, you know, and can’t do such things.</p>
<p class="verse">And drunken men tumble from the corner saloons;</p>
<p class="verse">I envy them, for they are very happy.</p>
<p class="verse">Miserable, begging men and women sit in comfort</p>
<p class="verse">On every corner.</p>
<p class="verse">Some have <em>an</em> arm, some <em>a</em> leg,</p>
<p class="verse">But they had <em>another</em> once.</p>
<p class="verse">Why don’t the rich people take care of them?</p>
<p class="verse">They might lose their arms and legs!</p>
<p class="verse">Big limousines glide by;</p>
<p class="verse">Painted blonde ladies sit on soft cushions.</p>
<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a>
<p class="verse">They must sit there!</p>
<p class="verse">What would the jewelry stores do without them!</p>
<p class="verse">Diamonds glitter on their perfumed hands;</p>
<p class="verse">They cannot smile, for the paint would crack</p>
<p class="verse">And fall from their faces. Besides, they are select.</p>
<p class="verse">Ragamuffins weave in and out.</p>
<p class="verse">They hop cars, scream, and envy the blossoming windows</p>
<p class="verse">Of cheap Delicatessens.</p>
<p class="verse">Flip stenographers flit by;</p>
<p class="verse">Their ankles are gay with many-colored stilty shoes,</p>
<p class="verse">But their stockings are full of holes and Jacob’s ladders</p>
<p class="verse">Under it all.</p>
<p class="verse">Terrible odors fill the air:</p>
<p class="verse">Fish, gasoline, booze, sachet-powder (lots of Melba),</p>
<p class="verse">Gas, cheap roses, and peanuts; coffee, smoke,</p>
<p class="verse">And other things.</p>
<p class="verse">Dirty men, clean men, dudes, street mashers,</p>
<p class="verse">Cheap Musicians and Artists....</p>
<p class="verse">This is life!</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="impressum">
<p class="b c">
Statement of Ownership, Management, Circulation, Etc., Required by
the Act of Congress of August 24, 1912
</p>
<p class="noindent">
Of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, published monthly at Chicago, Ill., for April 1st, 1916.
</p>
<p class="noindent">
State of Illinois, County of Cook—ss:
</p>
<p>
Before me, a Notary Public in and for the State and county aforesaid, personally appeared
Margaret C. Anderson, who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that she
is the Editor of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, and that the following is, to the best of her knowledge
and belief, a true statement of the ownership, management (and if a daily paper, the circulation),
etc., of the aforesaid publication for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act
of August 24, 1912, embodied in section 443, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed on the reverse
of this form, to wit:
</p>
<p>
1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business
managers are:
</p>
<p>
Publisher, Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building; Editor, Margaret C. Anderson,
834 Fine Arts Building; Managing editor, Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building; Business
manager, Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building.
</p>
<p>
2. That the owners are: (Give names and addresses of individual owners, or, if a corporation,
give its name and the names and addresses of stockholders owning or holding 1 per cent
or more of the total amount of stock.)
</p>
<p>
Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building.
</p>
<p>
3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding
1 per cent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are: (If there are
none, so state.) None.
</p>
<p>
4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of the owners, stockholders, and
security holders, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and security holders as they
appear upon the books of the company but also, in cases where the stockholders or security
holder appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the
name of the person or corporation for whom such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said
two paragraphs contain statements embracing affiant’s full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances
and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon
the books of the company as trustee, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a
bona fide owner; and this affiant has no reason to believe that any other person, association, or
corporation has any interest direct or indirect in the said stock, bonds, or other securities than as
so stated by him.
</p>
<p class="sign">
MARGARET C. ANDERSON.
</p>
<p>
Sworn to and subscribed before me this 31st day of March, 1916.
</p>
<p>
(SEAL)
</p>
<p class="sign">
MITCHELL DAWSON, Notary Public.<br>
(My commission expires December 20, 1917.)
</p>
</div>
<div class="editorials chapter">
<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a>
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="editorials" id="AVERSLIBREPRIZECONTEST">
A Vers Libre Prize Contest
</h2>
</div>
<p class="first">
<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">hrough</span> the generosity of a friend, <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>
is enabled to offer an unusual prize for poetry—possibly the
first prize extended to free verse. The giver is “interested in all
experiments, and has followed the poetry published in <span class="smallcaps">The Little
Review</span> with keen appreciation and a growing admiration for the
poetic form known as <em>vers libre</em>.”
</p>
<div class="linespace">
<p>
The conditions are as follows:
</p>
<p>
Contributions must be received by August 15th.
</p>
<p>
They must not be longer than twenty-five lines.
</p>
<p>
They must be sent anonymously with stamps for return.
</p>
<p>
The name and address of the author must be fixed to the
manuscript in a sealed envelope.
</p>
<p>
It should be borne in mind that free verse is wanted—verse
having beauty of rhythm, not merely prose separated into lines.
</p>
<p>
There will be three judges: William Carlos Williams, Zoë
Aikens and Helen Hoyt.
</p>
<p>
There will be two prizes of $25 each. They are offered not
as a first and second prize, but for “the two best short poems in
free verse form.”
</p>
<p>
As there will probably be a large number of poems to read,
we suggest that contributors adhere closely to the conditions of
the contest.
</p>
</div>
</div>
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<p class="h1 adh">
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</p>
<p>
A new collection of the work of this interesting group of poets—Richard Aldington, “H. D.”, John Gould
Fletcher, F. S. Flint, D. H. Lawrence, and Amy Lowell—showing increased scope and power and confirming
their important position in modern poetry. The volume includes Miss Lowell’s “Patterns” and
“Spring Day,” and Mr. Fletcher’s Arizona poems.
</p>
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GOBLINS AND PAGODAS<br>
By JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
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This volume includes “Ghosts of an Old House” and ten “Symphonies” interpreting in terms of color
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<p>
The author of “The Little Gray Songs from St. Joseph’s” writes in the old metres but with all the
artistic vitality of the newer school of poets. The poems of this volume represent the best work she has
yet done.
</p>
<p class="adb">
TURNS AND MOVIES<br>
By CONRAD AIKEN
</p>
<p>
“Most remarkable of all recent free verse.”—Reedy’s St. Louis Mirror.
</p>
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A SONG OF THE GUNS<br>
By GILBERT FRANKAU
</p>
<p>
Wonderfully vivid pictures of modern war written to the roar of guns on the western front by a son of
Frank Danby, the novelist. These are the war poems the world has been waiting for.
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IDOLS<br>
By WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG
</p>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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<p class="ade">
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<div class="trnote chapter">
<p class="transnote">
Transcriber’s Notes
</p>
<p>
Advertisements were collected at the end of the text.
</p>
<p>
The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the
headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>.
</p>
<p>
The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors
were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after):
</p>
<ul>
<li>
... when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of <span class="underline">Merengo</span>?” ...<br>
... when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of <a href="#corr-2"><span class="underline">Marengo</span></a>?” ...<br>
</li>
<li>
... in landlady’s pink, a <span class="underline">Jessicca</span> (a spirited Cockney girl) in Turkish costume, ...<br>
... in landlady’s pink, a <a href="#corr-10"><span class="underline">Jessica</span></a> (a spirited Cockney girl) in Turkish costume, ...<br>
</li>
<li>
... if similar technique, should <span class="underline">chose</span> to band themselves together ...<br>
... if similar technique, should <a href="#corr-11"><span class="underline">choose</span></a> to band themselves together ...<br>
</li>
<li>
... And, in the <span class="underline">mightly</span> organ of the world, ...<br>
... And, in the <a href="#corr-13"><span class="underline">mighty</span></a> organ of the world, ...<br>
</li>
<li>
... now, <span class="underline">stupified</span> as now, completely organized, of antique institutions, growing perpetually ...<br>
... now, <a href="#corr-14"><span class="underline">stupidified</span></a> as now, completely organized, of antique institutions, growing perpetually ...<br>
</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75854 ***</div>
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