The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century Part 22

His work gives one the impression of being chaotic in form and content. Miss Lowell quotes him as saying, "I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way." According to G. K. Chesterton, this att.i.tude was characteristic of modern life in general before the war.

We don't know where we're going,--but let's put on more speed. Perhaps the other extreme, so characteristic of our southern African friends, is no better, yet it has a charm absent in the strenuosity of mere eagerness. A Southern negro, being asked whither he was going, replied "I aint goin' nowhar: Ise been done gone whar I was goin'!" It would appear that there is sufficient room between these extremes for individual and social progress.

In manner Mr. Sandburg is closer to Walt Whitman than almost any other of our contemporary poets. I do not call him an imitator, and certainly he is no plagiarist; but I like that part of his work which is farthest removed from the manner of the man of Camden. Walt Whitman was a genius; and whilst it is quite possible and at times desirable to imitate his freedom in composition, it is not possible to catch the secret of his power. It would be an ungracious task to quote Mr.

Sandburg at his worst; we are all pretty bad at our worst, whether we are poets or not; I prefer to cite one of his poems which proves to me that he is not only an original writer, but that he possesses a perceptive power of beauty that transforms the commonplace into something of poignant charm, like the song of the nightingale:

Desolate and lone All night long on the lake Where fog trails and mist creeps, The whistle of a boat Calls and cries unendingly, Like some lost child In tears and trouble Hunting the harbour's breast And the harbour's eyes.

He has a notable gift for effective poetic figures of speech; in his _Nocturne in a Deserted Brickyard_, an old pond in the moonlight is a "wide dreaming pansy." This and other pieces show true power of poetic interpretation; which makes me believe that the author ought to and will greatly surpa.s.s the average excellence exhibited in _Chicago Poems_.

John Curtis Underwood is not only a dynamic, but an insurgent poet and critic. He has published four volumes of poems, _The Iron Muse_ (1910), _Americans_ (1912), _Processionals_ (1915), and _War Flames_ (1917). The roar of city streets and the deafening pounding of machinery resound through his pages; yet he somehow or other makes a singing voice heard amid the din. In fact he uses the din as an accompaniment; he is a kind of vocal Tubal Cain. He writes about strap-hangers, chorus girls, moving pictures, convicts, hospitals, bridge-builders and construction gangs--a symphony of noise, where everybody plays some instrument. He is no pessimist and he is not sour; there are a good many "d.a.m.ns" and "h.e.l.ls" in his verse, because, whatever he lacks, he does not lack emphasis. His philosophy seems to be similar to that of the last two stanzas of _In Memoriam_, though Mr. Underwood expresses it somewhat more concretely.

Leading the long procession through the midnight, Man that was ether, fire, sea, germ and ape, Out of the aeons blind of slime emerging, Out of the aeons black where ill went groping, Finding the fire, was fused to human shape.

Heading the dreary marches through dark ages; Where the rest perished that the rest might be, Out of the aeons raw and red of bloodshed, Man that was caveman, found the stars. Forever Man to the stars goes marching from the sea.

His poem _Central_, in which the telephone girl's work is interpreted, is as typical as any of Mr. Underwood's style; and no one, I think, can fail to see the merit in his method.

Though men may build their bridges high and plant their piers below the sea, And drive their trains across the sky; a higher task is left to me.

I bridge the void 'twixt soul and soul; I bring the longing lovers near.

I draw you to your spirit's goal. I serve the ends of fraud and fear.

The older fates sat in the sun. The cords they spun were short and slight.

I set my st.i.tches one by one, where life electric fetters night, Till it outstrips the planet's speed, and out of darkness leaps to day; And men in Maine shall hear and heed a voice from San Francis...o...b..y.

There is such a display of cynical cleverness in the verse of T. S.

Eliot that I think he might be able to write almost anything except poetry. He has an aggressive champion in the distinguished novelist, May Sinclair, who says his best work is equal to the best of Robert Browning.

John G. Neihardt was born in Illinois on the eighth of January, 1881.

From 1901 to 1907 he lived among the Nebraska Indians, studying their folklore and characteristics. He has published a number of books, of which the best is perhaps _A Bundle of Myrrh_, 1907. In 1915 he produced an epic of the American Fur Trade, preparing himself for the task as follows: "I descended the Missouri in an open boat, and also ascended the Yellowstone for a considerable distance. On the upper river the country was practically unchanged; and for one familiar with what had taken place there, it was no difficult feat of the imagination to revive the details of that time--the men, the trails, the boats, the trading posts where veritable satraps once ruled under the sway of the American Fur Company."

I heartily envy him these experiences; to me every river is an adventure, even the quiet, serious old Connecticut.

Yet the poem that resulted from these visions is not remarkable.

Nothing, I suppose, is more difficult than to write a good long poem.

Poe disapproved of the undertaking in itself; and only men of undoubted genius have succeeded, whereas writers of hardly more than ordinary talent have occasionally turned off something combining brevity and excellence. I feel sure that Mr. Neihardt talks about this journey more impressively than he writes about it. His love lyrics, in _A Bundle of Myrrh_, are much better. The tendency to eroticism is redeemed by sincerity of feeling.

Charles Wharton Stork was born at Philadelphia, on the twelfth of February, 1881, and studied at Haverford, Harvard, and the University of Pennsylvania. He is a scholar, a member of the English Faculty of the University of Pennsylvania, and has made many translations of Scandinavian poems. Always interested in modern developments of poetry, both in America and Europe, he is at present the editor of _Contemporary Verse_, a monthly magazine exclusively made up of original poems. This periodical has been of considerable a.s.sistance to students of contemporary poetry, for it has given an opportunity to hitherto unknown writers, and often it contains some notable contribution from men of established reputation. Thus the number for April, 1918, may some day have bibliographical value, since it leads off with a remarkable poem by Vachel Lindsay, _The Eyes of Queen Esther_. I advise collectors to secure this, and to subscribe to the magazine. Mr. Stork has written much verse himself, of which _Flying Fish: an Ode_, may be taken as ill.u.s.trative of his originality and imagination.

Another excellent magazine of contemporary poetry is _The Sonnet_, edited and published by Mahlon Leonard Fisher, at Williamsport, Pennsylvania, of which the first number bears the date February, 1917. This appears bimonthly; and while the attempt to publish any magazine whatever displays courage, Mr. Fisher is apparently on the side of the conservatives in art. "We have attempted no propagandism, and acknowledged no revolution," is the sentence that forms the signature to his periodical. Furthermore, we are informed that "the sole aim of _The Sonnet_ is to publish poetry so well thought of by its makers that they were willing to place it within strict confines. The magazine will have nothing to say in defence of its name. It will neither attack nor respond to attacks." It has certainly printed some good sonnets, among which are many by the editor. In 1917 appeared a beautiful little volume, limited to two hundred copies, and published by the author--_Sonnets: a First Series_. Fifty specimens are included, all written by Mr. Fisher.

More than a few have grace and truth.

A new aspirant appeared in 1917 with his first volume, _Streets and Faces_. This is Scudder Middleton, brother of George Middleton, the dramatist. He was born at New York, on the ninth of September, 1888, and studied at Columbia. His little book of poetry contains nothing profound, yet there is evidence of undoubted talent which gives me hope. The best poem of his that I have seen was published in _Contemporary Verse_ in 1917, and makes a fine recessional to Mr.

Braithwaite's Anthology.

THE POETS

We need you now, strong guardians of our hearts, Now, when a darkness lies on sea and land, When we of weakening faith forget our parts And bow before the falling of the sand.

Be with us now or we betray our trust And say, "There is no wisdom but in death"-- Remembering lovely eyes now closed with dust-- "There is no beauty that outlasts the breath."

For we are growing blind and cannot see, Beyond the clouds that stand like prison bars, The changeless regions of our empery, Where once we moved in friends.h.i.+p with the stars.

O children of the light, now in our grief Give us again the solace of belief.

A young Princeton student, John Peale Bishop, First Lieutenant of Infantry in the Officers Reserve Corps, who studied the art of verse under the instruction of Alfred Noyes, published in 1917 a little book of original poems, with the modest t.i.tle, _Green Fruit_. These were mostly written during his last undergraduate year at college, and would not perhaps have been printed now had he not entered the service. The subjects range from the Princeton Inn to Italy. Mr.

Bishop is a clear-voiced singer, and there are original songs here, which owe nothing to other poets. Such a poem as _Mushrooms_ is convincing proof of ability; and there is an excellent spirit in him.

William Aspenwall Bradley was born at Hartford, Connecticut, on the eighth of February, 1878. He was a special student at Harvard, and took his bachelor's and master's degrees at Columbia. He is now in the Government War Service. He wrote an admirable _Life of Bryant_ in the English Men of Letters series, and has made many scholarly contributions to the literature of criticism. He has issued two volumes of original verse, of which perhaps the better known is _Old Christmas_, 1917. This is composed of tales of the c.u.mberland region in Kentucky. These poem-stories are not only full of dramatic power, comic and tragic, but they contain striking portraits. I think, however, that I like best Mr. Bradley's nature-pictures. The pleasure of recognition will be felt by everyone who reads the first few lines of

AUTUMN

Now shorter grow November days, And leaden ponds begin to glaze With their first ice, while every night The h.o.a.rfrost leaves the meadows white Like wimples spread upon the lawn By maidens who are up at dawn, And sparkling diamonds may be seen Strewing the close-clipped golfing green.

But the slow sun dispels at noon The season's work begun too soon, Bidding faint filmy mists arise And fold in softest draperies The distant woodlands bleak and bare, Until they seem to melt in air.

William Griffiths was born at Memphis, Missouri, on the fifteenth of February 1876, and received his education at the public schools. He has been a "newspaper man" and magazine editor, and has produced a number of books in verse and prose, of which the best example is _City Pastorals_, originally published in 1915, revised and reissued in 1918. The t.i.tle of this book appears to be a paradox; but its significance is clear enough after one has read a few pages. It is an original and interesting way of bringing the breath of the country into the town. The scene is a New York Club on a side street; the year is 1914; the three speakers are Brown, Gray, Green; the four divisions are Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. The style is for the most part rimed stanzas in short metre, which go trippingly on the tongue. Grace and delicacy characterize the pictures of the country that the men bring back to the smoky city from their travels.

Occultly through a riven cloud The ancient river s.h.i.+nes again, Still wandering like a silver road Among the cities in the plain.

On far horizons softly lean The hills against the coming night; And mantled with a russet green, The orchards gather into sight.

Through apples hanging high and low, In ruddy colours, deeply spread From core to rind, the sun melts slow, With gold upcaught against the red.

And here and there, with sighs and calls, Among the hills an echo rings Remotely as the water falls And down the meadow softly sings.

A wind goes by; the air is stirred With secret whispers far and near; Another token--just a word Had made the rose's meaning clear.

I see the fields; I catch the scent Of pine cones and the fresh split wood, Where bearded moss and stains are blent With autumn rains--and all is good.

An air, arising, turns and lifts The fallen leaves where they had lain Beneath the trees, then weakly s.h.i.+fts And slowly settles back again.

While with far shouts, now homeward bound, Across the fields the reapers go; And, with the darkness closing round, The lilies of the twilight blow.

Many of the other poems in this volume, that follow the _City Pastorals_, are interpretations of various individuals and of various nationalities. Mr. Griffith has a gift for the making of epigrams; and indeed he has studied concision in all his work. It may be that this is a result of his long years of training in journalism; he must have silently implored the writers of ma.n.u.scripts he was forced to read to leave their d.a.m.nable faces and begin. Certain it is, that although he can write smoothly flowing music, there is hardly a page in his whole book that does not contain some idea worth thinking about.

His wine of Cyprus has both body and bouquet.

Three professional teachers of youth who write poetry as an avocation are John Erskine, professor at Columbia, whose poems bear the impress of an original and powerful personality, William Ellery Leonard, professor in the University of Wisconsin, the author of a number of volumes of poems, some of which show originality in conception and style, and William Thornton Whitsett, of Whitsett Inst.i.tute, Whitsett, North Carolina, whose book _Saber and Song_ (1917), exhibits such variations in merit that if one read only a few pages one might be completely deceived as to the author's actual ability. His besetting sin as an artist is moralizing. Fully half the contents of the volume are uninspired, commonplace, flat. But when he forgets to preach, he can write true poetry. He has the lyrical gift to a high degree, and has a rather remarkable command of the technique of the art. _An Ode to Expression, The Soul of the Sea_, and some of the _Sonnets_, fully justify their publication. The author is rather too fond of the old "poetic diction"; he might do well to study simplicity.

A poet who differs from the two last mentioned in her ability to maintain a certain level of excellence is Helen Hay Whitney. She perhaps inherited her almost infallible good taste and literary tact from her distinguished father, that wholly admirable person, John Hay.

His greatness as an international statesman was matched by the extraordinary charm of his character, which expressed itself in everything he wrote, and in numberless acts of kindness. He was the ideal American gentleman. One feels in reading the poems of Mrs.

Whitney that each one is written both creatively and critically. I mean that she has the primal impulse to write, but that in writing, and more especially in revising, every line is submitted to her own severe scrutiny. I am not sure that she has not destroyed some of her best work, though this is of course only conjecture. At all events, while she makes no mistakes, I sometimes feel that there is too much repression. She is one of our best American sonnet-writers. Such a poem as _After Rain_ is a work of art.

Corinne Roosevelt Robinson (Mrs. Douglas Robinson, sister of Theodore Roosevelt) has published two volumes of poems, _The Call of Brotherhood_, 1912, and _One Woman to Another_, 1914. I hope that she will speedily collect in a third book the fugitive pieces printed in various magazines since 1914. Mrs. Robinson's poetry comes from a full mind and a full heart. There is the knowledge born of experience combined with spiritual revelation. She is an excellent ill.u.s.tration of the possibility of living to the uttermost in the crowded avenues of the world without any loss of religious or moral values. It must take a strong nature to absorb so much of the strenuous activities of metropolitan society while keeping the heart's sources as clear as a mountain spring. It is the exact opposite of asceticism, yet seems not to lose anything important gained by the ascetic vocation. She does not serve G.o.d and Mammon: she serves G.o.d, and makes Mammon serve her. This complete roundness and richness of development could not have been accomplished except through pain. She expresses grief's contribution in the following sonnet:

Beloved, from the hour that you were born I loved you with the love whose birth is pain; And now, that I have lost you, I must mourn With mortal anguish, born of love again; And so I know that Love and Pain are one, Yet not one single joy would I forego.-- The very radiance of the tropic sun Makes the dark night but darker here below.

Mine is no coward soul to count the cost; The coin of love with lavish hand I spend, And though the sunlight of my life is lost And I must walk in shadow to the end,-- I gladly press the cross against my heart-- And welcome Pain, that is Love's counterpart!

Meredith Nicholson, the American novelist, like Mr. Galsworthy, Mr.

Phillpotts and many other novelists in England, has published a volume of original verse, _Poems_, 1906. It is possibly a sign of the growing interest in poetry that so many who have won distinction in prose should in these latter days strive for the laurel crown. Mr.

Nicholson's poems are a kind of riming journal of his heart. It is clear that he is not a born poet, for the flame of inspiration is not in these pages, nor do we find the perfect phrase or ravis.h.i.+ng music; what we do have is well worth preservation in print--the manly, dignified, imaginative speculations of a clear and honest mind.

Furthermore, although he writes verse with his left hand, there is displayed in many of these pieces a mastery of the exact meaning of words, attained possibly by his long years of training in the other harmony of prose.