(Acting, in spite of himself, as if the Bird were his long-lost brother, and locating the Grackle, for poetic purposes, in his own home.)
Good fowl, though I would speak to theeWith wonted geniality,And Oxford charm in my address,It's not quite easy, I confess:Suaviter in modo'shardWhen poets trample one's front yard,And this is such an enormous crewThat you've got trailing after you!I'd washed my youngest child but four,Put the milk-bottles out the door,Paid my wife's hat-bill with no sigh(Ah, happy wife! Ah, happy I!)Tossed down (see essays) then my penTo be a private citizen,Written about that in the Post,When lo, upon the lawn a hostOf Poets, sprung upon my sightEach eager for a Poem to write!To a less placid bard you'd beA flat domestic tragedy,—Bird—grackle—nay, I'd scarcely callYou bird—a mere egg you, that's all—Only a bad egg has the nerveTo poach (a pun!) on my preserve!To P.Q.S. and X.Y.D.(Both columnists whom you should see)And L.M.N (a man who neverColumns a word that isn't clever,)And B.C.D. (who scintillatesMuch more than most who get his rates)A thing like this would be a trial....It is to me, there's no denial.Why, Bird, if they would sing of you,Or Sin, or Broken Hearts, or Rue,Or what Young Devils they all are,Or Scarlet Dames, or the First Star,Or South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds sorrowing,It would be quite another thing:But, Bird, here they come mousing roundOn my suburban, sacred ground,And see my happiness—it's flat,You wretched Bird, they'll sing of that!They'll hymn my Happy Hearth, and laterThe joys of my Refrigerator,Burst into song about the pointsOf Babies, Married Peace, Hot Joints,The Jimmy-Pipe I often carol,My Commutation, my Rain-Barrel,And each Uncontroverted FactWith which my poetry is packed ...In short, base Bird, they'll sing like me,And then, where will my living be?
Good fowl, though I would speak to theeWith wonted geniality,And Oxford charm in my address,It's not quite easy, I confess:Suaviter in modo'shardWhen poets trample one's front yard,And this is such an enormous crewThat you've got trailing after you!I'd washed my youngest child but four,Put the milk-bottles out the door,Paid my wife's hat-bill with no sigh(Ah, happy wife! Ah, happy I!)Tossed down (see essays) then my penTo be a private citizen,Written about that in the Post,When lo, upon the lawn a hostOf Poets, sprung upon my sightEach eager for a Poem to write!
Good fowl, though I would speak to thee
With wonted geniality,
And Oxford charm in my address,
It's not quite easy, I confess:
Suaviter in modo'shard
When poets trample one's front yard,
And this is such an enormous crew
That you've got trailing after you!
I'd washed my youngest child but four,
Put the milk-bottles out the door,
Paid my wife's hat-bill with no sigh
(Ah, happy wife! Ah, happy I!)
Tossed down (see essays) then my pen
To be a private citizen,
Written about that in the Post,
When lo, upon the lawn a host
Of Poets, sprung upon my sight
Each eager for a Poem to write!
To a less placid bard you'd beA flat domestic tragedy,—Bird—grackle—nay, I'd scarcely callYou bird—a mere egg you, that's all—Only a bad egg has the nerveTo poach (a pun!) on my preserve!To P.Q.S. and X.Y.D.(Both columnists whom you should see)And L.M.N (a man who neverColumns a word that isn't clever,)And B.C.D. (who scintillatesMuch more than most who get his rates)A thing like this would be a trial....It is to me, there's no denial.
To a less placid bard you'd be
A flat domestic tragedy,—
Bird—grackle—nay, I'd scarcely call
You bird—a mere egg you, that's all—
Only a bad egg has the nerve
To poach (a pun!) on my preserve!
To P.Q.S. and X.Y.D.
(Both columnists whom you should see)
And L.M.N (a man who never
Columns a word that isn't clever,)
And B.C.D. (who scintillates
Much more than most who get his rates)
A thing like this would be a trial....
It is to me, there's no denial.
Why, Bird, if they would sing of you,Or Sin, or Broken Hearts, or Rue,Or what Young Devils they all are,Or Scarlet Dames, or the First Star,Or South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds sorrowing,It would be quite another thing:But, Bird, here they come mousing roundOn my suburban, sacred ground,And see my happiness—it's flat,You wretched Bird, they'll sing of that!They'll hymn my Happy Hearth, and laterThe joys of my Refrigerator,Burst into song about the pointsOf Babies, Married Peace, Hot Joints,The Jimmy-Pipe I often carol,My Commutation, my Rain-Barrel,And each Uncontroverted FactWith which my poetry is packed ...In short, base Bird, they'll sing like me,And then, where will my living be?
Why, Bird, if they would sing of you,
Or Sin, or Broken Hearts, or Rue,
Or what Young Devils they all are,
Or Scarlet Dames, or the First Star,
Or South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds sorrowing,
It would be quite another thing:
But, Bird, here they come mousing round
On my suburban, sacred ground,
And see my happiness—it's flat,
You wretched Bird, they'll sing of that!
They'll hymn my Happy Hearth, and later
The joys of my Refrigerator,
Burst into song about the points
Of Babies, Married Peace, Hot Joints,
The Jimmy-Pipe I often carol,
My Commutation, my Rain-Barrel,
And each Uncontroverted Fact
With which my poetry is packed ...
In short, base Bird, they'll sing like me,
And then, where will my living be?
(Coldly ignoring the roistering of his friends, addresses the Grackle with bitterness:)
(Horace, Ode XVIXXV, p. 23)
Bird, if you think I do not careTo gaze upon your feathered formRather than converse with some fairOr make my brow with tennis warm;If you should think I'd liefer farHear your sweet song than fast be drivingWithin my costly motor carAnd in my handsome home arriving,If you should think I would be goneFar sooner than you might expectFrom off this uncolumnar lawn;Bird, you'd be utterly correct!
Bird, if you think I do not careTo gaze upon your feathered formRather than converse with some fairOr make my brow with tennis warm;
Bird, if you think I do not care
To gaze upon your feathered form
Rather than converse with some fair
Or make my brow with tennis warm;
If you should think I'd liefer farHear your sweet song than fast be drivingWithin my costly motor carAnd in my handsome home arriving,
If you should think I'd liefer far
Hear your sweet song than fast be driving
Within my costly motor car
And in my handsome home arriving,
If you should think I would be goneFar sooner than you might expectFrom off this uncolumnar lawn;Bird, you'd be utterly correct!
If you should think I would be gone
Far sooner than you might expect
From off this uncolumnar lawn;
Bird, you'd be utterly correct!
(Showing the Italian's love of the Beautiful, which he makes his own more than the Anglo-Saxon dreams of doing.)
De poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree,Dey gotta da arta, da birda—but me,I lova da arta, I lova da flower,(Ah,bella fioretta!) I waita da hour:I mowa da grass, I rake uppa da leaf—I brava young Carlo—Maria! fine t'ief!I waitaTill later.Da poets go homa, go finda da sup',I creep by dis tree and I digga her up,(Da Grackla, da blossom, da tree-a I love,Per Dio!and da art!) So I giva da shove,I catcha da birda, I getta da tree,I taka to Rosa my wife, and den she—She gottaIn potta!
De poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree,Dey gotta da arta, da birda—but me,I lova da arta, I lova da flower,(Ah,bella fioretta!) I waita da hour:I mowa da grass, I rake uppa da leaf—I brava young Carlo—Maria! fine t'ief!I waitaTill later.
De poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree,
Dey gotta da arta, da birda—but me,
I lova da arta, I lova da flower,
(Ah,bella fioretta!) I waita da hour:
I mowa da grass, I rake uppa da leaf—
I brava young Carlo—Maria! fine t'ief!
I waita
Till later.
Da poets go homa, go finda da sup',I creep by dis tree and I digga her up,(Da Grackla, da blossom, da tree-a I love,Per Dio!and da art!) So I giva da shove,I catcha da birda, I getta da tree,I taka to Rosa my wife, and den she—She gottaIn potta!
Da poets go homa, go finda da sup',
I creep by dis tree and I digga her up,
(Da Grackla, da blossom, da tree-a I love,
Per Dio!and da art!) So I giva da shove,
I catcha da birda, I getta da tree,
I taka to Rosa my wife, and den she—
She gotta
In potta!
(Bounding on toward the end of the proceedings with a bundle over his shoulder, and making the rest join in at the high spots.)
(An Explanation)
[Steadily]As I went marching, torn-socked, free,With my red heart marching all agog in front of meAnd my throbbing heelsAnd my throbbing feet[With energy]Making an impression on the Hoboken streetThen I saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird,[With surprise]And the worst sort of noise an Illinoiser ever heard!Banks—of—poets—round—that—tree—Allof the Poetry Society butme![Chatteringly like parrots]All a-cackle, addressed it as a grackleShowed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly)[Cooingly, yet with impatience]Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet,Gosh, what a packed street!The Secretary,Presidentand TREASURER went by!"That's not a grackle," said I to all of him,Seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim,"That's an English sparrow on that limb!"And they all went homeNo more to roam.[Intemperately]And I watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam[With calm majesty]And I took my bandanna again on my stickAnd I walked to the grocery and took my pick[With domesticity for the moment]And I bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn,Codfish like flakes of snow at morn,Buns for breakfast and a fountain-penLaid down change and marched out againAnd I walked through Hoboken, torn-socked, free,With my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!
[Steadily]As I went marching, torn-socked, free,With my red heart marching all agog in front of meAnd my throbbing heelsAnd my throbbing feet[With energy]Making an impression on the Hoboken streetThen I saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird,[With surprise]And the worst sort of noise an Illinoiser ever heard!Banks—of—poets—round—that—tree—Allof the Poetry Society butme![Chatteringly like parrots]All a-cackle, addressed it as a grackleShowed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly)[Cooingly, yet with impatience]Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet,Gosh, what a packed street!The Secretary,Presidentand TREASURER went by!"That's not a grackle," said I to all of him,Seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim,"That's an English sparrow on that limb!"And they all went homeNo more to roam.[Intemperately]And I watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam[With calm majesty]And I took my bandanna again on my stickAnd I walked to the grocery and took my pick[With domesticity for the moment]And I bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn,Codfish like flakes of snow at morn,Buns for breakfast and a fountain-penLaid down change and marched out againAnd I walked through Hoboken, torn-socked, free,With my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!
[Steadily]
As I went marching, torn-socked, free,
With my red heart marching all agog in front of me
And my throbbing heels
And my throbbing feet
[With energy]
Making an impression on the Hoboken street
Then I saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird,
[With surprise]
And the worst sort of noise an Illinoiser ever heard!
Banks—of—poets—round—that—tree—
Allof the Poetry Society butme!
[Chatteringly like parrots]
All a-cackle, addressed it as a grackle
Showed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly)
[Cooingly, yet with impatience]
Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet,
Gosh, what a packed street!
The Secretary,Presidentand TREASURER went by!
"That's not a grackle," said I to all of him,
Seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim,
"That's an English sparrow on that limb!"
And they all went home
No more to roam.
[Intemperately]
And I watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam
[With calm majesty]
And I took my bandanna again on my stick
And I walked to the grocery and took my pick
[With domesticity for the moment]
And I bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn,
Codfish like flakes of snow at morn,
Buns for breakfast and a fountain-pen
Laid down change and marched out again
And I walked through Hoboken, torn-socked, free,
With my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!
(caricature of Vachel Lindsay)
Being a Collaboration by Percy Mackaye,Isabel Fiske Conant and JosephinePreston Peabody.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
The Grackle(who does not appear at all)The Spirit of the Rejection SlipThe Spirit of Modern PoetryChorus of Elderly Ladies Who Appreciate PoetryChorus of Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, High-School and College Classes in Verse-WritingChorus of Young Men Running Poetry MagazinesChorus of Poetry CriticsChorus of Assorted Culture-HoundsThe Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in AmericaThe Non-Poetry Writing Public (Composed of two citizens who have never learned to read or write)Semi-Choruses of Magazine Editors and Book-PublishersAté, Goddess of DiscordThe MuseTime:Next year.Place:Everywhere.Scene:A level stretch of monotony.
The Grackle(who does not appear at all)
The Spirit of the Rejection Slip
The Spirit of Modern Poetry
Chorus of Elderly Ladies Who Appreciate Poetry
Chorus of Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, High-School and College Classes in Verse-Writing
Chorus of Young Men Running Poetry Magazines
Chorus of Poetry Critics
Chorus of Assorted Culture-Hounds
The Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in America
The Non-Poetry Writing Public (Composed of two citizens who have never learned to read or write)
Semi-Choruses of Magazine Editors and Book-Publishers
Até, Goddess of Discord
The Muse
Time:Next year.Place:Everywhere.Scene:A level stretch of monotony.
THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP(Entering despairingly)
Alas—in vain! Yet I have barred the wayAs best I might, that this great horror fallNot on the world.Returned with many thanksAnd not because of lack of merit,IHave said to twenty million poets ... nay ...Profane it not, that word ... to twenty millionPersons who wasted stamps and typewritingAnd midnight oil, to add unto the worldMore Bunk.... In vain—in vain!(She sinks down sobbing.)
Alas—in vain! Yet I have barred the wayAs best I might, that this great horror fallNot on the world.Returned with many thanksAnd not because of lack of merit,IHave said to twenty million poets ... nay ...Profane it not, that word ... to twenty millionPersons who wasted stamps and typewritingAnd midnight oil, to add unto the worldMore Bunk.... In vain—in vain!(She sinks down sobbing.)
Alas—in vain! Yet I have barred the way
As best I might, that this great horror fall
Not on the world.Returned with many thanks
And not because of lack of merit,I
Have said to twenty million poets ... nay ...
Profane it not, that word ... to twenty million
Persons who wasted stamps and typewriting
And midnight oil, to add unto the world
More Bunk.... In vain—in vain!
(She sinks down sobbing.)
(From right and left of stage enter Semi-Choruses Magazine Editors and Book Publishers, tearing their hair rhythmically.)
SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS
We have mailed their poems backTo every man and woman-jackWho weigh the postman downFrom country and from town;But all in vain, in vain,They mail them in again!
We have mailed their poems backTo every man and woman-jackWho weigh the postman downFrom country and from town;But all in vain, in vain,They mail them in again!
We have mailed their poems back
To every man and woman-jack
Who weigh the postman down
From country and from town;
But all in vain, in vain,
They mail them in again!
SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS
Though we've sent them flying,We are nearly dying,From the books of poetrySent by people unto we;In vain we keep them off our shelves,They go and publish them themselves!
Though we've sent them flying,We are nearly dying,From the books of poetrySent by people unto we;In vain we keep them off our shelves,They go and publish them themselves!
Though we've sent them flying,
We are nearly dying,
From the books of poetry
Sent by people unto we;
In vain we keep them off our shelves,
They go and publish them themselves!
SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIPS
All, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye,And I've toiled with you.... All in vain, in vain—
All, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye,And I've toiled with you.... All in vain, in vain—
All, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye,
And I've toiled with you.... All in vain, in vain—
(Enter, with a proud consciousness of duty well done, the Chorus of Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, High-School and College Classes for Writing Verse. They sing Joyously)
The Day has come that we adore,The Day we've all been working for,Now babies in their bassinetsAnd military school cadets,And chambermaids in each hotelAnd folks in slums who cannot spell,Professors, butchers, clergymen,And every one, have grabbed a pen:The Day has come—tra la, tra lee—Everybodywrites poetry!
The Day has come that we adore,The Day we've all been working for,Now babies in their bassinetsAnd military school cadets,And chambermaids in each hotelAnd folks in slums who cannot spell,Professors, butchers, clergymen,And every one, have grabbed a pen:The Day has come—tra la, tra lee—Everybodywrites poetry!
The Day has come that we adore,
The Day we've all been working for,
Now babies in their bassinets
And military school cadets,
And chambermaids in each hotel
And folks in slums who cannot spell,
Professors, butchers, clergymen,
And every one, have grabbed a pen:
The Day has come—tra la, tra lee—
Everybodywrites poetry!
(They do a Symbolic Dance with Typewriters, during which enters the Chorus of Young Men who Run Poetry Magazines. These put on horn-rimmed spectacles and chant earnestly as follows)
CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN WHO RUN POETRY MAGAZINES
We're very careful what we put in;This magazine is of highest grade;If it doesn't appeal to our personal tasteThere's no use sending it, we're afraid;We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats,We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead;If you write like us there will be no fuss—That's the best of verse, when the last word's said....(Bursting irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn spectacles to the ground)Yale! Yale! Yale!Our Poetry!Fine Poetry!Nobody Else's Poetry!Raw! Raw! Raw! Raw!
We're very careful what we put in;This magazine is of highest grade;If it doesn't appeal to our personal tasteThere's no use sending it, we're afraid;We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats,We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead;If you write like us there will be no fuss—That's the best of verse, when the last word's said....(Bursting irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn spectacles to the ground)
We're very careful what we put in;
This magazine is of highest grade;
If it doesn't appeal to our personal taste
There's no use sending it, we're afraid;
We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats,
We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead;
If you write like us there will be no fuss—
That's the best of verse, when the last word's said....(Bursting irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn spectacles to the ground)
Yale! Yale! Yale!Our Poetry!Fine Poetry!Nobody Else's Poetry!Raw! Raw! Raw! Raw!
Yale! Yale! Yale!
Our Poetry!
Fine Poetry!
Nobody Else's Poetry!
Raw! Raw! Raw! Raw!
(Enter, modestly, the Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in America. There are four of him—or her, as the case may be—Miss Monroe, Miss Rittenhouse, Mrs. Stork, Mr. Braithwaite. The Person stands in a row and recites in unison:)
I've made PoetryWhat it is today;Or ... at least ...That's what people say:Earnest-minded effortNever can be hid;The Others think They did it—But—I—Did!
I've made PoetryWhat it is today;Or ... at least ...That's what people say:Earnest-minded effortNever can be hid;The Others think They did it—But—I—Did!
I've made Poetry
What it is today;
Or ... at least ...
That's what people say:
Earnest-minded effort
Never can be hid;
The Others think They did it—
But—I—Did!
SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP, EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS,(faintly:)
Youdid?(They rush out.)
Youdid?(They rush out.)
Youdid?(They rush out.)
PERSON RESPONSIBLE(still modestly)
Well, so they say—But I have to go away.I'm due at a lectureI give at three today.
Well, so they say—But I have to go away.I'm due at a lectureI give at three today.
Well, so they say—
But I have to go away.
I'm due at a lecture
I give at three today.
(The Person goes out in single file, looking at its watch. As it does so, there enters a pale and dishevelled girl in Greek robes. It is the Muse.)
MUSE
In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and cryingAs swine that in deep agony are dying,A voice of tom-cats wailing,A never failingThud as of rolling logs:A chattering like frogs,And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous,Making a horrible fuss,Cries out upon my name.Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame,So to be mocked and humbled by this use?I—I, the Muse!
In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and cryingAs swine that in deep agony are dying,A voice of tom-cats wailing,A never failingThud as of rolling logs:A chattering like frogs,And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous,Making a horrible fuss,Cries out upon my name.Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame,So to be mocked and humbled by this use?I—I, the Muse!
In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and crying
As swine that in deep agony are dying,
A voice of tom-cats wailing,
A never failing
Thud as of rolling logs:
A chattering like frogs,
And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous,
Making a horrible fuss,
Cries out upon my name.
Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame,
So to be mocked and humbled by this use?
I—I, the Muse!
(Enter Spirit of Modern Poetry, a lady with bobbed hair, clad lightly in horn glasses and a sex-complex.)
SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY
You're behind the times; quite narrow,Don't you wantCulture for the masses?
You're behind the times; quite narrow,Don't you wantCulture for the masses?
You're behind the times; quite narrow,
Don't you want
Culture for the masses?
MUSE
No; I am Greek; we never did.Besides, itisn'tculture.
No; I am Greek; we never did.Besides, itisn'tculture.
No; I am Greek; we never did.
Besides, itisn'tculture.
CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY,(trotting by two by two on their way to a lecture, pause.)
Oh, how narrow! Oh, how shocking!She's no Muse! She must be mocking!
Oh, how narrow! Oh, how shocking!She's no Muse! She must be mocking!
Oh, how narrow! Oh, how shocking!
She's no Muse! She must be mocking!
MUSE(sternly, having lost her temper by this time)
I am a goddess. Trifle not with me.
I am a goddess. Trifle not with me.
I am a goddess. Trifle not with me.
ELDERLY LADIES(with resolute tolerance)
Shelookslike a pupil of Isadora Duncan,But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk inTo believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture—My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture!
Shelookslike a pupil of Isadora Duncan,But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk inTo believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture—My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture!
Shelookslike a pupil of Isadora Duncan,
But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk in
To believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture—
My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture!
MUSE(lifting her arms angrily)
Até, my sister!
Até, my sister!
Até, my sister!
ATÉ,(behind the scenes)I come!
(Enter from one side, Band of Poets—very large—with lyres and wreaths put on over their regular clothes. From the other side, a chorus of Poetry Critics. At their end steals Até, Goddess of Discord, disguised as a Critic by means of horn glasses and a Cane. The Poets do not see her—or anything but themselves, indeed. They sing obliviously)
My maiden aunt in KeokukShe writes free verse like anything;My great-grandmother is in luck,She's sold her three-piece work on Spring;My mother does Poetic Plays,My dad does rhymes while signing checks,And my flapper sister—we wouldn't have missed her—She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex—The world's as perfect as it can be,Everybody writes Poetry!
My maiden aunt in KeokukShe writes free verse like anything;My great-grandmother is in luck,She's sold her three-piece work on Spring;My mother does Poetic Plays,My dad does rhymes while signing checks,And my flapper sister—we wouldn't have missed her—She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex—The world's as perfect as it can be,Everybody writes Poetry!
My maiden aunt in Keokuk
She writes free verse like anything;
My great-grandmother is in luck,
She's sold her three-piece work on Spring;
My mother does Poetic Plays,
My dad does rhymes while signing checks,
And my flapper sister—we wouldn't have missed her—
She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex—
The world's as perfect as it can be,
Everybody writes Poetry!
CHORUS OF CRITICS,(chanting yet more loudly:)
The world's notquiteas perfect as it yet might be,Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry!
The world's notquiteas perfect as it yet might be,Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry!
The world's notquiteas perfect as it yet might be,
Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry!
(The Spirit of Discord now creeps softly out from among the Critics.)
SPIRIT OF DISCORD
Rash poets, think what you would do—There's nobody left you can read it to!
Rash poets, think what you would do—There's nobody left you can read it to!
Rash poets, think what you would do—
There's nobody left you can read it to!
POETS(aghast)
We never thought of that!An audience, 'tis flat,Is our most pressing need,To listen to our screed;
We never thought of that!An audience, 'tis flat,Is our most pressing need,To listen to our screed;
We never thought of that!
An audience, 'tis flat,
Is our most pressing need,
To listen to our screed;
(Each turns to his neighbor)
Base scribbler, get thee henceOr be my audience!
Base scribbler, get thee henceOr be my audience!
Base scribbler, get thee hence
Or be my audience!
Semi-chorus:
We want to write ourselves! We'll not!
We want to write ourselves! We'll not!
We want to write ourselves! We'll not!
Semi-chorus:
But whatyouwrite is merely rot!Hush up and letmereadMy great, eternal screed!
But whatyouwrite is merely rot!Hush up and letmereadMy great, eternal screed!
But whatyouwrite is merely rot!
Hush up and letmeread
My great, eternal screed!
ATÉ(stealthily)Ha, ha!
(Each Poet now draws a Fountain Pen with a bayonet attached, and kills the Poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the Poet on the other side. They fall in neat windrows. There are no Poets left. Meanwhile the Non-Poetry-Writing Public, two in number, who have been shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three paces to the front, and speak:)
What's the use o' poetry, anyhow?Ialways say, 'if you wanta say anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.'Inever wrote no poetry, and I get along fine in the hardware business.
CHORUS OF CRITICS AND CULTURE-HOUNDS,(thrilled:)
Ah, a new Gospel!Let us write ReviewsAbout it!
Ah, a new Gospel!Let us write ReviewsAbout it!
Ah, a new Gospel!
Let us write Reviews
About it!
THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP(entering, and addressing the Editors and Publishers who follow her.)
Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close.I wing my hallowed wayTo the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose.
Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close.I wing my hallowed wayTo the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose.
Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close.
I wing my hallowed way
To the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose.
EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS
Nay, our great helper, nay!Leave us not yet, our only comforter!We'll need thee still;Folks who write poetryThere's naught on earth can kill!
Nay, our great helper, nay!Leave us not yet, our only comforter!We'll need thee still;Folks who write poetryThere's naught on earth can kill!
Nay, our great helper, nay!
Leave us not yet, our only comforter!
We'll need thee still;
Folks who write poetry
There's naught on earth can kill!
(During this theCULTURE-HOUNDS,CRITICS,etc., have clustered round theNON-POETRY-WRITING PUBLIC,whispering, urging, and pushing. It rises and scratches its head in a flattered way, and finally says:)
B'gosh, I do believe,Now that you speak of it, I could do just as goodAs any of those there fool dead fellers could!
B'gosh, I do believe,Now that you speak of it, I could do just as goodAs any of those there fool dead fellers could!
B'gosh, I do believe,
Now that you speak of it, I could do just as good
As any of those there fool dead fellers could!
(The late Non-Poetry-Writing Public are both immediately invested with lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats.)
SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS(to Spirit of Rejection Slip)
You see? Too late!
You see? Too late!
You see? Too late!
SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS
Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate?
Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate?
Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate?
(They go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the Masque, exceptATÉ,who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, and theMUSE,form up to do a dance symbolic of One Being Born Every Minute. They sing:)
The Day has come that we adore,The Day we've all been working for;The Day has come, tra la, tra lee!Everybodywrites Poetry!
The Day has come that we adore,The Day we've all been working for;The Day has come, tra la, tra lee!Everybodywrites Poetry!
The Day has come that we adore,
The Day we've all been working for;
The Day has come, tra la, tra lee!
Everybodywrites Poetry!
THE MUSE(unnoticed in the background)
Farewell.
Farewell.
Farewell.
(He recites with appropriate gestures.)
It seems that Margaret WiddemerPossessed a Tree with a Bird in it,And being human, prone to err,Thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it,Or christen it, as one might say,By asking poets closely herdedTo come around and spend the dayAnd sing of what the Tree and Bird did.(Poor girl! When next she takes her penSome bromide critic's sure to say,"Don't dare do serious work again—This stuff is your true métier!")No sooner said than done; the bardsRush out in quantities surprising,And, overflowing four front yardsThey carol till the moon is rising;With ardor, or, as some say, "pash,"In song kind or satirical,Asking, apparently, no cash,They make their offerings lyrical.I'd be the first a spear to breakFor Poesy; but this to tackle ...It seems a lot of fuss to makeAbout one Tree and one small Grackle.
It seems that Margaret WiddemerPossessed a Tree with a Bird in it,And being human, prone to err,Thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it,
It seems that Margaret Widdemer
Possessed a Tree with a Bird in it,
And being human, prone to err,
Thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it,
Or christen it, as one might say,By asking poets closely herdedTo come around and spend the dayAnd sing of what the Tree and Bird did.
Or christen it, as one might say,
By asking poets closely herded
To come around and spend the day
And sing of what the Tree and Bird did.
(Poor girl! When next she takes her penSome bromide critic's sure to say,"Don't dare do serious work again—This stuff is your true métier!")
(Poor girl! When next she takes her pen
Some bromide critic's sure to say,
"Don't dare do serious work again—
This stuff is your true métier!")
No sooner said than done; the bardsRush out in quantities surprising,And, overflowing four front yardsThey carol till the moon is rising;
No sooner said than done; the bards
Rush out in quantities surprising,
And, overflowing four front yards
They carol till the moon is rising;
With ardor, or, as some say, "pash,"In song kind or satirical,Asking, apparently, no cash,They make their offerings lyrical.
With ardor, or, as some say, "pash,"
In song kind or satirical,
Asking, apparently, no cash,
They make their offerings lyrical.
I'd be the first a spear to breakFor Poesy; but this to tackle ...It seems a lot of fuss to makeAbout one Tree and one small Grackle.
I'd be the first a spear to break
For Poesy; but this to tackle ...
It seems a lot of fuss to make
About one Tree and one small Grackle.