FROM ANNA PEST
To the Editor of The Idler.
Dear Sir: Doubtless you are familiar with some of the newer schools of poetry, as for instance, that one which has abandoned rhyme for assonance, which has led an ignorant and prejudiced critic to say of it that its poetry may be rich in assonance, but that he finds in it more of asininity. Such is the treatment accorded all independent artists by the hidebound adherents of outworn ideals!
Now, Mr.Idler, nobody is more convinced than I am that we need new forms of poetry. I have been writing poems for a number of years and I feel that I speak with authority when I say that the old classical forms are entirely inadequate for modern poetic expression. I have tried them all and I have found them all wanting, for though I have written poems in the form of sonnets, lyrics, triolets, quatrains,couplets, rondels—and even in blank verse—I was never able to produce a decent poem in any of them. I therefore conclude that what every modern poet needs is to shake off the shackles of poetic convention and follow a form suited to his nature. I have been greatly encouraged by the introduction of thevers librein France and I am heartily in accord with the aims of those pioneers of the new poetry who are laboring to educate the public taste to modern ideals, but I fear that in one or two instances they have overshot the mark.
Much as I admire the courage of Monsieur Alexandre Mercereau, who has, with splendid audacity, forsaken verse altogether and determined to write all of his poetry in prose, I do not believe it advisable to attempt to accomplish the poetic revolution at one step. I am more in sympathy with those who have abandoned rhyme, but retained rhythm.
For my own part, I have invented a form which I think better than either. I believe that this form is as superior to the sonnetas the sonnet is to the limerick. I call this form theduocapetbecause it is, in a sense, double-headed, having two rhyming words in every line—one at each end. I have discarded rhythm but retained rhyme. I had good reasons for adopting this course. I regard meter as a useless encumbrance. It is meter, not rhyme, which hampers the true poet. The poet should be free—free as the air—free as the birds. It is a crime against art to bind him with silly meaningless meters and rhythms which distract his attention from his theme and serve only to furnish critics with an excuse for picking flaws. I hope that the happy day will soon arrive when laymen will leave to the poets the settling of all questions of form, but in the present state of public ignorance and prejudice I think it advisable to concede them something in order that they may realize that we are writing poetry. Later, when the public is sufficiently educated to recognize poetry without any of its ancient ear-marks, I may discard rhyme also.
For the present I think theduocapetis themost logical and artistic of existing forms. Writing in theduocapet, the poet has only one rule to observe—that the first word of every line shall rhyme with the last. I have, in fact, reduced the couplet to a single line, making the two rhyming words come one at each end of that line, where they logically belong, one opening and one closing the line, instead of placing them one under the other in the manner of Pope. Standing in this position they may be likened to two sentries that guard the thought of the poet. It is as if the rhyme at the first end of the line called out, “Who goes there?” and the other responds, “A friend!” In theduocapetthe poet may make his lines short or long as best pleases him without regard for the length of lines that go before or that follow.
This poetry is produced as all true poetry should be produced, a line at a time. No whole can be perfect which is defective in any part. In theduocapetevery line is a perfect poem, complete in itself, every line contains a distinct thought, and though the sentence may sometimesextend from one line to another, this is never necessary and rests with the discretion of the poet. Should he choose, he might write a whole poem consisting of nothing but complete sentences, a sentence a line, with a period at the end of each. The poem can be made ten lines in length or ten thousand, and asterisks and italics can be introduced at will. With the exception of the rhyme, the poet is as free in this form as in any form ofvers libre. I append an example ofduocapetwhich should give you a good idea of the possibilities of this form:
Midnight
Gone is the day and I look out uponNight bathed in Luna’s sad illusive light ...Dark are the shadows out in Central Park;Hushed are the streets through which the traffic rushed ...See! Underneath that weeping-willow treeProne lies a figure on a bench alone!Why should he lie there ’neath the sky?Is there no home he can call his?Creeps now the moonlight where he sleeps ...Shakes then the outcast as he wakes,Chill with the bitter winds that fillAll of the Park from wall to wall.Slinks then away in search of drinks.Soon he will be in a saloon.Still as I lean upon the sillAnd see the sky on every handSprinkled with those same stars that twinkledBright on that blessed Christmas nightWhen angels sang good-will to men ...Sore is my heart unto the core!Sick is my soul unto the quick!Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick!
Gone is the day and I look out uponNight bathed in Luna’s sad illusive light ...Dark are the shadows out in Central Park;Hushed are the streets through which the traffic rushed ...See! Underneath that weeping-willow treeProne lies a figure on a bench alone!Why should he lie there ’neath the sky?Is there no home he can call his?Creeps now the moonlight where he sleeps ...Shakes then the outcast as he wakes,Chill with the bitter winds that fillAll of the Park from wall to wall.Slinks then away in search of drinks.Soon he will be in a saloon.Still as I lean upon the sillAnd see the sky on every handSprinkled with those same stars that twinkledBright on that blessed Christmas nightWhen angels sang good-will to men ...Sore is my heart unto the core!Sick is my soul unto the quick!Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick!
Gone is the day and I look out uponNight bathed in Luna’s sad illusive light ...Dark are the shadows out in Central Park;Hushed are the streets through which the traffic rushed ...See! Underneath that weeping-willow treeProne lies a figure on a bench alone!Why should he lie there ’neath the sky?Is there no home he can call his?Creeps now the moonlight where he sleeps ...Shakes then the outcast as he wakes,Chill with the bitter winds that fillAll of the Park from wall to wall.Slinks then away in search of drinks.Soon he will be in a saloon.Still as I lean upon the sillAnd see the sky on every handSprinkled with those same stars that twinkledBright on that blessed Christmas nightWhen angels sang good-will to men ...Sore is my heart unto the core!Sick is my soul unto the quick!Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick!
Gone is the day and I look out upon
Night bathed in Luna’s sad illusive light ...
Dark are the shadows out in Central Park;
Hushed are the streets through which the traffic rushed ...
See! Underneath that weeping-willow tree
Prone lies a figure on a bench alone!
Why should he lie there ’neath the sky?
Is there no home he can call his?
Creeps now the moonlight where he sleeps ...
Shakes then the outcast as he wakes,
Chill with the bitter winds that fill
All of the Park from wall to wall.
Slinks then away in search of drinks.
Soon he will be in a saloon.
Still as I lean upon the sill
And see the sky on every hand
Sprinkled with those same stars that twinkled
Bright on that blessed Christmas night
When angels sang good-will to men ...
Sore is my heart unto the core!
Sick is my soul unto the quick!
Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick!
I hope that you will publish this poem and letter in the interest of Poetic Art, and in order that the world may know that we poets of America are almost, if not quite, as progressive as those of France.
I am, Sir,Anna Pest.