The Poet Speaks
MARGARET C. ANDERSON
Thereare people in the world who like poetry if they know the poet. There are a good many people in Chicago just now who understand and enjoy Amy Lowell’s poetry because she read it to them at the Little Theatre.
I know a poet who could make nothing of Vachel Lindsay’s things until Lindsay chanted them to him one day. And I know another who said to me, when I remarked that I didn’t like Alfred Kreymborg’s verse, “Oh, but you would if you knew him.” I am puzzled, because I know this man to be an intelligent being. And somehow I have always been under the naive impression that poetry was a matter of art.
But there are worse things. There is one type of person we always eject promptly from the office ofThe Little Review. He is the person who says that Amy Lowell’s poetry has no feeling in it. Now please listen: I want to quote you something. It is calledVernal Equinox, it was written by Miss Lowell, and it appeared in the September issue ofPoetry; but I want to see it put down in these pages so that we may actually know it has been inThe Little Review:
The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;And the South Wind, washing through the room,Makes the candles quiver;My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,And I am uneasy at the bursting of green shootsOutside, in the night.Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?
The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;And the South Wind, washing through the room,Makes the candles quiver;My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,And I am uneasy at the bursting of green shootsOutside, in the night.Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?
The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;And the South Wind, washing through the room,Makes the candles quiver;My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,And I am uneasy at the bursting of green shootsOutside, in the night.Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?
The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;And the South Wind, washing through the room,Makes the candles quiver;My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,And I am uneasy at the bursting of green shootsOutside, in the night.
The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;
And the South Wind, washing through the room,
Makes the candles quiver;
My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the shutter,
And I am uneasy at the bursting of green shoots
Outside, in the night.
Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?
Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?
A poet whose new book will soon be talked of said to me, when I showed this to him, “Yes, it’s very clever, but it has no feeling.” He left the office gladly in three minutes.
Still there are worse things.The Chicago Tribunesent a reporter to the Little Theatre to hear Miss Lowell read and to record his impressionof her work and personality for those who still peruse the newspapers. You may have seen the reporter’s article....
And still worse?... Lots of people have been splitting hairs over Amy Lowell’s work, but no human being has been heard to remark: “A beautiful thing is happening in America. Amy Lowell is writing poetry for us.”