My life in poetry

Since this story is one to which no one can write “Finis!” so long as I live, it will be as logical to end at one place as at another. And having already written about as much as I have any interest in reporting, I will bow my exit after trying to shed light on a few concluding matters.

Of the various books pertaining to poetry which I have put forth since the appearance of The Pageant Man in 1936, I shall mention only one, not for its own sake, but for what it tells of other poets. In the twenty years following publication of Modern American Lyrics, I had observed a considerable amount of excellent new American poetry, much of it by recognized poets, and much by little-known or unknown writers. But whether it proceeded from established versifiers or from the unestablished, it was insufficiently read; indeed, a large part of it was not available at all except to the limited audiences of “little magazines” and of minor presses. It seemed to me that this work, or at least a representative portion of it, should be made accessible to a wider public; and therefore, despite the horrors of obtaining permissions and the mountains of clerical labor, I conceived the idea of compiling an anthology—provided, of course, that a publisher could be found to back it.

Such a publisher, fortunately, did present himself—and presented himself on the first attempt, so far as I can recall, in the person of Mr. Thomas Yoseloff, head of the New York firm of Bernard Ackerman, Inc. (and, incidentally, Director of the University of Pennsylvania Press). I had never met Mr. Yoseloff (though years later I was to have that pleasure during a brief visit to New York), and I had no introduction to him except through my letter; but he was interested in the idea I suggested, and contracts were soon drawn up for the appearance of the book under the title of The Music Makers—the first of a series of volumes, both in poetry and prose, for whose publication I am indebted to this gracious and able man.

In the introduction to The Music Makers, I point out that “the number of published volumes of capable poems was not great compared with the amount of such poetry written,” and “that many even of our better known poets did not enjoy a public matching their merits.” Looking back upon my remarks after the passage of years, and seeing how many poems of real beauty written by Americans twenty or thirty years ago have been overshadowed or forgotten, I feel more strongly than ever the justification for these further statements:

Unfortunately, an anthology such as The Music Makers, even if it could do something for these poets, could do much less than they deserved. And the reason, as I saw it, was twofold: first, a materialism in the very age, which turned men’s thoughts outward rather than inward, and diverted them from poetry to prose; and secondly, the obscuring and confusing tendencies within literature itself, so that opaque and rhythmless work could be exalted as poetry thanks to the very fact that it was opaque and rhythmless, while an offering could be defended as poetic on the ground, for example, that it gave a perfect imitation of a drunkard at a bar (as in a critical note in one of our widely circulated literary media). Faced with such a degeneration of standards, how could one expect that the honorable singers of the ancient high profession would continue to be respected?

In connection with The Music Makers, a curious incident occurred—one showing how far afield and in what unforeseen directions a book of verse may spread its seeds. I quote from the New York Times of November 25, 1952:

When I read these lines—which were sent to me by several correspondents—I knew that even if The Music Makers had failed in all other respects, it would not have been compiled in vain. However, had Mr. Yoseloff not provided the book with a generous format including exceptionally wide margins, it might not have served quite so well!

Because of the degeneration of standards which I mention above, and which The Music Makers aimed to combat at least in part, a group of staunch traditionalists, in the mid-forties, formed an organization known as The League for Sanity in Poetry. I have always thought the name a poor one; one cannot, of course, obtain sanity by means of a league or any other form of organization; a more appropriate designation would have been, The League for Standards in Poetry. I remember an earnest letter from Albert Ralph Korn, of New York (of whom more later), pointing out that the principles of the poetic world were degenerating as never before, and urging me to take the lead in a counter-movement. At about the same time, a letter to a similar effect arrived from Lilith Lorraine, the editor of a Texan verse magazine, The Raven, and later to be editor of Different; she was then one of the most convinced advocates of traditional poetry, a devoted and energetic worker. I cannot say which of us originally conceived the idea of the League; but certain it is that it was conceived, and was established, with a committee consisting of Albert Ralph Korn, Lilith Lorraine, Etta Josephean Murfey, and Lawrence Neff (the latter two, former editors of poetry magazines) in addition to myself. (Mr. Korn subsequently withdrew owing to a disagreement with one of the other members, and his place was taken by Juliet Brooke Ballard). The League began by putting forth a pamphlet, The Need for Sanity in Poetry, and for a time it issued regular bulletins, under the title of Pinnacle, which expressed itself as “For the Preservation of Poetry at Its Topmost Pinnacle,” and printed these words of Shelley beneath its masthead: “Poetry ... makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful in the world.”

As an example of the sort of thing we opposed, we quoted the following, from the beginning of a “poem” by the well-known “modernist” E. E. Cummings, which the equally well-known anthologist Oscar Williams had valued highly enough to include in his compilation, New Poems, 1943:

I believe that the average reader will agree that when gutter trash such as this is palmed off as poetry, and—worse still!—seriously commended and anthologized, it is time that something be done, if not by a league for sanity, at least by a disinfecting squad.

The League was not, as some of its opponents liked to imply, an organization of bearded antediluvians established for the specific purpose of choking freedom and bringing back the good old days of Queen Victoria. It did, however, favor law as opposed to anarchy. Its principles as to experimentation are summarized in two of the ten items of belief listed in the second issue of Pinnacle:

If this is conservatism, it is sober, moderate, and forward-looking conservatism, of the sort that only the absolute iconoclast—which too often means the absolute wrecker—can rationally oppose.

Letters, showering into the League offices from all parts of the country, showed a widespread sympathy with our objectives. A typical communication was one received from Chicago, from the managing editor of the national magazine of a large fraternal organization:

Though obliged to reject suggestions that I serve as its National President, I did give considerable time to the League over a period of years, and wrote quite a few—though far from all—of the longer articles in Pinnacle. Other contributors included Robert Avrett, a Professor of Romance Languages at the University of Tennessee, and later, for a time, acting editor of The Lyric; Cullen Jones, Ruth Crary Clough, Anna T. Harding, Donald Parson, and other writers of excellent verse. A number of regional directors were appointed throughout the country, and for several years a real organization existed. But that organization, as happens in many cases, did in time break down, less because of waning enthusiasm than for lack of the considerable funds necessary to print and distribute Pinnacle and other releases, and to carry on the various campaigns; many small contributions continued to come in, but they were inadequate to meet expenses on the original scale. Eventually, therefore, Pinnacle was embodied as a department in Lilith Lorraine’s magazine, Different—and with the ultimate discontinuance of Different, this whole phase of our activities came to an end. Yet I am sure that all persons associated with the League felt that, during its several years of life, the organization did do something to combat the tides of chaos. And if it did not do enough—after all, what other force has done enough?

As these pages draw toward their end, I think it fitting to pay tribute to the many fine men and women whom I have known personally or by correspondence, and who have worked in various ways in the interests of poets and of poetry. Some of these have served the League for Sanity in Poetry, some have lent the aid of their advice, their suggestions, their contributions, and their encouragement in my sometimes arduous duties on Wings; some have edited other poetry journals or poetry columns, or served as poetry editors for newspapers or magazines, or written books or compiled anthologies, or conducted poetry programs over the radio, or sponsored prize contests, or merely stood by in the much-needed capacity of lovers and readers of poetry. These persons have been far too numerous to mention by name; indeed, for fear of discriminating unconsciously, I should not care to cite most of them by name. I shall, therefore, refer personally only to a few who are no longer living.

The first who occurs to me is the celebrated Irish author, Lord Dunsany, whose poems, stories, and plays I have enjoyed for many years. My first contact with him occurred some years ago, when I sent him a copy of The Pageant of Man. This gift he might have received in silence, or with a polite and meaningless note of thanks, while filing the book away in the great library of the unread. On the contrary, however, he did read my lengthy poem, and wrote me in enthusiastic terms. The correspondence between us continued, and subsequently he did me the favor of contributing a preface to my series of rhymed narratives, Time’s Travelers.

Meanwhile he was waging a valiant fight against the inanities and the insanities of “modernism” in verse. And this fight he took to America, during several lecture tours that brought him before large audiences on both coasts. His point of view is reported by an interviewer for the California magazine Fortnight for April 13, 1953:

From the above, the reader will judge that I was heartily glad to cry “Amen!” to all that Lord Dunsany said. I was, in fact, delighted that so wise and witty a fighter in the cause of poetry had come to America; and I was naturally eager to meet this man whom I had known for so many years through his work, and more recently, by correspondence.

To my joy, a meeting was arranged for one memorable evening at the Alta Mira Hotel in Sausalito, where Flora and I had dinner with Dunsany along with his hostess Mrs. Hazel Littlefield Smith and her secretary, who, despite his distaste for long motor trips, had driven him up from the South. In the old-world atmosphere of this hotel, overlooking the wide glittering waters of San Francisco Bay, we chatted for several hours. I shall never forget my first glimpse of the man whom I had come to consider my friend, as well as a friend of poetry: the dominating tall figure, with the frame still lithe and active despite his seventy-four years, and the impression he gave as if some redoubtable old warrior chief had stalked upon the scene; the Shavian face, with the keen and resolute features, the hair gray with traces of reddish brown, the mustache and the pointed small beard, and the live twinkling greenish eyes that shone with the vivacity of his energetic personality.

But perhaps even the word “energetic” does not fully express the verve and vigor, the scintillating and bubbling enthusiasm of his speech and manner. He seemed ageless to me as his words rushed on with a vivid flow in sparkling tales or in more sober discussion. I thought, as I heard him, that it was unfortunate that he had been born a “Lord”; for the title, extraneous and artificial as it is, may have tended to divert people’s minds from the rare and genuine qualities of the man himself and from the accomplishment of his prose and poetry. Of the things he said, one remark stands out particularly in my mind; he was speaking of the discovery of unknown genius, and paused to say, “Would it not be a dreadful thing if there were one among us, a Milton or a Keats, and he should pass unknown?” I have often thought the same thing.

But let me pass on to other persons. I think that I should call at least brief attention to two or three, who likewise should be remembered for their devotion to poetry and their services to poets.

One of these was Alice Hunt Bartlett, for years American Editor of the Poetry Review of London, a supporter of that excellent journal, compiler of several anthologies, and author of a bimonthly column, The Dynamics of American Poetry. I remember her clearly as she received me on several occasions in the drawing room of her Park Avenue apartment—a gracious, distinguished lady, her hair streaked with gray, her eyes bright and animated as she discussed her favorite subject.

Like Mrs. Bartlett, in her appreciation of poetry and her efforts to encourage it, was another lady, whom, however, I knew only by correspondence: Virginia Kent Cummins, also of New York, who at an advanced age established the Lyric Foundation for Traditional Poetry, which took over and supported one of the best of our verse magazines, The Lyric, and made an annual award of one thousand dollars to a chosen poet: a provision in her will has made it possible for The Lyric not only to continue as an organ of traditional poetry, but to offer substantial prizes to contributors.

Finally, let me refer again to Albert Ralph Korn. Although, as in the case of Mrs. Cumming we never met, he and I did have a long correspondence; and I know that, during the ten or twelve years of our contact, he was making constant benefactions for poetic causes; offered innumerable prizes through magazines and organizations both here and in England; wrote articles, put forth pamphlets, and sponsored campaigns in favor of what he aptly called “clarity in poetry.” It was he who suggested the departments, This Is Poetry and This Is Not Poetry, which for several years attracted attention in Wings; it was he who voluntarily, at his own expense, distributed more than twelve hundred copies of the pamphlet, Poetry Today, Fire or Fog? containing reprints of the first two years of This Is Poetry and This Is Not Poetry. Unlike many poets—for in his modest way he did write verse, though he never obtruded his work upon others—he was less concerned with the fate of his own offerings than with the welfare of poetry in general; and it was for this reason, more than any other, that his death in 1956 caused widespread regret.

It may be that, amid the great panorama of coming events and the multitudes of humanity, benefactors such as Mr. Korn, Mrs. Bartlett, and Mrs. Cummins will be obscured or forgotten. But to them, as to many another, we can apply Vachel Lindsay’s words on John Peter Altgeld:

Whatever the flares of personal publicity along our paths, this in the long run must be the consolation of those of us who dream and suffer, toil and sing and interpret and aspire, beat at blank walls and float among splendid vistas, and conceive visions of doom and of magnificence in the glorious, unworldly, or otherworldly kingdom of poetry.

THE END