Part Eight:
Androgyne Verse
The first of the following attempts to penetrate into Plato’s
“world of ideas” and get at the real essence of things, and then
to express them in an ideal manner, was inspired by a chance
visit to the Whitestone station in October, 1921. Subsequently
I was seized with the desire to try out my muse in incorporating
some of my other emotions and experiences in verse. I had
essayed no metrical composition since 1905, the year of writing
the last of my Fairie Songs, the best of which were published
in the Autobiography of an Androgyne.
I understand by “poetry” the version of things seen incorporeally;
things spiritualized or with a halo around them;
things as they exist in substance, in reality, back of their
superficial or phenomenal presentation—the version of things
that an individual’s subconscious or subliminal self utters.
At present when I evolve verse, I try to lose myself to the
phenomenal world—the domain of sensation—and to let down
my bucket into the well of the subconscious, the subliminal; to
peer into the eternal, the infinite world (the domain of fundamental
substance). The sensuous, material skin or crust of
this world of ideas is all that most children of Adam can
grasp. Only to poets and metaphysicians has Nature given a
rope of sufficient length that their buckets can reach as far
as the water level in the well of ideas. Nearly all poets even
of the first rank manage to flop into their buckets a few exquisite
thoughts as to eternal realities, and clothed in appropriate
language, only about once out of a score of attempts.
Nineteen-twentieths of their verse would better have been forever
withheld from the public’s eyes, since it is merely artificial,
nonsense doggerel. In that proportion of their work,
these poets of the first rank show themselves up merely as
bad rhymesters.
The editor of The Female-Impersonators declared “the book
would be better off without” my verse, but has kindly humored
my wish to include it. The reader’s verdict may be that I, too,
am merely a bad rhymester, and thus put my work on a level
with the vast bulk of the outpourings and outdronings of our
best poets.
But I, as a would-be poet, labor under the disadvantage
of expressing sentiments of an androgyne. Even if there should
|Androgyne Verse.|
really be any poetry in my own outdronings, no one but another
androgyne could recognize the fact, since it is next to impossible
for anybody to appreciate any literature unless they can
make its sentiments their own and identify themselves with
one of the characters. And the sexually full-fledged, who constitute
more than ninety-nine per cent of the reading public,
are obsessed by an irrational horror of androgynes.
I therefore beg the reader, in judging the following
verse, to bear in mind that it is not written by a
man about men, as the reader first thinks; but about
men by a pseudo-man; by a physical “man” who is
psychicly a woman, and even physically a woman at
least thirty-three per cent.
I have read some of Mary Baker Eddy’s verse, which her
disciples place on a level with the Psalms of David. But I
think the former weak and the latter perfect. Here again
we see that to judge verse to be good, one has to imagine it
one’s own outpouring. I therefore do not expect any sexually
full-fledged person to declare of my verse (even if it were the
best ever written) anything else than that it is “far beneath
the worst doggerel. The mere thought of it is painful!”
For—I repeat—it is impossible for any one to judge poetry
objectively—only subjectively: that is, not according to the
merits of the verse, but according to whether the reader can
make the sentiments his own.
A sexually full-fledged literary confidant, who has read
the first two books of my trilogy, declared of my verse: “If
you publish it, it will cast ridicule and contempt on your whole
book. In the book, you have claimed culture, but when your
readers come to this verse, they will say that no one with the culture
of a longshoreman would try to pass off such stuff as verse
even in fun, and that if you had the slightest tincture of literary
taste, you would realize this. You will go down to posterity
in ridicule, and destroy all the good your books might otherwise
do.”
But I persist in including the verse. If the quoted verdict
is correct, then I have “a screw loose” intellectually, as well as
being sexually and anatomically “a freak of Nature.” The published
pieces show the psychologist what ultra-androgyne verse
is like. Besides, possible androgyne readers may be able to
appreciate this verse.
As three out of the four following “attempts” were first conceived
only in January, 1922—after The Female-Impersonators
had gone to press—it has been impossible that they benefit by
the author’s judgment after they have grown cold.
(Inspired by sight of Whitestone station in 1921.)
“Old Porte Cochere, with Memories Dear Thou Teemest!”
The Unreplaced Slats on Which the Author Communed
Still stands the selfsame Whitestone station,
So sombre as night’s shades fall;
At its north front do still halt trains,
While brakemen “Whitestone! Whitestone!” call.
My trysting-place in nineteen three
With warriors of the nation,
When I was frivolous and wild,
Was this old Whitestone station.
Yea, holy ground its platform is;
It makes me sigh and ponder;
In my mind’s eye those blue-clad forms
Still wait for me just yonder!
They met me at the train when I
From New York came, directed
To see and stroll about with “braves”
Of manhood unsuspected!
On balmy eves we stalked dark lanes,
No other person near us;
No other’s eye upon us gazed,
No other’s ear could hear us.
What gallant, passionate lovers they!
Considerate of my pleasure!
Uplifting to the highest bliss
That Eve on earth can measure!
Returning to the porte cochere
Of that selfsame old station,
We lingered, till the whistle blew,
In blissful conversation.
What eyesore thou, old Porte Cochere,
To every traveller seemest!
To me, howe’er, thou shelter gave;
With memories dear thou teemest!
The station’s waiting-room with seats
Extending all around it,
‘Whelms me with recollections fond,
Because unchanged I found it!
For ’twas on these rude benches there,
When winter’s winds were hurtling,
And travellers few and far between,
All evening sat we flirting.
In words our conversation lagged;
In substance it was silly!
For all I said the evening through
Was: “How I love thee, Willie!”
We every confidence but breathed,
Lest some strange ear o’erhear us;
They guessed not—travelers—what we said;
There were none very near us.
Whene’er the train I took for town,
And we “Goodnight!” repeated,
“Farewell!” o’erwhelmed me as I left
And in the coach was seated.
Once rode with me a gallant three
To College Point, first station;
To have with me five minutes more
Before farewell ovation.
How charmed was I that period brief!
Its memory ever lingers;
As we sat holding hidden hands,
I felt their horny fingers.
“Three cheers for Jennie June!” they cried,
When finally they must leave me;
“The soldiers’ friend, and sweetheart too!
Let not our parting grieve thee!”
Gone are ye from my life for years,
You heroes! Wonder boys!
In memory though I hold you fast—
Forever perfect joys!
Farewell!
O thou Fair as the sunrise on deep sea’s green surge,
While the whitecaps seem dancing all around!
Fair as sunset from mountain’s sheer precipice’s verge,
Seen o’er maze of high ridges snowbound!
Even Fairer than the rose, of all flowers the fairest;
Beyond Vatican’s Apollo Belvedere;
Bud McDonald, youth’s soul-mate, of beauty the rarest,
Adolescent wert thou without peer!
First, Beau Brummel wert thou, so fussy about clothes,
O immaculate Buddie McDee!
Dirt and slovenness cat, never more than thou, loaths;
Must be brushed every hour from dust free;
Every lock of thine hair with worried care laid in place;
As a girl didst thou prink—I can vow!
But of all the young bloods of Rialto’s fast race,
Not one sweller was costumed than thou!
Beheld one the shining patent leather of thy shoe,
And both hands decorated with rings;
Marked thy wiles through which dude hoi polloi’s favor doth woo,
One would say: “All from effeminacy springs!”
“Not a bit!” I must answer. For Mack, Sport as well,
Was a crack shot with pistol and ball;
How he hunted, coldblooded, dumb beasts he did tell;
Furry creatures clubbed dead; cursed them all!
Best of all:—an Adonis wert thou, Bud McDee,
With incomparable red peachlike cheeks;
Threads of eyebrows so cleancut!—in memory I see—
As o’er her eyes a soubrette alone seeks;
With thy pearls of teeth, cherry lips—beloved sir—
And as well chiselled nose as can be,
How I’ve wondered that thou and I intimates were!—
Explanation:—God gave thee to me!
I again in fond memory behold before me,
Pinkish mountain of loveliness tower;
Buddie’s forma divina, au naturel, see;
How his charms, yea unmatched, did o’erpower!
An “eyeful” his two breasts, with fine gold scraggy hair;
Graceful curves; rotund body and limb;
With his robust ribs bursting through skin O so fair,
And his deep-channeled back breathing vim!
Once Unequaled “Young Fellow”! Six-and-twenty long years
Now have rolled by since thou wert All That!
Art to-day gibbering sot, maybe suffering jeers,
With foul trousers and torn greasy hat?
For the cup cherished thou that glad makes the sad heart.—
How I wonder! Where sleptest last night?
Is vitality wasted? In grave resting art?—
Us together soon lead, Kindly Light!
“The Boy of the Piave”
(America’s Gift to Italy in 1921)
I dream to-night of the gay bright lights
Where I sought recreation;
While meek I sat at feet of profs
To gain an education:
I studied hard six dreary eves,
But when the seventh came,
Bade “au revoir” to books and grind,
And skipped to Rialto’s game.
There where lurked pleasure’s devotees
Giant Kill-joy never came;
I met there New York’s wildest swains,
And buxoms of ill fame:
We revelled all the evening through—
Fine fellowship, I say!
I ne’er happed on politer folk
Than in Rialto gay.
And which was I, kind sir, dost ask?
Was I a bad roué?
Or shameless demi-virgin wild,
In paint and powder gay?—
“But I was neither this nor that!”
Such answer here I set;
While youth in form, I chose to take
Diversion as soubrette.
The young bloods pardoned me—they said—
For wearing hated breeches!
“For thou art not a real male;
Thou’rt like yon winking witches
Who throng these noisy promenades
Their favors fair to sell;
And kissing thee we deem as sweet
As kissing ma’moiZelle!
“Lik’st thou that we thee sweetheart call?—
We’ll humor thy desire;
Sit on our laps while we sip wine;
Let’s flirt until we tire;
To break thy shapely corset stays,
We’ll try our best, dear Jenn;
But thou must mimic maid thy best;
For us:—the part of men!”....
To have love made by youthful swains,
To me was highest bliss;
In the bright dives where scores beheld,
No,—shrinked we not to kiss:—
Of yore in gay Rialto’s halls
Knew folk no self-restraint;
Insane e’en sometimes acted fools!
Those dens no place for saint!....
I’m prone to-night to philosophize:—
Why did I gravitate
Toward Rialto’s racy denizens
When moved to dissipate?
’Twas just because I sought and found,
In Rialto’s “swell” gallants,
The opposites and complements
For whom my spirit pants....
O comrade of Rialto’s halls
Of nineties of century past—
Should’st read these lines, some former pal,
“Jennie June” remembered hast;
Now after twenty-six years,
I hail thee with heartfelt greeting;
Beseech Benediction on thine head,
In lieu of present meeting.
French Doll-Baby[53]
Young bloods prom’nade Fourteenth Street’s pave—
Each eve out for a lark;
Their eyes “peeled” for French doll babies;
With whom they sigh to spark;
Why admire the fraidcat babies,
Who weep easily?
The helpless crippled sex e’en seek!—
Hare-brained gentility!....
Cheeks a beauteous red through rouge puff;
Pink powder (pretty, pretty!!!) ‘pon nose;
One inhales as she nigh minceth,
Such soothing scent of rose!
Locks—so silklike—reach to shoulders;
Gown of “art” design;
Coquette extreme must she be sure;
All signs she doth combine.
When a young blood spieth dolly,
Cutely mincing Fourteenth Street;
Then the young blood smileth sweetly,
And, stranger e’en, doth greet:
Replies she smilingly “Good evening!”
Surely she is fly!
Too, overjoyed because of having
Bewitched a stalwart “guy.”
“Little tootsy-wootsy!” cries guy,
“Art ravishingly cute!
Thou art, yea, a pretty Pussie! Pussie, Pussie!!!
Ne’er saw I such a beaut!”
Answereth she in mellifluous voice:
“And I ‘Strong Hans’ thee call!
Thy frame so large and powerful!
Not spindling thou, yet tall!”
They acquainted barely minute,
Such confidences express!
As only hubby—hidden, secret—
Doth glad to spouse confess:
Bold gallant the French doll calls “Wifie!”
While she e’en feels that he
To her already united is—
The twain, twin souls, to be!
Reader, never heardst thou such words!
Much mush! (as “Kiddo! Kiddo!”—“Kitty! Kitty!”
[54])
Passing strange the way of young blood
With French doll baby pretty!
That sexual difference existeth
Renders twain insane;
Except for Nature’s procreative plan,
These instincts—how inane!....
Holdeth French doll from “guy” a secret;
Yes, surely she can act!
Only after hour’s deception,
Revealeth she the fact;
When she’s found that she can trust him;
Can reveal her whim:
In burst of laughter doth disclose:
“My real, true name is ‘Jim’!”
