American Poetry, 1922: A Miscellany — Edition Insights

Miscellany was to be a biennial. Two years have passed, and with the second volume it has seemed best to state at once the reasons which actuated its contributors to join in such a venture.

In the first place, the plan of the _Miscellany_ is frankly imitative. For some years now there has been published in England an anthology entitled Georgian Poetry. The Miscellany is intended to be an American companion to that publication. The dissimilarities of temperament, range and choice of subjects are manifest, but the outstanding difference is this: _Georgian Poetry_ has an editor, and the poems it contains may be taken as that editor's reaction to the poetry of the day. The _Miscellany_, on the other hand, has no editor; it is no one person's choice which forms it; it is not an attempt to throw into relief any particular group or stress any particular tendency. It does disclose the most recent work of certain representative figures in contemporary American literature. The poets who appear here have come together by mutual accord and, although they may invite others to join them in subsequent volumes as circumstance dictates, each one stands (as all newcomers also must stand) as the exponent of fresh and strikingly diverse qualities in our native poetry. It is as if a dozen unacademic painters, separated by temperament and distance, were to arrange to have an exhibition every two years of their latest work. They would not pretend that they were the only painters worthy of a public showing; they would maintain that their work was, generally speaking, most interesting to one another. Their gallery would necessarily be limited; but it would be flexible enough to admit, with every fresh exhibit, three or four new members who had achieved an importance and an idiom of their own. This is just what the original contributors to the _Miscellany_ have done.

The newcomers--H. D., Alfred Kreymborg, and Edna St. Vincent Millay--have taken their places with the same absence of judge or jury that marks any "society of independents." There is no hanging committee; no organizer of "position." Two years ago the alphabet determined the arrangement; this time seniority has been the sole arbiter of precedence. Furthermore--and this can not be too often repeated--there has been no editor. To be painstakingly precise, each contributor has been his own editor. As such, he has chosen his own selections and determined the order in which they are to be printed, but he has had no authority over either the choice or grouping of his fellow exhibitors' contributions. To one of the members has been delegated the merely mechanical labors of assembling, proof-reading, and seeing the volume through the press. The absence of E. A. Robinson from this year's _Miscellany_ is a source of regret not only to all the contributors but to the poet himself. Mr. Robinson has written nothing since his Collected Poems with the exception of a long poem--a volume in itself--but he hopes to appear in any subsequent collection.

It should be added that this is not a haphazard anthology of picked-over poetry. The poems that follow are new. They are new not only in the sense that (with two exceptions) they cannot be found in book form, but most of them have never previously been published. Certain of the selections have appeared in recent magazines and these are reprinted by permission of _The Century_, _The Yale Review_, _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_, _The New Republic_, _Harper's_, _Scribner's_, _The Bookman_, _The Freeman_, _Broom_, _The Dial_, _The Atlantic Monthly_, _Farm and Fireside_, _The Measure_, and _The Literary Review_. Vachel Lindsay's "I Know All This When Gipsy Fiddles Cry" is a revised version of the poem of that name which was printed in _The Enchanted Years_.

Twenty-four Hokku on a Modern Theme _8_

La Ronde du Diable _20_

The Witch of Coos _29_

A Brook in the City _37_

California City Landscape _49_

In Praise of Johnny Appleseed _55_

I Know All This When Gipsy Fiddles Cry _66_

Places _92_ _Twilight_ (Tucson) _Full Moon_ (Santa Barbara) _Winter Sun_ (Lenox) _Evening_ (Nahant)

Words for an Old Air _97_

Two Songs for Solitude _99_ _The Crystal Gazer_ _The Solitary_

Monolog from a Mattress _103_

Waters of Babylon _110_

The Flaming Circle _112_

Portrait of a Machine _114_

Roast Leviathan _115_

Prayers for Wind _130_

Chinese Poet Among Barbarians _132_

Snowy Mountains _133_

JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER

Mater in Extremis _146_

Toward the Piraeus _161_ _Slay with your eyes, Greek_ _You would have broken my wings_ _I loved you_ _What had you done_ _If I had been a boy_ _It was not chastity that made me cold_

Seven Twilights _171_ _The ragged pilgrim on the road to nowhere_ _Now by the wall of the ancient town_ _When the tree bares, the music of it changes_ _"This is the hour," she says, "of transmutation"_ _Now the great wheel of darkness and low clouds_ _Heaven, you say, will be a field in April_ _In the long silence of the sea_

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

Eight Sonnets _193_ _When you, that at this moment are to me_ _What's this of death, from you who never will die_ _I know I am but summer to your heart_ _Here is a wound that never will heal, I know_ _What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why_ _Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare_ _Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!_ _Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find_

Lilacs, False blue, White, Purple, Color of lilac, Your great puffs of flowers Are everywhere in this my New England. Among your heart-shaped leaves Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing Their little weak soft songs; In the crooks of your branches The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs Peer restlessly through the light and shadow Of all Springs. Lilacs in dooryards Holding quiet conversations with an early moon; Lilacs watching a deserted house Settling sideways into the grass of an old road; Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom Above a cellar dug into a hill. You are everywhere. You were everywhere. You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon, And ran along the road beside the boy going to school. You stood by pasture-bars to give the cows good milking, You persuaded the housewife that her dish-pan was of silver And her husband an image of pure gold. You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms Through the wide doors of Custom Houses-- You, and sandal-wood, and tea, Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks When a ship was in from China. You called to them: "Goose-quill men, goose-quill men, May is a month for flitting," Until they writhed on their high stools And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers. Paradoxical New England clerks, Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the "Song of Solomon" at night, So many verses before bedtime, Because it was the Bible. The dead fed you Amid the slant stones of graveyards. Pale ghosts who planted you Came in the night time And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems. You are of the green sea, And of the stone hills which reach a long distance. You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles, You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home. You cover the blind sides of greenhouses And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass To your friends, the grapes, inside.

Lilacs, False blue, White, Purple, Color of lilac, You have forgotten your Eastern origin, The veiled women with eyes like panthers, The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled Pashas. Now you are a very decent flower, A reticent flower, A curiously clear-cut, candid flower, Standing beside clean doorways, Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles, Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight And a hundred or two sharp blossoms.

Maine knows you, Has for years and years; New Hampshire knows you, And Massachusetts And Vermont. Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island; Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea. You are brighter than apples, Sweeter than tulips, You are the great flood of our souls Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts, You are the smell of all Summers, The love of wives and children, The recollection of the gardens of little children, You are State Houses and Charters And the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows. May is lilac here in New England, May is a thrush singing "Sun up!" on a tip-top ash-tree, May is white clouds behind pine-trees Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky. May is a green as no other, May is much sun through small leaves, May is soft earth, And apple-blossoms, And windows open to a South wind. May is a full light wind of lilac From Canada to Narragansett Bay.

Lilacs, False blue, White, Purple, Color of lilac, Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England, Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England, Lilac in me because I am New England, Because my roots are in it, Because my leaves are of it, Because my flowers are for it, Because it is my country And I speak to it of itself And sing of it with my own voice Since certainly it is mine.

TWENTY-FOUR HOKKU ON A MODERN THEME

Again the larkspur, Heavenly blue in my garden. They, at least, unchanged.

How have I hurt you? You look at me with pale eyes, But these are my tears.

Morning and evening-- Yet for us once long ago Was no division.

I hear many words. Set an hour when I may come Or remain silent.

In the ghostly dawn I write new words for your ears-- Even now you sleep.

This then is morning. Have you no comfort for me Cold-colored flowers?

My eyes are weary Following you everywhere. Short, oh short, the days!

When the flower falls The leaf is no more cherished. Every day I fear.

Even when you smile Sorrow is behind your eyes. Pity me, therefore.

Laugh--it is nothing. To others you may seem gay, I watch with grieved eyes.

Take it, this white rose. Stems of roses do not bleed; Your fingers are safe.

As a river-wind Hurling clouds at a bright moon, So am I to you.

Watching the iris, The faint and fragile petals-- How am I worthy?

Down a red river I drift in a broken skiff. Are you then so brave?

Night lies beside me Chaste and cold as a sharp sword. It and I alone.

Last night it rained. Now, in the desolate dawn, Crying of blue jays.

Foolish so to grieve, Autumn has its colored leaves-- But before they turn?

Afterwards I think: Poppies bloom when it thunders. Is this not enough?

Love is a game--yes? I think it is a drowning: Black willows and stars.

When the aster fades The creeper flaunts in crimson. Always another!

Turning from the page, Blind with a night of labor, I hear morning crows.

A cloud of lilies, Or else you walk before me. Who could see clearly?

Sweet smell of wet flowers Over an evening garden. Your portrait, perhaps?

Staying in my room, I thought of the new Spring leaves. That day was happy.

The swans float and float Along the moat Around the Bishop's garden, And the white clouds push Across a blue sky With edges that seem to draw in and harden.

Two slim men of white bronze Beat each with a hammer on the end of a rod The hours of God. Striking a bell, They do it well. And the echoes jump, and tinkle, and swell In the Cathedral's carved stone polygons.

The swans float About the moat, And another swan sits still in the air Above the old inn. He gazes into the street And swims the cold and the heat, He has always been there, At least so say the cobbles in the square. They listen to the beat Of the hammered bell, And think of the feet Which beat upon their tops; But what they think they do not tell.

And the swans who float Up and down the moat Gobble the bread the Bishop feeds them. The slim bronze men beat the hour again, But only the gargoyles up in the hard blue air heed them.

When the Bishop says a prayer, And the choir sing "Amen," The hammers break in on them there: Clang! Clang! Beware! Beware! The carved swan looks down at the passing men, And the cobbles wink: "An hour has gone again." But the people kneeling before the Bishop's chair Forget the passing over the cobbles in the square.

An hour of day and an hour of night, And the clouds float away in a red-splashed light. The sun, quotha? or white, white Smoke with fire all alight.

An old roof crashing on a Bishop's tomb, Swarms of men with a thirst for room, And the footsteps blur to a shower, shower, shower, Of men passing--passing--every hour, With arms of power, and legs of power, And power in their strong, hard minds. No need then For the slim bronze men Who beat God's hours: Prime, Tierce, None. Who wants to hear? No one. We will melt them, and mold them, And make them a stem For a banner gorged with blood, For a blue-mouthed torch. So the men rush like clouds, They strike their iron edges on the Bishop's chair And fling down the lanterns by the tower stair. They rip the Bishop out of his tomb And break the mitre off of his head. "See," say they, "the man is dead; He cannot shiver or sing. We'll toss for his ring."

The cobbles see this all along the street Coming--coming--on countless feet. And the clockmen mark the hours as they go. But slow--slow-- The swans float In the Bishop's moat. And the inn swan Sits on and on, Staring before him with cold glass eyes. Only the Bishop walks serene, Pleased with his church, pleased with his house, Pleased with the sound of the hammered bell, Beating his doom. Saying "Boom! Boom! Room! Room!" He is old, and kind, and deaf, and blind, And very, very pleased with his charming moat And the swans which float.

Your voice is like bells over roofs at dawn When a bird flies And the sky changes to a fresher color.

Speak, speak, Beloved. Say little things For my ears to catch And run with them to my heart.

Last night, at sunset, The foxgloves were like tall altar candles. Could I have lifted you to the roof of the greenhouse, my Dear, I should have understood their burning.

You--you-- Your shadow is sunlight on a plate of silver; Your footsteps, the seeding-place of lilies; Your hands moving, a chime of bells across a windless air.

The movement of your hands is the long, golden running of light from a rising sun; It is the hopping of birds upon a garden-path.

As the perfume of jonquils, you come forth in the morning. Young horses are not more sudden than your thoughts, Your words are bees about a pear-tree, Your fancies are the gold-and-black striped wasps buzzing among red apples. I drink your lips, I eat the whiteness of your hands and feet. My mouth is open, As a new jar I am empty and open. Like white water are you who fill the cup of my mouth, Like a brook of water thronged with lilies.

You are frozen as the clouds, You are far and sweet as the high clouds. I dare reach to you, I dare touch the rim of your brightness. I leap beyond the winds, I cry and shout, For my throat is keen as a sword Sharpened on a hone of ivory. My throat sings the joy of my eyes, The rushing gladness of my love.

How has the rainbow fallen upon my heart? How have I snared the seas to lie in my fingers And caught the sky to be a cover for my head? How have you come to dwell with me, Compassing me with the four circles of your mystic lightness, So that I say "Glory! Glory!" and bow before you As to a shrine?

Do I tease myself that morning is morning and a day after? Do I think the air a condescension, The earth a politeness, Heaven a boon deserving thanks? So you--air--earth--heaven-- I do not thank you, I take you, I live. And those things which I say in consequence Are rubies mortised in a gate of stone.

"Here we go round the ivy-bush," And that's a tune we all dance to. Little poet people snatching ivy, Trying to prevent one another from snatching ivy. If you get a leaf, there's another for me; Look at the bush. But I want your leaf, Brother, and you mine, Therefore, of course, we push.

"Here we go round the laurel-tree." Do we want laurels for ourselves most, Or most that no one else shall have any? We cannot stop to discuss the question. We cannot stop to plait them into crowns Or notice whether they become us. We scarcely see the laurel-tree, The crowd about us is all we see, And there's no room in it for you and me. Therefore, Sisters, it's my belief We've none of us very much chance at a leaf.

"Here we go round the barberry-bush." It's a bitter, blood-red fruit at best, Which puckers the mouth and burns the heart. To tell the truth, only one or two Want the berries enough to strive For more than he has, more than she. An acid berry for you and me. Abundance of berries for all who will eat, But an aching meat. That's poetry. And who wants to swallow a mouthful of sorrow? The world is old and our century Must be well along, and we've no time to waste. Make haste, Brothers and Sisters, push With might and main round the ivy-bush, Struggle and pull at the laurel-tree, And leave the barberries be For poor lost lunatics like me, Who set them so high They overtop the sun in the sky. Does it matter at all that we don't know why?

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To know that for destruction ice Is also great, And would suffice.

Having a wheel and four legs of its own Has never availed the cumbersome grindstone To get it anywhere that I can see. These hands have helped it go and even race; Not all the motion, though, they ever lent, Not all the miles it may have thought it went, Have got it one step from the starting place. It stands beside the same old apple tree. The shadow of the apple tree is thin Upon it now; its feet are fast in snow. All other farm machinery's gone in, And some of it on no more legs and wheel Than the grindstone can boast to stand or go. (I'm thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.) For months it hasn't known the taste of steel, Washed down with rusty water in a tin. But standing outdoors, hungry, in the cold, Except in towns, at night, is not a sin. And, anyway, its standing in the yard Under a ruinous live apple tree Has nothing any more to do with me, Except that I remember how of old, One summer day, all day I drove it hard, And some one mounted on it rode it hard, And he and I between us ground a blade.

I gave it the preliminary spin, And poured on water (tears it might have been); And when it almost gayly jumped and flowed, A Father-Time-like man got on and rode, Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed. He turned on will-power to increase the load And slow me down--and I abruptly slowed, Like coming to a sudden railroad station. I changed from hand to hand in desperation.