Impertinent Poems Part 1

Impertinent Poems.

by Edmund Vance Cooke.

A PRE-IMPERTINENCE.

Antic.i.p.ating the intelligent critic of "Impertinent Poems," it may well be remarked that the chief impertinence is in calling them poems. Be that as it may, the editors and publishers of "The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post," "Success" and "Ainslee's," and, in a lesser degree, "Metropolitan," "Independent," "Booklovers'" and "New York Herald" share with the author the reproach of first promoting their publicity. That they are now willing to further reduce their share of the burden by dividing it with the present publishers ent.i.tles them to the thanks of the author and the grat.i.tude of the book-buying public.

E. V. C.

DEAD MEN'S DUST.

You don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.) Why?

You cannot afford it? Bosh! you spend _Editions de luxe_ on a thirsty friend.

You can buy any one of the poetry bunch For the price you pay for a business lunch.

Don't you suppose that a hungry head, Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed?

Looking into myself, I find this true, So I hardly can figure it false in you.

And you don't _read_ poetry very much.

(Such Is my own case also.) "But," you cry, "I haven't the time." Beloved, you lie.

When a scandal happens in Buffalo, You ponder the details, con and pro; If poets were pugilists, couldn't you tell Which of the poets licked John L.?

If poets were counts, could your wife be fooled As to which of the poets married a Gould?

And even _my_ books might have some hope If poetry books were books of dope.

"You're a little bit swift," you say to me, "See!"

You open your library. There you show Your "favorite poets," row on row, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, A Homer unread, an uncut Horace, A wholly forgotten William Morris.

My friend, my friend, can it be you thought That these were poets whom you had bought?

These are dead men's bones. You bought their mummies To display your style, like clothing dummies.

But when do they talk to you? Some one said That these were poets which should be read, So here they stand. But tell me, pray, How many poets who live to-day Have you, of your own volition, sought, Discovered and tested, proved and _bought_, With a grateful glow that the dollar you spent Netted the poet his ten per cent.?

"But hold on," you say, "I am reading _you_."

True, And pitying, too, the sorry end Of the dog I tried this on. My friend, I _can_ write poetry--good enough So you wouldn't look at the worthy stuff.

But knowing what you prefer to read I'm setting the pace at about your speed, Being rather convinced these truths will hold you A little bit better than if I'd told you A genuine poem and forgotten to scold you.

Besides, when I open my little room And see _my_ poets, each in his tomb, With his mouth dust-stopped, I turn from the shelf And I must scold you, or scold myself.

IN NINETEEN HUNDRED AND NOW.

Thomas Moore, at the present date, Is chiefly known as "a ten-cent straight."

Walter, the Scot, is forgiven his rimes Because of his tales of stirring times.

William Morris's fame will wear As a practical man who made a chair.

And even Shakespere's memory's green Less because he's read than because he's seen.

Then why should a poet make his bow In the year of nineteen hundred and now?

Homer himself, if he could but speak, Would admit that most of his stuff is Greek.

Chaucer would no doubt own his tongue Was the broken speech of the land when young.

Sh.e.l.ley's a sealed-up book, and Byron Is chiefly recalled as a masculine siren.

Poe has a perch on the chamber door, But the populace read him "Nevermore."

Spenser fitted his day, as all allow, But this is nineteen hundred and now.

Tennyson's chiefly given away To callow girls on commencement day.

Alfred Austin, entirely solemn, Is quoted most in the funny column.

Riley's Hoosiers have made their pile And moved to the city to live in style.

Kipling's compared to "The Man Who Was,"

And the rest of us write with little cause, Till publishers shy at talk of per cents., But offer to print "at author's expense."

O, once the "celestial fire" burned bright, But the world now calls for electric light!

And Pegasus, too, is run by meter, Being trolleyized to make him fleeter.

So I throw the stylus away and set Myself at the typewriter alphabet To spell some message I find within Which shall also scratch your rawhide skin, For you must read it, if I learn how To write for nineteen hundred and now.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

DON'T YOU?

When the plan which I have, to grow suddenly rich Grows weary of leg and drops into the ditch, And scheme follows scheme Like the web of a dream To glamor and glimmer and shimmer and seem,...

Only seem; And then, when the world looks unfadably blue, If my rival sails by With his head in the sky, And sings "How is business?" why, what do I do?

Well, I claim that I aim to be honest and true, But I sometimes lie. Don't you?

When something at home is decidedly wrong, When somebody sings a false note in the song, Too low or too high, And, you hardly know why, But it wrangles and jangles and runs all awry,...

Aye, awry!

And then, at the moment when things are askew, Some cousin sails in With a face all a-grin, And a "Do I intrude? Oh, I see that I do!"

Well, then, though I aim to be honest and true, Still I sometimes lie. Don't you?

When a man whom I need has some foible or fad, Not very commendable, not very bad; Perhaps it's his daughter, And some one has taught her To daub up an "oil" or to streak up a "water"; What a "water"!

And her gra.s.s is green green and her sky is blue blue, But her father, with pride, In a stagey aside Asks my "candid opinion." Then what do I do?

Well, I claim that I aim to be honest and true, But I sometimes lie. Don't you?

YOU TOO.

Did you ever make some small success And brag your little brag, As if your breathing would impress The world and fix your tag Upon it, so that all might see The label loudly reading, "ME!"

And when you thought you'd gained the height And, sunning in your own delight, You preened your plumes and crowed "All right!"

Did something wipe you out of sight?