The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century Part 19

The first poem, which gives its name to the volume, is written in the lively octosyllabics made famous by _Christmas Eve._ The sharpness of her drawings, one of her greatest gifts, is evident in the opening lines:

A drifting, April, twilight sky, A wind which blew the puddles dry, And slapped the river into waves That ran and hid among the staves Of an old wharf. A watery light Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white Without the slightest tinge of gold, The city shivered in the cold.

Soon the traveller meets a man who takes him to an old room, full of the symbols of poetry-edged weapons, curiously and elegantly wrought together with seeds of poppy. Poems may be divided into two cla.s.ses, stimulants and sedatives.

All books are either dreams, or swords, You can cut, or you can drug, with words.

Tennyson's poetry is mainly soothing, which is what lazy and tired people look for in any form of art, and are disappointed when they do not find it; the poetry of Donne, Browning, Emerson is the sword of the spirit; it is the opposite of an anaesthetic. Hence when readers first meet it, the effect is one of disturbance rather than repose, and they think it cannot be poetry. Yet in this piece of symbolism, which itself is full of beauty, Amy Lowell seems to say that both reveille and taps are wrought by music--one is as much the legitimate office of poetry as the other. But although she cla.s.sifies her poems in this volume according to the opening pair of symbols, and although she gives twice as much s.p.a.ce to poppies as to swords, her poetry is always more stimulating than soothing. Her poppy seeds won't work; there is not a soporific page in the whole book.

One of the reasons why her books are so interesting is because she knows how to tell a story in verse. In her romances style waits on matter, like an attentive and thoroughly trained handmaid. Both poetry and incident are sustained from beginning to end; and the reader would stop more often to admire the flowers along the path if he were not so eager to know the event. In this particular kind of verse-composition, she has shown a steady development. The first real ill.u.s.tration of her powers is seen in _The Great Adventure of Max Brueck,_ in _Poppy Seed,_ though why so stirring a poem is thus cla.s.sified is to me quite mysterious; yet when we compare this "effort" with later poems like _Pickthorn Manor_ and _The Cremona_ Violin we see an advance both in vigour and in technique which is so remarkable that she makes her earlier narrative seem almost immature. A poet is indeed fortunate who can defeat that most formidable of all rivals--her younger self. In _The Cremona Violin_ we have an extraordinary combination of the varied abilities possessed by the author. It is an absorbing tale full of drama, incident, realism, romanticism, imagism, symbolism and pure lyrical singing. There is everything in fact except polyphonic prose, and although I am afraid she loves her experiments in that form, they are the portion of her complete works that I could most willingly let die.

Her sensitiveness to colours and to sounds is clearly betrayed all through the romantic narrative of the _Cremona Violin,_ where the instrument is a symbol of the human heart. Those who, in the old days before the Germans began their career of wholesale robbery and murder, used to hear Mozart's operas in the little rococo _Residenz-Theater_ in Munich, will enjoy reminiscently these stanzas.

The _Residenz-Theater_ sparkled and hummed With lights and people. Gebnitz was to sing, That rare soprano. All the fiddles strummed With tuning up; the wood-winds made a ring Of reedy bubbling noises, and the sting Of sharp, red bra.s.s pierced every eardrum; patting From m.u.f.fled tympani made a dark slatting

Across the silver shimmering of flutes; A ba.s.soon grunted, and an oboe wailed; The 'celli pizzicato-ed like great lutes, And mutterings of double ba.s.ses trailed Away to silence, while loud harp-strings hailed Their thin, bright colours down in such a scatter They lost themselves amid the general clatter.

Frau Altgelt, in the gallery, alone, Felt lifted up into another world.

Before her eyes a thousand candles shone In the great chandeliers. A maze of curled And powdered periwigs past her eyes swirled.

She smelt the smoke of candles guttering, And caught the scent of jewelled fans fluttering.

Her most ambitious attempt in polyphonic prose is _Guns as Keys: and the Great Gate Swings,_ whereof the t.i.tle is like a trumpet fanfare. The thing itself is a combination of a moving picture and a calliope. Written with immense gusto, full of comedy and tragedy, it certainly is not lacking in vitality; but judged as poetry, I regard it as inferior to her verse romances and lyrics.

Rhythmical prose is as old as the Old Testament; the best modern rhythmical prose that I have seen is found in the earlier plays of Maurice Maeterlinck, written a quarter of a century ago. It is unnecessary to enquire whether those dramas are poetry or not; for although nearly all his work is in the printed form of prose, the author is almost invariably spoken of as "the poet Maeterlinck."

The versatility of Amy Lowell is so notable that it would be vain to predict the nature of her future production, or to attempt to set a limit to her range. In her latest and best book, _Men Women, and Ghosts,_ besides the two admirable long narratives, we have poems of patriotism, outdoor lyrics, town eclogues, pictures of still life tragic pastorals in the manner of Susan Glaspell, and one delightful _revenant, Nightmare,_ which takes us back to d.i.c.kens, for it is a verse comment on a picture by George Cruikshank. Her robust vitality is veined with humour; she watches a roof-shingler with active delight, discovering poetry in cheerful manual toil. One day life seems to her depressing; another day, beautiful; another, inspiring; another, downright funny.

In spite of her a.s.sured position in contemporary literature, one feels that her career has not reached its zenith.

Some twelve years ago, I was engaged in earnest conversation with James Whitcomb Riley concerning the outlook for American poetry. The chronic optimist for once was filled with woe. "There is not a single person among the younger writers," said he, "who shows any promise of greatness, except"--and then his face recovered its habitual cheerfulness--"Anna Hempstead Branch. She is a poet."

In justification of his gloom, it should be remembered that the present advance in American poetry began some time after he uttered these words; and although he was a true poet and wrote poems that will live for many years to come, he was, in everything that had to do with the art of poetry, the most conservative man I ever knew.

Anna Branch was born at Hempstead House, New London, Connecticut, and was graduated from Smith College in 1897. In 1898 she won a first prize for the best poem awarded by the _Century Magazine_ in a compet.i.tion open to college graduates. Since then she has published three volumes of verse, _The Heart of the Road,_ 1901, _The Shoes That Danced,_ 1905, _Rose of the Wind,_ 1910. I fear that her ambition to be a dramatist may have prevented her from writing lyrical poetry (her real gift) during these last eight years.

If it is true, 'tis pity; for a good poem is a better thing than a successful play and will live longer.

Like many poets who cannot write plays, she is surcharged with dramatic energy. But, to use a familiar phrase, it is action in character rather than character in action which marks her work most impressively, and the latter is the essential element for the footlights. Shakespeare, Rostand, and Barrie have both, and are naturally therefore great dramatists. Two of the most of Miss Branch's poems are _Lazarus_ _Ora Pro n.o.bis._ These are fruitful subjects for poetry, the man who came back from the grave and the pa.s.sionate woman buried alive. In the short piece _Lazarus,_ cast into the form of dialogue Lazarus answers the question put to him by Tennyson in _In Memoriam._

Where wert thou, brother, those four days?

Various members of the group, astounded at his resurrection, try in vain to have their curiosity satisfied. What do the dead do? Are they happy? _Has my baby grown?_ What overpowering motive brought you back from peace to live once more in sorrow?

This last question Lazarus answers in a positive but unexpected way.

A great desire led me out alone From those a.s.sured abodes of perfect bliss....

And by the way I went came seeking earth, Seeing before my eyes one only thing-- _The Crowd_ What was it, Lazarus? Let us share that thing!

What was it, brother, thou didst see?

_Lazarus_ A cross.

Another dynamic poem, glowing with pa.s.sion, is _Ora Pro n.o.bis._ It is difficult to select pa.s.sages from it, for it is sustained in power and beauty from the first line to the last; yet some idea of it: form and colour may be obtained by citation. A little girl was put into a convent with only two ways of pa.s.sing the time; st.i.tching and praying. She has never seen her face--she never will see for no mirror is permitted; but she sees one day the reflection of its beauty in the hungry eyes of a priest.

Long years I dwelt in that dark hall, There was no mirror on the wall, I never saw my face at all, (Hail Mary.) In a great peace they kept me there, A straight white robe they had me wear, And the white bands about my hair.

I did not know that I was fair.

(Hail Mary.)...

The sweet chill fragrance of the snow, More fine than lilies all aglow Breathed around--he saw me so, In garments spun of fire and snow.

(Holy Mother, pray for us.) His hands were on my face and hair, His high, stern eyes that would forswear All earthly beauty, saw me there.

Oh, then I knew that I was fair!

(Mary, intercede for us.)...

Then I raised up to G.o.d my prayer, I swept its strong and circling air, Betwixt me and the great despair.

(Sweet Mary, pray for us.) But when before the sacred shrine I knelt to kiss the cross benign, Mary, I thought his lips touched mine.

(Ave Maria, Ora Pro n.o.bis.)

Although some of her poems have an intensity almost terrible, Anna Branch has written household lyrics as beautiful in their uncrowded simplicity as an eighteenth century room. The _Songs for My Mother,_ celebrating her clothes, her her words, her stories breathe the unrivalled perfume of tender memories. And if _Lazarus_ is a sword, two of her most original pieces are poppy-seeds, _To Nature_ and

THE SILENCE OF THE POETS

I better like that shadowed side of things In which the Poets wrote not; when they went Unto the fullness of their great content Like moths into the gra.s.s with folded wings.

The silence of the Poets with it brings The other side of moons, and it is spent In love, in sorrow, or in wonderment.

After the silence, maybe a bird sings.

I have heard call, as Summer calls the swallow, A leisure, bidding unto ways serene To be a child of winds and the blue hazes.

"Dream"--quoth the Dreamer--and 'tis sweet to follow!

So Keats watched stars rise from his meadows green, And Chaucer spent his hours among the daisies.

This productive leisure has borne much fruit in the poetry of Anna Branch; her work often has the quiet beauty rising from tranquil meditation. She is an orthodox poet. She uses the old material--G.o.d, Nature, Man--and writes songs with the familiar notation. She has attracted attention not by the strangeness of her ideas, or by the audacity of her method, but simply by the sincerity of her thought and the superior quality of her singing voice. There is no difficulty in distinguishing her among the members of the choir, and she does not have to make a discord to be noticed.

There are almost as many kinds of poets as there are varieties of human beings; it is a far cry from Anna Branch to Edgar Lee Masters. I do not know whether either reads the other; it may be a mutual admiration exists; it may be that each would be ashamed to have written the other's books; even if that were true, there is no reason why an American critic--with proper reservations--should not be proud of both. For if there is one thing certain about the advance of poetry in America, it is that the advance is a general one along the whole line of composition from free verse and polyphonic prose on the extreme left to sonnets and quatrains on the extreme right.

Edgar Lee Masters was born in Kansas, on the twenty-third of August, 1869. The family moved to Illinois the next year. His father was a lawyer, and the child had access to plenty of good books, which he read eagerly. In spite of his preoccupation with the seamy side of human nature, he is in reality a bookish poet, and most of his work--though not the best part of it--smells of the lamp. Fortunately for him he was brought up on the Bible, for even those who attack the Old Book are glad to be able to tip their weapons with biblical language. Ibsen used to say that his chief reading, even in mature years, was always the Bible; "it is so strong and mighty."

Everything connected with books and literary work fascinated the youth; like so many boys of his time--before wireless came in--he had his own printing-press. I wonder if it was a "self-inker"? In my day, the boy who owned a "self-inker" and "club-skates" was regarded with envy. The three generations in this family ill.u.s.trate the play _Milestones;_ the grandfather vainly tried to make his son a farmer, but the boy elected to be a lawyer and carried his point; he in turn was determined to twist his son into a lawyer, whereas Edgar wanted to be a writer. As this latter profession is usually without emolument, he was forced into the law, where the virile energy of his mind rewarded his zestless efforts with success. However, at the age of twenty-one, he persuaded his father to allow him to study at Knox College for a year, a highly important period in his development; for he resumed the interrupted study of Latin, and began Greek. Greek is the chief inspiration of his life, and of his art. He has read Homer every year since his college days.

Later he went to Chicago, and stayed there, busying himself not only at his profession, but taking part in political activities, as any one might guess from reading his poems. The primal impulse to write was not frustrated; he has written verse all his life; and in fact has published a considerable number of volumes during the last twenty years, no one of which attracted any attention until 1915, when _Spoon River Anthology_ made everybody sit up.

Mr. Masters was nearly fifty when this book appeared; it is a long time to wait for a reputation, especially if one is constantly trying to obtain a hearing. It speaks powerfully for his courage, tenacity, and faith that he should never have quit--and his triumph will encourage some good and many bad writers to persevere. Emboldened by the immense success of _Spoon River_, he produced three more volumes in rapid succession; _Songs and Satires_ in 1916, _The Great Valley_ in the same year, and _Toward the Gulf_ in 1918.

It is fortunate for him that these works followed rather than preceded the _Anthology_; for although they are not dest.i.tute of merit, they seem to require a famous name to ensure a sale. It is the brand, and not the goods, that gives a circulation to these books.

The pieces in _Spoon River Anthology_ originally appeared in William Marion Reedy's periodical, called _Reedy's Mirror_, the first one being printed in the issue for 29 May, 1914, and the others following week after week. A grateful acknowledgment is made in a brief preface to the volume, and the full debt is handsomely paid in a dedicatory preface of _Toward the Gulf_, which every one interested in Mr. Masters--and who is not?--should read with attention. The poet manfully lets us know that it was Mr. Reedy who, in 1909, made him read the Greek Anthology, without which _Spoon River_ would never have been written. Criticism is forestalled in this preface, because Mr. Masters takes a prose translation of Meleager, "with, its sad revealment and touch of irony"--exactly the characteristics of _Spoon River_--and turns it into free verse:

The holy night and thou, O Lamp, We took as witness of our vows; And before thee we swore, He that [he] would love me always And I that I would never leave him.

We swore, And thou wert witness of our double promise.

But now he says that our vows were written on the running waters.

And thou, O Lamp, Thou seest him in the arms of another.

What Mr. Masters did was to transfer the method and the tone of the Greek Anthology to a twentieth century village in the Middle West, or as he expresses it, to make "an epic rendition of modern life."

Even if it were desirable, how impossible it is to escape from the past! we are ruled by the dead as truly in the fields of art as in the domain of morality and religion. The most radical innovator can no more break loose from tradition than a tree can run away from its roots. John Masefield takes us back to Chaucer; Vachel Lindsay is a reincarnation of the ancient minstrels; Edgar Lee Masters owes both the idea and the form of his masterpiece to Greek literature. Art is as continuous as life.