A Magazine of Verse Edited by Harriet Monroe October 1920
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Vol. XVII No. I A Magazine of Verse Edited by Harriet Monroe October 1920 Down the Mississippi by John Gould Fletcher A Town on the River by Laura Sherry America—1919 by Isidor Schneider 543 Cass Street, Chicago $3.00 per Year Single Numbers 25c Splendidly edited. Invaluable to those who would keep in touch with mod ern poetry. "Point of departure from conservatism may be dated from the establishment of POETRY" (Braithwaite). From Classified List of Contemporary Poets compiled for libraries by Anne Morris Boyd, A. B., B. L. S. Vol. XVII No. I POETRY for OCTOBER, 1920 PAGE Down the Mississippi John Gould Fletcher 1 Embarkation — Heat—Full Moon — The Moon's Orchestra —The Stevedores—Night Landing—The Silence A Town on the River Laura Sherry 6 My Town—On Our Farm—The Hunter—A Woodsman— Jean Joseph Rolette—Louis des Chiens—Bohemian Town The Corn-field Charles R. Murphy 13 Tosti's Goodbye Walter McClellan 14 Fantasy A. A. Rosenthal 15 Adoration Hazel C. Hutchison 15 The Gypsy Beatrice Ravenel 16 Life Everlasting Esther A. Whitmarsh 17 Waves—Beauty Louise Towmsend Nicholl 18 To One Beloved Glenn Ward Dresbach 19 The Last Lady Matthew Josephson 20 The Pelican Alice Louise Jones 21 Gospel with Banjo and Chorus Keene Wallis 22 America—1919 Isidor Schneider 24 A Hymn for the Lynchers—A Memory—The Heroes Frugality and Deprecation H. M. 30 The Disciples of Gertrude Stein . Richard Aldington 35 Reviews : Camouflage H. M. 40 Flint and Rodker Richard Aldington 44 Three Poets of Three Nations . Emanuel Carnevali 48 Argentine Drama Evelyn Scott 52 Correspondence Disarmament Morris Bishop 55 Modern Poetry at the Ü. of C A. B. 56 Notes and Books Received 57, 58 Manuscripts must be accompanied by a stamped and self-addressed en velope. Inclusive yearly subscription rates until Oct. 1st: In the United States, Mexico, Cuba and American possessions, $2.00 net; in Canada, $2.15 net; in all other countries in the Postal Union, $2.25 net. After Oct 1st: $3.00, $3.15 and 3.25. Entered as second-class matter Nov. 15, 1912, at the post-office, at Chicago, Ill., under the Act of March 3, 1879. Published monthly at 543 Cass St., Chicago, Ill. Copyright 1920, by Harriet Monroe. All rights reserved. THREE DOLLARS A YEAR Beginning with the October number, the subscription price of POETRY will be three dollars, and the price of single num bers twenty-five cents. We hope that our subscribers will show their approval of this change, which is required if the magazine is to survive. For paper, printing, rent—almost every thing except salaries and rates to con tributors—we shall have to pay from sev enty-five to ninety per cent more next year, beginning October first, than this year, which this number closes. If you wish to take advantage of our present rate, renew now. All subscrip tions and renewals received before Octo ber first will be at the old rate of two dol lars a year. After October 1st: ANNUA L SUBSCRIPTION. .. $ 3.00 SUPPORTING SUBSCRIPTION. $10.00 GUARANTOR'S SUBSCRIPTION $50.00 VOL. XVII No. I OCTOBER 1920 DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI August 22-27, 1915 EMBARKATION UL L masses of dense green, D The forests range their sombre platforms. Between them silently, like a spirit, The river finds its own mysterious path. Loosely the river sways out, backward, forward, Always fretting the outer side; Shunning the invisible focus of each crescent, Seeking to spread into shining loops over fields: Like an enormous serpent, dilating, uncoiling, Displaying a broad scaly back of earth-smeared gold ; Swaying out sinuously between the dull motionless forests, As molten metal might glide down the lip of a vase of dark bronze. [1] POETRY: A Magazine of Verse While this, the steamboat slowly drifting out upon it, Seems now to be floating not only outwards but upwards— In the flight of a petal detached and gradually moving sky ward Above the pink explosion of the calyx of the dawn. HEAT As if the sun had trodden down the sky, Until no more it holds air for us, but only humid vapor, The heat, pressing upon earth with irresistible languor, Turns all the solid forest into half-liquid smudge. The heavy clouds, like cargo-boats, strain slowly up 'gainst its current; And the flickering of the heat haze is like the churning of ten thousand paddles Against the heavy horizon, pale blue and utterly windless, Whereon the sun hangs motionless, a brassy disk of flame. FULL MOON Flinging its arc of silver bubbles, quickly shifts the moon From side to side of us as we go down its path ; I sit on the deck at midnight, and watch it slipping and sidling, Under my tilted chair, like a thin film of spilt water. It is weaving a river of light to take the place of this river— [2] John Gould Fletcher A river where we shall drift all night, then come to rest in its shallows. And then I shall wake from my drowsiness and look down from some dim tree-top Over white lakes of cotton, like moon-fields on every side. THE MOON'S ORCHESTRA When the moon lights up Its dull red camp-fire through the trees; And floats out, like a white balloon, Into the blue cup of the night, borne by a casual breeze ; The moon-orchestra then begins to stir: Jiggle of fiddles commence their crazy dance in the dark ness ; Crickets churr Against the stark reiteration of the rusty flutes which frogs Puff at from rotted logs In the swamp. And the moon begins her dance of frozen pomp Over the lightly quivering floor of the flat and mournful river. Her white feet slightly twist and swirl— She is a mad girl In an old unlit ball-room, Whose walls, half-guessed-at through the gloom, Are hung with the rusty crape of stark black cypresses, Which show, through gaps and tatters, red stains half hid den away. [3] POETRY: A Magazine of Verse TH E STEVEDORES Frieze of warm bronze that glides with cat-like movements Over the gang-plank poised and yet awaiting, The sinewy thudding rhythms of forty shuffling feet Falling like muffled drum-beats on the stillness : Oh, roll the cotton down— Roll, roll, the cotton-down! From the further side of Jordan, Oh, roll the cotton down! And the river waits, The river listens, Chuckling with little banjo-notes that break with a plop on the stillness. And by the low dark shed that holds the heavy freights, Two lonely cypress trees stand up and point with stiffened fingers Far southward where a single chimney stands aloof in the sky. NIGHT LANDING After the whistle's roar has bellowed and shuddered, Shaking the sleeping town and the somnolent river, The deep-toned floating of the pilot's bell Suddenly warns the engines. They pause like heart-beats that abruptly stop: The shore glides to us, in a wide low curve. [4] John Gould Fletcher And then—supreme revelation of the river— The tackle is loosed, the long gang-plank swings outwards ; And poised at the end of it, half naked beneath the search light, A blue-black negro with gleaming teeth waits for his chance to leap. THE SILENCE There is a silence which I carry about with me always— A silence perpetual, for it is self-created ; A silence of heat, of water, of unchecked fruitfulness, Through which each year the heavy harvests bloom, and burst, and fall. Deep, matted green silence of my South, Often, within the push and the scorn of great cities, I have seen that mile-wide waste of water swaying out to you, And on its current glimmering I am going to the sea. There is a silence I have achieved—I have walked beyond its threshold. I know it is without horizons, boundless, fathomless, per fect. And some day maybe, far away, I shall curl up in it at last and sleep an endless sleep. John Gould Fletcher [5] POETRY: A Magazine of Verse A TOWN ON THE RIVER MY TOWN I know a town all through Better than I know myself. Sometimes I think perhaps it is myself. I know this little town lives unproclaimed On the banks of a rushing river. I know that it is there, And it rests me to know. In the quiet of this town There is something living greatly— I know that too. When I was little I knew it. We played, we always played. The out-of-doors was ours. The town, the prairie, the hills and the river Given with God's prodigality. We made new games to fit the great playground. We played, we always played ; Old and young played. We didn't take God on faith— There he stood out in the open And we worshipped him, Our hearts bursting with the full-blooded joy of it. We worshipped him In the rain and the snow and the sun. [6] Laura Sherry In the summer A lavender lady-slipper, Suddenly come upon in the hills, Was an adventure. The rock-hung coulees ; The rainbow pearls locked in the flesh of the river clams; The unkempt shaggy sloughs hiding away from the enter prising river; In retiring distances, muffled echoes of steamboat whistles; The silent voices of the trees in the great log-rafts travelling from Minnesota woods to St. Louis; The season when the hills rang with the songs of the nut- gatherers ; A flock of wild geese flying south ; The Indians' hot palette splashed on the October hills— All, all were adventures.