Technical Poetry Critique BY ROBERT HILLYER HE two poems which I shall consider the climax of the idea, he is distracted by a Tthis month afford an interesting contrast, break in the form. the first is packed with thought but fumbles the expression of it; the second, in which music is the sole aim, is almost devoid of meaning. If the two authors of these verses could be combined into one, retaining the thoughtfulness of the first and the feeling for melody of the second, we should have a wellrounded poet. The first line of the poem is clear and adequate, but the second is mere prose. The pedestrian quality of the second line becomes even more emphasized by the contrast with the two lines that follow. These employ suggestion or symbolism very markedly and introduce a metaphor which, were its application clearer and were it more in harmony with the preceding tone of the stanza, would be effective. Yet I am still in doubt about "our wilderness of snow." Does this figure refer to history? to time? to the wintry realism of the present? Here it would be well, I believe, to make a concession to the reader and specify the exact application of the symbol. Perhaps "time's wilderness of snow" would improve the line, though in suggesting this, I am aware that I lay myself open to the charge of being unimaginative. The second stanza is specific enough, but again, in the abrupt drop from ornamented language to flat statement, breaks the tone of the poem. "Built of waste" is prosaic and awkward, and not quite accurate. Kitchenmiddens accumulated; they were not built. In the last two lines of this stanza, the contrast between "oyster shells" and "historic episodes" is effective, yet the phrase "to later taste" is unfortunate in connection with oys ter shells; it suggests a sampling of these relics. In the third stanza, we find an attempt to link together all the general observations in the first two stanzas, and apply them to the life of the present. The idea is good: since even the smallest remains of the past are of significance, perhaps these apparently futile pursuits of life will hold some meaning for later ages. But the expression collapses. The first two lines do not make sense. The author intended to say: O life compounded of so much, and of so little that has any worth. What he has said is: O life compounded. . . of so little worth. The last two lines, which should be the finest in the whole poem, are weak. The rhetorical behold, the inappropriate verb clutch (to rhyme with much, I fear), the rather vague word wreckage, and the departure from the established pattern, mar this stanza beyond redemption in its present form. To sum up: we have here an epigrammatic poem (influenced, I believe, by Emily Dickinson) which is not so terse and neat as an epigrammatic poem must be. The idea is excellent, the general arrangement of it is effective, but in the details of composition the verse is too faulty for successful expression. It needs to be rewritten; every word scrutinized with critical attention. Now for the second poem: Although these verses, because of great infelicity of diction, seem very inferior to the others, yet they possess certain virtues which the others lack. In the first place, the tone is more evenly sustained. The stanzas are consistent, and the three-part music, though awkward in spots, is, on the whole, managed with some skill. Lines 7, 8, and 12 are conspicuously bad; the first stanza, line 5 and line 9 are fairly successful. But when we examine the poem more carefully, alas for the first two lines! The author is so entranced with his music that he pays too little heed to what he is saying. The fields to the westward immediately give us a picture of a flat land, yet we are told in the next verse that "the sunset is dead on the hill." Now the sunset can be only in the west; what has happened to our fields stretching to the horizon? The introduction of the day and night birds is all very well; it impresses us neither one way nor the other. However, since the melody is smooth, we are still tempted to read on. Lonely feet treading the edge of a wood are effective enough as a sketch of something to be amplified later. But they are amplified only in the writer's mind, and suddenly we are confronted with a smile on his face. Who is he? Is his name Lonely Feet? Furthermore, the vague word ecstacy annoys us, and the insertion of the archaic form stealeth. By the end of the second stanza, we are almost convinced that this author is wasting our time. He has had two chances; his first words have attracted our attention in both cases, yet each time he has wandered off into verbiage. "The stars to the zenith, the bird to his nest," though in no way remarkable, bids us read on, and for the third time we are disappointed. We know so little of Lonely Feet that we do not care where he goes or why; it is natural that he should go toward home and toward rest, for he has done just that in every poem he has ever inhabited. As for the whippoorwill, he is welcome to reign over all; such a vague kingdom as that is not going to make anyone envious. Well, Harcourt & Brace, I shall laugh in your face Like a popular Maltby or Braxton. O have you seen my manuscript? On the fifty-second trip. To Dutton, Murray, Boni, Ginn; To Century and Constable, To Harrap, Low, and Dent's, Brentano's, Appleton, and Bell; To old establishments Renowned for readers airing spats, And drummers all in bowler hats, FOURTH CHORUS: Then Blankus & Co., Then Borzoi and Macy & Massius, Do you think you can say In your garrulous way That the matter is giddy or gaseous? O have you seen my manuscript? It needs a blurb and jacket And a cover made of straw. It wants a bit of typing And a new page twenty-nine; A general replacing Of (say) every other line. Too long afield at Bodley Head, FIFTH CHORUS: At Selwyn and Blount It went down for the count, And was hooted by Holden & Hardingham, So I shake a lean fist At the publishers' list And imprecate freely regarding 'em. O have you seen my manuscript? I saw it in the table drawer: I had it in a cubby-hole, I hid it under lock; I stuffed it in the rubber plant, In purple ink and blue. I doctored it so one will think So, Secker and Stokes, I am tired of your jokes, I am weary, Smith, Elder, and Heffer; Hodges, Figgis, I say, We've arrived at the day When it's now, Sirs: it's now, Sirs, or never! WR The Subscription Book Clubs RITERS who have been somewhat puzzled by the recent publicity given to the Literary Guild, the Book of the Month Club, and the First Edition Society may find enlightenment in this clear exposition by Ernest Boyd in the Independent. The Literary Guild, the Book of the Month Club, and the First Edition Society are alike in one respect: they undertake to bring books and readers together without the assistance of the middleman, the bookseller, and it is in this respect that a situation has arisen which is causing considerable heat in publishing and bookselling circles. The chief offender seems to be the Literary Guild, which selects the books for its members from manuscripts which the publishers have under consideration. The Book of the Month Club makes its choice from published books, while the First Edition Society proposes to compromise by making its selection from advance proofs supplied by the publishers. The three organizations claim to help rather than hinder authors and publishers, since the book selected, by whatever method, is assured of a sale at once, which lessens the cost to the publishers and brings in at once a considerable sum in royalties to the author. The persons aggrieved are the booksellers, who see in this method of publication an attack upon themselves as the distributors of books. The Literary Guild in particular makes no bones about this, for its advertising declares that bookselling methods are antiquated, draws misleading parallels between magazine conditions and the bookshops, and promises books at less than the usual retail price. I do not propose to examine in detail the plans of the three organizations, for it seems to me the opposition to any or all of them really rests upon the obvious fact that each, to a greater or lesser degree, is an encroachment upon the privileges of booksellers. In fact, the almost unanimous refusal of the leading publishers to do business with the Guild is expressed in terms of this threat to bookselling, since few publishers are willing to alienate their best customers, and to coöperate in something which may seriously injure the retail book business throughout the United States. But for that consideration, there is obviously no reason why they should not work with the Guild or any other organization which can guarantee the immediate sale of a handsome number of copies of the book agreed upon. It ought to be evident that this whole controversy is a trade fight, but owing to the tender-hearted nature of simple literary folk, the various writers editorially associated with these enterprises have thrown themselves into the discussion. We are invited to regard the whole business as in some way a literary problem. Personally, I fail to see what this has to do with literature, or in what way the difficulties of literary men and women are involved. When authors suffer from the peculiar hardships and disadvantages of their trade, the press does not insist upon the publishers and booksellers sharing their woes. Why, I wonder, should the writers associated with the Literary Guild be distracted in their work merely because three types of middleman have a problem of their own to settle? An author is not a business man, a salesman, or an investor in the bookselling trade. His profession is literature, and when he has given to the community what he has to give, it lies with the intermediaries, the publishers and the booksellers, to do their share as efficiently as the author has done his. If the latter had a genius for advertising; if he were an expert financier; if he were a great organizer -the chances are he would have gone into one of those lines of business rather than risk the precarious existence of a man of letters. The Literary Guild is another means of book distribution, and its success or failure makes no difference to authors in the long run, for it can no more sell a good book as widely as a bad one than can any of the existing distributors. A couple of weeks ago I quoted here the titles of the best-selling books of 1926 and those most in demand at libraries ninety per cent. was piffle. That is the one constant factor in bookselling which authors must bear in mind. The creation of a Guild cannot make the bookreading leopard change his spots. If any editorial committee were consistently to ignore the desire of the average reader for piffle, the occupation of these organizations would be gone with the expiration of the first year's subscriptions. Writers need have no illusions that a scheme has been devised for selling good books profitably for all concerned, which would otherwise have had no sale. There has been such frequent reference to magazines in this connection that I would remind my innocent literary colleagues that they have all worked on good magazines which were intelligently edited and well written. Those that lived did so because of a subsidy. Their continued existence did not alter by one iota the demand for good magazine literaure. The small fraction of the public that reads with its brains |