Chapter XVII: A Place to End 172 (6)

Whether or not my poem was published by this particular magazine was, of course, a matter of no importance; I would not under normal circumstances have given a second thought either to its acceptance or its rejection. But Jones, by his naive words, had made immense disclosures; had unwittingly bared things which a shrewder editor would have hidden beneath a gloss of words. That any man could be such a craven as to refuse a manuscript because of what someone else was saying as to the position in poetry taken by the writer!--this to me was a notion so new, so startling that I had to read the sentence several times in order to make sure it was real. I doubt whether Jones had any idea at all how bitterly offensive his comment was; I will even give him credit for meaning the statement by way of a friendly explanation. But his attitude of mind, I thought, was exactly that which has been too familiar in the past, when men have been sent to the dungeon or the stake because of what someone else has said about their heretical views.

Then, for the first time, I fully realized that I too was guilty of heresy--yes, guilty of heresy because I had tried to uphold poetic standards against those who, I was firmly convinced, were the true heretics. I have since had reason to suppose that other editors, and more influential ones, have followed the same principles as Jones. But I still have not learned just “what was being said” as to the position I had taken in poetry. Against known and spoken charges I have never felt any incapacity to defend myself. But against unknown and concealed accusations I am helpless.

Sometimes I have wondered what is really desired by those critics and editors who seem to feel that the devil himself has smoked his way into any attitude of mind that happens to oppose their own. Perhaps their ideal is that which Matthew Arnold expresses in two lines--not, however, as an ideal, but in despair at the modern lack of faith:

Light half believers of our casual creeds,
Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will’d.

These “light half believers,” surely, never find anyone who objects to their position strongly enough to blacklist them.

But whatever the costs of uttering ones convictions, the rewards have been considerable. These rewards have been all the richer for not being of a concrete or material nature; they have come in friendships formed, usually by correspondence only; and in letters that have drifted in from men and women all over the country, and even from Canada and England; many from unknown persons, but some from noteworthy poets. Thus I learned that there was an undercurrent of support for my views, a wide opposition and resentment against “modernistic” perversions, and a simple longing for the poetry that sings, and that speaks to the imagination and the heart. But most of the lovers of the older poetry, I found, could not make themselves vocal; they had no organ for their opinions, which they usually expressed by ceasing to buy or even to read contemporary poetry. Hence _Wings_ filled for them a long-felt need.

I wish that I had space to quote from some of the many letters of commendation. Not, of course, that I took them all seriously; I soon learned to recognize the honeyed words that besought a honeyed favor, the sugary speech that accompanied submitted manuscripts or books forwarded for review--experience was to teach me that the writers would be as likely as not, at the next winking of an eye, to turn to the opposite camp, if this seemed to suit their purposes. But the honest approbation of persons who had no axe to grind, and who wrote from remote places to tell how they had been helped or elated (and who often accompanied their letters with tangible proof in the way of unsolicited subscriptions) has been heart-warming, and has made it easier to keep on at times when I was inclined to wonder why any man in his right mind would run a poetry magazine.

Beyond this, I have been urged on by the knowledge that _Wings_ has provided a medium of publication for poets in a world where media of publication are fast fading out. Perhaps this will seem no great thing; but without the springs that supply the streams, the streams will dry up. True, the poets themselves frequently seem not to realize this, and too often will not support the very magazines that encourage their own efforts to fly; but this is not true of all, nor nearly all. And many of them--though the editor knows that he will never look into their eyes, nor shake their hands--have made themselves as dear to him and as real as persons actually seen.

It is for this reason, more than for any other, that I have never regretted the strange and devious unraveling of fate that has taken me along the road of editorship. And it is for this reason that I would not, even if I could, change one inch of the route I have traveled.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

A Recruit for Publishers’ Row

In those innocent early days when I blandly assumed the ownership, editorship, and management of a poetry magazine, I did not foresee that my new duties were to lead toward the great world of book publication, even in its more limited phases. But he who winds along unknown roads may expect to arrive at strange destinations.

Had it not been for my long poem, _The Pageant of Man_, I might never have made the beginnings. This extensive work, finished in the early fall of 1935, duly made its visits to several editorial offices--how many, my records do not tell me; but the number, within a mere few months, could not have been great. I do recall that one or two publishers professed interest; but when the reports came in, I listened to the old, old story: the editorial department approved, but the sales department was less sanguine; it could see no sufficient market, hence the manuscript was coming back to me with regrets, etc. Now I would not for a moment imply that the sales departments, from their own point of view, were not quite right; certainly, there were more promising investments than a poem of Gargantuan length (one which eventually would cover 319 well-filled octavo pages). Nevertheless, the verdict was not gratifying to the author.

It may be that I was growing impatient; it may be that some publisher, had I persisted, would have uttered the fervently desired “Yes!” But it is a curious thing that a writer, having toiled at a book with painstaking patience over a period of years, may all at once squirm with impatience after the results of his labor have been confided to paper. I had produced what was certainly (and not in bulk only, I thought) my most considerable effort; and I wanted doors to open upon it, I wanted it to breathe the fresh air and see the light. Therefore it was exasperating to have the sales departments keep it in darkness.

My exasperation, however, was to be short-lived. In the winter of 1936, an unexpected windfall came to me from a never-to-be-repeated source--a mountainous sum, slightly more than a thousand dollars. And with money comes temptation. Almost instantly, an insidious thought thrust itself into my mind. Perhaps this would enable me to publish _The Pageant of Man_ on my own account. I knew that authors far more celebrated than myself had published their own work, occasionally with notable success; the names of Upton Sinclair and others were in my mind. Even if the saddest of sad luck were to pursue me, and I were to lose my thousand dollars--at least, the book would be in print, and I would be no worse off than before receiving the money. True, the craft of writing should, ideally, remain distinct from the business of publishing; authors should devote their time to writing, and publishers should be specialists in book production and distribution. So I should have said, even a short while before--but now, on the contrary, my attitude was: why hold back?--never venture, never succeed!

At least, I would explore the possibilities. The first problem, therefore, was to find a printer. Mr. Grossman, the printer of _Wings_, with his small establishment, had not the facilities for a book such as _The Pageant of Man_, and I knew no other reliable person. But there are times when fate, with all the appearance of intelligent intention, puts one into touch with just the needed person at precisely the desired time. While I was wondering as to printers, a letter reached me from a man I had never heard of before, Joseph A. Wennrich, who represented an establishment known as The Guild Bookcrafters; he had seen _Wings_, and wished to bid on printing it. As it happened, I was quite pleased with The Artype Press, and needed no bid on printing _Wings_; but Wennrich’s letter put a thought into my mind: the Guild Bookcrafters, to judge from their name, might be able to print _The Pageant of Man_. In any case, I would find out.

A telephone call brought immediate action. Mr. Wennrich, assuring me that book printing was his specialty, arranged to visit me that evening. I looked forward to the interview; but strangely, the appointed hour came and went, and no visitor rang my bell. “Well, that ends that,” I thought. “So this Wennrich is just another of those unreliables, whom I’d better not get entangled with.”

But I had done him an injustice. Next morning he telephoned; explained that, at the last minute, something unavoidable had prevented his coming, and even made it impossible to notify me; and asked to be excused, and permitted to visit me the coming evening. And he did visit me as requested--and all through the years of our ensuing relationship he proved to be not only highly capable, but dependable almost to the point of punctiliousness.

He turned out to be a tall, nervous-mannered, explosively enthusiastic man in his late thirties. His chief interest was less in printing for its own sake than in book designing, and he soon convinced me that he had taste, inventiveness, and originality, as well as abounding energy and a thorough knowledge of his craft. From him I was to receive what was in effect a private course in the making of books.

But for the present, the one question was _The Pageant_. That Wennrich could print it, and print it well, was evident from the expert samples of his work which he displayed--but what about the price? He would have to take the manuscript with him, he said, and try to reach a figure. Several days went by, during which I was half resigned to the belief that he would quote an amount far beyond my reach. And then, on one never-to-be-forgotten evening, he paid me another visit. And as I bent above the paper scrawled with his jottings, my heart gave a leap. The quotation, for an edition of a thousand copies, was less than I had feared; it would indeed be possible to bring out the book, even leaving a little over for advertising!

I will not go into the problems that confronted a novice like myself, except to say that since the new publishing medium would need a name and would inevitably be connected with _Wings_, I hit at once upon the obvious designation, The Wings Press. By June of 1936, _The Pageant of Man_ was in print, though publication had not been set until September; in the interval, copies were to be sent to various persons of note in the poetic world, in order to get their comments for possible use on the jacket. And comments were forthcoming, more pleasingly than anticipated; and the reviewers also, after the book’s appearance, were more generous, far more so, than I had felt any reason to hope; and even the sales were not bad--that is, not for a book of poetry, and one issued without the means of distribution available to a large publisher. I felt fortunate that a hundred copies had been sold before publication day, and that copies continued to sell year after year, though of course at a slower rate. And while this experience would not lead me to recommend self-publication as a means of getting rich, never for a moment did I regret my plunge.

Originally I had thought of this publication as a single, never-to-be-repeated venture; I did not realize that it would set off a chain reaction, which would involve me more deeply and ever more deeply. After the appearance of the book, which had been advertised in _Wings_ and elsewhere, I began receiving letters from subscribers and contributors: “Dear Editor: I have a book of poems, and hope you will consider publishing it for me. If so, what would your price be?”

Though this was more than I had contemplated, it did give me pause. And then I put the question to myself: Why, indeed, not publish a book every now and then, provided that it was of good quality, and something I could feel gratified to sponsor? True, I could not afford to publish at my own expense--but had the authors themselves not indicated that they did not expect this?

Before I go any further, let me make matters plain as to what has come to be variously known as “subsidy,” “cooperative,” and “vanity” publishing. While some persons, without knowledge of the facts, might accuse me of being in the position of the thief who proclaims, “All those other robbers are bad--I’m the only honest one,” I think that any discriminating judge will admit that there are two kinds of publishing projects which rely upon authors’ subsidies. The first, which has become notorious, is practiced by firms--usually large firms--that advertise extensively in magazines and by brochures. These firms, a number of which the Federal Trade Commission recently found guilty of deliberate misrepresentation, have no standards whatever, and accept virtually everything--at least, everything that is paid for, and can be distributed without danger of interference by the postal authorities. Publishing of this kind cannot be condemned too strongly; and I, who have examined book after book of verse of almost unbelievable ineptitude, have more reason than most for joining in the denunciation.

But there is another sort of subsidy publication of worthwhile titles; and this has been undertaken at times by specialized houses, by university presses, and even, if I have not been misinformed, by general trade publishers. I will admit that, ideally, this should not be; ideally, no writer should be required to do more than write; it is repugnant, and surely not in the best interests of literature, that only the solvent author should be published. Yet what is one to do when the work is something which--like certain scholarly monographs or like long poems or collections of verse--may have high merits but small sales possibilities? What when the prospective publisher is financially unable to shoulder the responsibility? Is such work to remain in oblivion? Or is it better that it be issued, under discriminate and ethical auspices, even at the author’s expense? I think that there can be no two answers to these questions when it is remembered that it was this form of publishing that gave to the world the early work of Shelley, Browning, and many another author now renowned.

When we turn to contemporary poetry, we find some special problems. Paradoxically, while the art no longer enjoys its old-time popularity with the reading public, it has apparently lost little if any of its vogue with writers. It may not be that, as is sometimes asserted, “everybody” is trying to write poetry; nor need we suppose that, as has also been alleged, there are “millions” of poets in America. But it does seem unquestionable, based upon the packs of manuscripts submitted to editors, that thousands of people are seriously setting out to write poetry; and out of this multitude, a fair proportion are producing work worthy of being read and remembered. Even if the number of readers had kept pace with that of writers, the facilities of all the recognized trade publishers would be taxed to bring out the deserving books; but under present conditions, when publishers either shun poetry as if it were a bad debt, or issue it as if it were a bad habit (rarely more than two or three books a year, and these often by writers already on their lists), there is inevitably a large and worthy surplus that could not conceivably find a home with any of the big royalty-paying houses. What, then, shall the authors do with their intensely imagined, their passionately conceived works, which in many cases represent the most delicate and the most fervent and perfect flowering of their lives?

The authors themselves have answered this question; they have answered it by their readiness to seek subsidy publishers. It is at this point that the small publisher, who acts with an eye to poetic quality and to writers’ needs, may perform a real service. In a negative way, he may accomplish something by the very act of saving some of the poets from the pirates. And in a positive way, he may aid by insuring the author the joy and stimulation that can come only from seeing his work in print; he may obtain for him a certain attention, even if not celebrity; he may give him a memorial to hand down in pride to his children and grandchildren. And he may--who knows?--rescue some capable poet, even some outstanding poet from otherwise inevitable oblivion.

It may be worth adding that, apart even from the views of the authors themselves, I am far from alone in this opinion. Consider the following from an article by Aron M. Mathieu (_Writer’s Digest_, July, 1957):

One obvious category of writing that seldom finds a publisher, even
though it may be outstanding, is poetry. A poet, therefore, can
have much pleasure and gratification from a self-published book,
well-bound, often beautifully designed, and through which he will
reach at least a limited audience. There is always for him the hope,
too, that having reached print, posterity might wake to him.

There are, of course, possibilities of abuse in all subsidy publishing; and for this reason, there were certain principles which, from the beginning, The Wings Press felt bound to establish. It picked its books, first of all, on the basis of merit already mentioned, that the book must deserve publication for its own sake; rejections have greatly outnumbered acceptances, as many writers throughout the country will testify. It has never solicited any author for manuscripts; nor has it ever advertised (except in a limited way, for one brief period years ago, when Wennrich and I acted in virtual partnership, and announced in _Wings_ that we would consider book manuscripts of verse). Not less important! I have felt it necessary to dispel all illusions in the poet’s mind; I have always stated frankly that fame is not to be expected, that financial gain is unlikely, and financial loss the normal thing; and I have left it for the writer to decide whether the non-commercial advantages would offset the commercial losses. I have not concealed the fact that bookstores, except sometimes in the author’s home town, will not stock books by unknown versifiers, and that, unless the poet has been widely published, he cannot expect much of an audience outside the circle of his personal connections. But while mentioning all this, I am not unaware that even the large publishers could do little by way of sales, since not even they can create a market where there is no reading interest. I remember cases such as that of a certain skilled poet, whose work had been widely published and who had just won a $5000 prize (the largest offered in the world of poetry); despite the publicity attendant upon the award, and despite the audiences presumably developed by her previous books, her _Collected Poems_ was issued by a leading publisher in an edition of only 750 copies, of which a considerable number were distributed _gratis_ to the press--and this, incidentally, must not be taken to mean that all the remaining copies were sold.

With such comparisons in mind, I do not think that The Wings Press has done very badly by its authors. I know, in fact, that a great majority, after publication, have professed themselves highly and even enthusiastically pleased. And the complaints--for there have been complaints, a very few--have mostly concerned minor matters. One author, quite a few years ago, was understandably irked when a careless binder smeared glue over the covers of many books (we overcame the trouble by having the books rebound). Another author was justifiably annoyed when a printer, disregarding a correction made in the proofs, endowed her name on the book’s front cover with an extra letter. And still another, whose book had in my opinion been beautifully made, voiced two objections, the first of which she excitedly rushed to me by long-distance telephone: the title of the book (which consisted of four short words) had not been gold-stamped in three lines on the face of the cover, as she would have liked, but consisted of one line only! The other complaint, which occurred to her sometime later, was entrusted to a letter: the jacket blurb had said that her poems were “unpretentious.” This, after consultation with some friends, she took as an insult, though the fact was that the poems _were_ simple and unaffected, and had the merit of making no pretensions.

With most of the authors, however, my relations have been pleasant, even cordial; the publications of The Wings Press have earned me many friends-by-correspondence. However, on two occasions they have brought me sharp grief, when the respective authors--Grace Nixon Stecher and Garth Bentley, both of them able poets, and the latter a man of exceptional promise--died suddenly before publication of their books. The case of Bentley shocked me particularly: he fell dead of a heart attack just two days before the first copies of his _Behold the City_ reached his office in Chicago.

After printing one or two Wings Press books, Joseph Wennrich made a proposal: he would cooperate with me in bringing out certain subsequent books, he to provide the printing, I to pay for materials and incidentals, and any returns to be divided on a stated basis. This proposal, as I look back on it, could hardly have been more impractical had he himself been a poet; however, though he and I were to reap nothing financially, we did have the satisfaction of much enthusiastic conferring and planning. The first book to see the light under the new agreement was _Flame Against the Wind_, by Florence Wilson Roper, the Virginia writer whose work had first attracted me several years before in the verse magazine _Kaleidograph_: in this case, the author had to make no payment. Subsequently, Wennrich printed one or two other books under the same arrangement, though neither of us, in view of the limited sales, would have been able to endure the wear and tear indefinitely. And then, in 1941, my association with Wennrich was interrupted as an aftermath of Pearl Harbor. Though in his forties, he was subject to conscription, for he was then unmarried; and being drafted, he gave up his business, disposed of his equipment, and never did return to book printing. After his discharge from the army, he obtained work as the foreman of a printing plant in Middletown, New York; but this plant did not produce books, hence we could not resume our old relationship--a casualty of the war which I, for one, have always regretted.

Today I feel that there is greater need than ever for publication of the kind undertaken by The Wings Press and by the presses of several other poetry magazines, whose editors are actuated less by the desire to grow rich than by the wish to help poets. Though some of the university presses have sponsored books of current verse, and though here and there a prize committee has come to the rescue by providing book publication, and though one or two publishers have been experimenting with paper-backed editions of contemporary work, the position of poets as a whole is darker than ever--particularly those poets who honor the traditions of the ages. I think it not too much to say that if Gray or Keats, Byron or Shelley were to come back under other names, their work would be unceremoniously refused in the present book market, perhaps without even a reading: not because the work was not good (though few can recognize good poetry unless it is neatly tagged and labelled), but because it lacked appeal to the sales department. Under these conditions, Gray or Keats, Byron or Shelley would remain in obscurity unless someone provided the financial wherewithal. True, they might remain in obscurity even after such publication; but the world of print is a miraculous world, and there is always a chance that what has passed through its gateways will be seen and heard, if not today, then possibly tomorrow. And if even one Gray or Keats, Byron or Shelley is preserved (though incidentally a thousand books sail down the waters to oblivion), then surely a service has been performed which has more than justified all the agonies of publication.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

A Place to End

Since this story is one to which no one can write “Finis!” so long as I live, it will be as logical to end at one place as at another. And having already written about as much as I have any interest in reporting, I will bow my exit after trying to shed light on a few concluding matters.

Of the various books pertaining to poetry which I have put forth since the appearance of _The Pageant Man_ in 1936, I shall mention only one, not for its own sake, but for what it tells of other poets. In the twenty years following publication of _Modern American Lyrics_, I had observed a considerable amount of excellent new American poetry, much of it by recognized poets, and much by little-known or unknown writers. But whether it proceeded from established versifiers or from the unestablished, it was insufficiently read; indeed, a large part of it was not available at all except to the limited audiences of “little magazines” and of minor presses. It seemed to me that this work, or at least a representative portion of it, should be made accessible to a wider public; and therefore, despite the horrors of obtaining permissions and the mountains of clerical labor, I conceived the idea of compiling an anthology--provided, of course, that a publisher could be found to back it.

Such a publisher, fortunately, did present himself--and presented himself on the first attempt, so far as I can recall, in the person of Mr. Thomas Yoseloff, head of the New York firm of Bernard Ackerman, Inc. (and, incidentally, Director of the University of Pennsylvania Press). I had never met Mr. Yoseloff (though years later I was to have that pleasure during a brief visit to New York), and I had no introduction to him except through my letter; but he was interested in the idea I suggested, and contracts were soon drawn up for the appearance of the book under the title of _The Music Makers_--the first of a series of volumes, both in poetry and prose, for whose publication I am indebted to this gracious and able man.

In the introduction to _The Music Makers_, I point out that “the number of published volumes of capable poems was not great compared with the amount of such poetry written,” and “that many even of our better known poets did not enjoy a public matching their merits.” Looking back upon my remarks after the passage of years, and seeing how many poems of real beauty written by Americans twenty or thirty years ago have been overshadowed or forgotten, I feel more strongly than ever the justification for these further statements:

Every reader of current verse will recognize, for example, the names
of Arthur Davison Ficke, Robert Nathan, Cale Young Rice, David
Morton, Witter Bynner, John Hall Wheelock and Jessie B. Rittenhouse;
but how many have stopped to consider that these authors may have
written poems deserving to be read and remembered a hundred years
from now? How many have wondered if William Ellery Leonard’s _Two
Lives_, issued a score of years ago, may not be among the immortal
long poems of the language? How many have asked themselves if, in the
whole history of American literature, any sonneteer has written more
nobly or any lyricist more tenderly than George Sterling, who died in
1926? At best, little more than a half recognition crowns many who
are regarded as among the most soundly established of recent American
poets; a half recognition of occasional praise and publication, but
of small audiences.

Unfortunately, an anthology such as _The Music Makers_, even if it could do something for these poets, could do much less than they deserved. And the reason, as I saw it, was twofold: first, a materialism in the very age, which turned men’s thoughts outward rather than inward, and diverted them from poetry to prose; and secondly, the obscuring and confusing tendencies within literature itself, so that opaque and rhythmless work could be exalted as poetry thanks to the very fact that it was opaque and rhythmless, while an offering could be defended as poetic on the ground, for example, that it gave a perfect imitation of a drunkard at a bar (as in a critical note in one of our widely circulated literary media). Faced with such a degeneration of standards, how could one expect that the honorable singers of the ancient high profession would continue to be respected?

In connection with _The Music Makers_, a curious incident occurred--one showing how far afield and in what unforeseen directions a book of verse may spread its seeds. I quote from the _New York Times_ of November 25, 1952:

HONG KONG, Nov. 24. After spending almost two years in a Chinese
Communist jail, the Rev. Francis Olin Stockwell, a Methodist
missionary from Oklahoma, left Hong Kong for the United States with a
Bible and a book of poetry, to which he attaches special value.

While he was imprisoned in China, the 52-year-old Mr. Stockwell wrote
a 50,000-word manuscript on his prison experiences between the lines
of the poetry book--“The Music Makers,” by Stanton A. Coblentz.

When I read these lines--which were sent to me by several correspondents--I knew that even if _The Music Makers_ had failed in all other respects, it would not have been compiled in vain. However, had Mr. Yoseloff not provided the book with a generous format including exceptionally wide margins, it might not have served quite so well!

Because of the degeneration of standards which I mention above, and which _The Music Makers_ aimed to combat at least in part, a group of staunch traditionalists, in the mid-forties, formed an organization known as The League for Sanity in Poetry. I have always thought the name a poor one; one cannot, of course, obtain sanity by means of a league or any other form of organization; a more appropriate designation would have been, The League for Standards in Poetry. I remember an earnest letter from Albert Ralph Korn, of New York (of whom more later), pointing out that the principles of the poetic world were degenerating as never before, and urging me to take the lead in a counter-movement. At about the same time, a letter to a similar effect arrived from Lilith Lorraine, the editor of a Texan verse magazine, _The Raven_, and later to be editor of _Different_; she was then one of the most convinced advocates of traditional poetry, a devoted and energetic worker. I cannot say which of us originally conceived the idea of the League; but certain it is that it was conceived, and was established, with a committee consisting of Albert Ralph Korn, Lilith Lorraine, Etta Josephean Murfey, and Lawrence Neff (the latter two, former editors of poetry magazines) in addition to myself. (Mr. Korn subsequently withdrew owing to a disagreement with one of the other members, and his place was taken by Juliet Brooke Ballard). The League began by putting forth a pamphlet, _The Need for Sanity in Poetry_, and for a time it issued regular bulletins, under the title of _Pinnacle_, which expressed itself as “For the Preservation of Poetry at Its Topmost Pinnacle,” and printed these words of Shelley beneath its masthead: “Poetry ... makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful in the world.”

As an example of the sort of thing we opposed, we quoted the following, from the beginning of a “poem” by the well-known “modernist” E. E. Cummings, which the equally well-known anthologist Oscar Williams had valued highly enough to include in his compilation, _New Poems, 1943_:

ygUGuh

ydoan
unnuhstan
ydoan o
yunnunstan dem
ygudug ged

unnunstam dem doidee
gyudug ged ruduh
dyoan o nudn

LISH bud LISN

I believe that the average reader will agree that when gutter trash such as this is palmed off as poetry, and--worse still!--seriously commended and anthologized, it is time that something be done, if not by a league for sanity, at least by a disinfecting squad.

The League was not, as some of its opponents liked to imply, an organization of bearded antediluvians established for the specific purpose of choking freedom and bringing back the good old days of Queen Victoria. It did, however, favor law as opposed to anarchy. Its principles as to experimentation are summarized in two of the ten items of belief listed in the second issue of _Pinnacle_:

While experimental forms of verse can and sometimes do serve their
purposes adequately, it must be borne in mind that experimentalism is
never permissible as a mere mask to hide ignorance of time-honored
and achievement-honored patterns.

Intelligent experimentation by competent craftsmen should be
encouraged, but it is insane to advocate junking the forms made
famous by the greatest masters of the ages. Experimentation can be
justified only for the purpose of adding to, not destroying, the
forms whose value has been proved by time and usage.

If this is conservatism, it is sober, moderate, and forward-looking conservatism, of the sort that only the absolute iconoclast--which too often means the absolute wrecker--can rationally oppose.

Letters, showering into the League offices from all parts of the country, showed a widespread sympathy with our objectives. A typical communication was one received from Chicago, from the managing editor of the national magazine of a large fraternal organization:

From the nauseous messes which constantly appear in newspapers and
magazines on the pretense that they are poetry, I have been forced to
the conclusion that many editors do not know poetry from doggerel.

If your League is prepared to do something about it, if only to
call public attention to the situation, and ridicule the pretenders
who call themselves poets, and the ignorant editors who print their
outgivings, I am for you.

Though obliged to reject suggestions that I serve as its National President, I did give considerable time to the League over a period of years, and wrote quite a few--though far from all--of the longer articles in _Pinnacle_. Other contributors included Robert Avrett, a Professor of Romance Languages at the University of Tennessee, and later, for a time, acting editor of _The Lyric_; Cullen Jones, Ruth Crary Clough, Anna T. Harding, Donald Parson, and other writers of excellent verse. A number of regional directors were appointed throughout the country, and for several years a real organization existed. But that organization, as happens in many cases, did in time break down, less because of waning enthusiasm than for lack of the considerable funds necessary to print and distribute _Pinnacle_ and other releases, and to carry on the various campaigns; many small contributions continued to come in, but they were inadequate to meet expenses on the original scale. Eventually, therefore, _Pinnacle_ was embodied as a department in Lilith Lorraine’s magazine, _Different_--and with the ultimate discontinuance of _Different_, this whole phase of our activities came to an end. Yet I am sure that all persons associated with the League felt that, during its several years of life, the organization did do something to combat the tides of chaos. And if it did not do enough--after all, what other force _has_ done enough?

* * * * *

As these pages draw toward their end, I think it fitting to pay tribute to the many fine men and women whom I have known personally or by correspondence, and who have worked in various ways in the interests of poets and of poetry. Some of these have served the League for Sanity in Poetry, some have lent the aid of their advice, their suggestions, their contributions, and their encouragement in my sometimes arduous duties on _Wings_; some have edited other poetry journals or poetry columns, or served as poetry editors for newspapers or magazines, or written books or compiled anthologies, or conducted poetry programs over the radio, or sponsored prize contests, or merely stood by in the much-needed capacity of lovers and readers of poetry. These persons have been far too numerous to mention by name; indeed, for fear of discriminating unconsciously, I should not care to cite most of them by name. I shall, therefore, refer personally only to a few who are no longer living.

The first who occurs to me is the celebrated Irish author, Lord Dunsany, whose poems, stories, and plays I have enjoyed for many years. My first contact with him occurred some years ago, when I sent him a copy of _The Pageant of Man_. This gift he might have received in silence, or with a polite and meaningless note of thanks, while filing the book away in the great library of the unread. On the contrary, however, he did read my lengthy poem, and wrote me in enthusiastic terms. The correspondence between us continued, and subsequently he did me the favor of contributing a preface to my series of rhymed narratives, _Time’s Travelers_.

Meanwhile he was waging a valiant fight against the inanities and the insanities of “modernism” in verse. And this fight he took to America, during several lecture tours that brought him before large audiences on both coasts. His point of view is reported by an interviewer for the California magazine _Fortnight_ for April 13, 1953:

These people who write so-called modern verse don’t have anything
approaching the rhythm of moderate prose; they have no meter, no
rhyme and not always decency that would be permitted in any drawing
room....

The Irish writer is angry with people who instead of saying “I don’t
make head or tail of it” which according to his lordship would be the
truth, say: “I see it’s very clever but I’m not quite clever enough
to see all of it.”

“Take a dirty roll of paper,” Lord Dunsany said, “roll it up, hand
it over the counter and ask for a hundred dollars. The paper ‘might’
be a $100-bill, but the cashier won’t give anything for it. Why then
should a dirty meaningless line be accepted as thought which is more
valuable than money?... If writers of so-called modern verse are
sincere, they’re insane.”

From the above, the reader will judge that I was heartily glad to cry “Amen!” to all that Lord Dunsany said. I was, in fact, delighted that so wise and witty a fighter in the cause of poetry had come to America; and I was naturally eager to meet this man whom I had known for so many years through his work, and more recently, by correspondence.

To my joy, a meeting was arranged for one memorable evening at the Alta Mira Hotel in Sausalito, where Flora and I had dinner with Dunsany along with his hostess Mrs. Hazel Littlefield Smith and her secretary, who, despite his distaste for long motor trips, had driven him up from the South. In the old-world atmosphere of this hotel, overlooking the wide glittering waters of San Francisco Bay, we chatted for several hours. I shall never forget my first glimpse of the man whom I had come to consider my friend, as well as a friend of poetry: the dominating tall figure, with the frame still lithe and active despite his seventy-four years, and the impression he gave as if some redoubtable old warrior chief had stalked upon the scene; the Shavian face, with the keen and resolute features, the hair gray with traces of reddish brown, the mustache and the pointed small beard, and the live twinkling greenish eyes that shone with the vivacity of his energetic personality.

But perhaps even the word “energetic” does not fully express the verve and vigor, the scintillating and bubbling enthusiasm of his speech and manner. He seemed ageless to me as his words rushed on with a vivid flow in sparkling tales or in more sober discussion. I thought, as I heard him, that it was unfortunate that he had been born a “Lord”; for the title, extraneous and artificial as it is, may have tended to divert people’s minds from the rare and genuine qualities of the man himself and from the accomplishment of his prose and poetry. Of the things he said, one remark stands out particularly in my mind; he was speaking of the discovery of unknown genius, and paused to say, “Would it not be a dreadful thing if there were one among us, a Milton or a Keats, and he should pass unknown?” I have often thought the same thing.

But let me pass on to other persons. I think that I should call at least brief attention to two or three, who likewise should be remembered for their devotion to poetry and their services to poets.

One of these was Alice Hunt Bartlett, for years American Editor of the _Poetry Review_ of London, a supporter of that excellent journal, compiler of several anthologies, and author of a bimonthly column, _The Dynamics of American Poetry_. I remember her clearly as she received me on several occasions in the drawing room of her Park Avenue apartment--a gracious, distinguished lady, her hair streaked with gray, her eyes bright and animated as she discussed her favorite subject.

Like Mrs. Bartlett, in her appreciation of poetry and her efforts to encourage it, was another lady, whom, however, I knew only by correspondence: Virginia Kent Cummins, also of New York, who at an advanced age established the Lyric Foundation for Traditional Poetry, which took over and supported one of the best of our verse magazines, _The Lyric_, and made an annual award of one thousand dollars to a chosen poet: a provision in her will has made it possible for _The Lyric_ not only to continue as an organ of traditional poetry, but to offer substantial prizes to contributors.

Finally, let me refer again to Albert Ralph Korn. Although, as in the case of Mrs. Cumming we never met, he and I did have a long correspondence; and I know that, during the ten or twelve years of our contact, he was making constant benefactions for poetic causes; offered innumerable prizes through magazines and organizations both here and in England; wrote articles, put forth pamphlets, and sponsored campaigns in favor of what he aptly called “clarity in poetry.” It was he who suggested the departments, _This Is Poetry_ and _This Is Not Poetry_, which for several years attracted attention in Wings; it was he who voluntarily, at his own expense, distributed more than twelve hundred copies of the pamphlet, _Poetry Today, Fire or Fog?_ containing reprints of the first two years of _This Is Poetry_ and _This Is Not Poetry_. Unlike many poets--for in his modest way he did write verse, though he never obtruded his work upon others--he was less concerned with the fate of his own offerings than with the welfare of poetry in general; and it was for this reason, more than any other, that his death in 1956 caused widespread regret.

It may be that, amid the great panorama of coming events and the multitudes of humanity, benefactors such as Mr. Korn, Mrs. Bartlett, and Mrs. Cummins will be obscured or forgotten. But to them, as to many another, we can apply Vachel Lindsay’s words on John Peter Altgeld:

To live in mankind is far more than to live in a name,
To live in mankind, far, far more ... than to live in a name.

Whatever the flares of personal publicity along our paths, this in the long run must be the consolation of those of us who dream and suffer, toil and sing and interpret and aspire, beat at blank walls and float among splendid vistas, and conceive visions of doom and of magnificence in the glorious, unworldly, or otherworldly kingdom of poetry.

THE END

Transcriber’s Note

Missing punctuation has been silently added.

The following alterations have been made:

In chapter one: hundred _to_ hundreds
In chapter eleven: three _to_ these
In chapter fourteen: expansive _to_ expensive
In chapter fifteen: martydom _to_ martyrdom