Chapter 2
A soft susurrus in the night, A song whose singer is unseen-- 'Twere poetry itself to write "A soft susurrus in the night!" I know, as those mosquitos bite, That I forgot to fix that screen, "A soft susurrus in the night!" A song whose singer is unseen.
A Summer Summary
Shall I, lying in a grot, Die because the day is hot? Or declare I can't endure Such a torrid temperature? Be it hotter than the flames South Gehenna Junction claims, If it be not so to me, What care I how hot it be?
Shall I say I love the town Praised by Robinson and Browne? Shall I say, "In summer heat Old Manhattan can't be beat?" Be it luring as a bar, Or my neighbour's motor-car, If I think it is pazziz What care I how fine it is?
Shall I prate of rural joys Far from civic smoke and noise? Shall I, like the others, drool "But the nights are always cool?" If I hate to rise at six Shall I praise the suburbs? Nix! If the country's not for me, What care I how good it be?
Town or country, cool or hot, Differs nothing, matters not; For to quote that Roman cuss, Why dispute "de gustibus?" If to this or that one should Take a fancy, it is good. If these rhymes look good to me, What care I how bad they be?
A Quatrain
A quatrain fills a little space, Although it's pretty small, And oftentimes, as in this case, It has no point at all.
To a Light Housekeeper
(Who hitches laundering articles to the curtain string and pastes them on the pane.)
Lady, thou that livest Just across the way, If a hang thou givest What the people say, If a cuss thou carest What a poet thinks-- Hearken, if thou darest, Most immodest minx!
Though thy gloves thou tiest, To the curtain string, Though the things thou driest Gird me while I sing, Hankies and inventions Of the lacy tribe-- Things I may not mention, Let alone describe.
These I mutely stand for Though the sight offend, THIS I reprimand for; Take it from a friend:
Cease to pin thy tresses To the window sill, Or I'll tell the presses-- Honestly, I will.
How?
How can I work when you play the piano, Feminine person above? How can I think, with your ceaseless soprano Singing: "Ah, Love--"?
How can I dream of a subject aesthetic, Far from the purlieus of prose? How, with the call of the peripatetic "High! High cash clo'es!"?
How can I write when the children are crying? How can I poetize--how? How can I help imper_fect_ versifying? (There is some now.)
How can I bathe in the thought--waves of beauty? How, with my nerves on the slant, Can I perform my poetical duty? Frankly, I can't.
Ballade of the Breakfast Table
When the Festal Board, as the papers say, Groans 'neath the weight of a lot to eat, At breakfast, Fruhstuck or dejeuner, (As a bard tri-lingual I'm rather neat) At breakfast, then, if I may repeat, This is what gets me into a huff, This is a query I cannot beat: Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
I've broken my fast with the grave and gay, With hoi polloi and with the elite; I've been all over the U. S. A. From Dorchester Crossing to Kearney Street. But aye when I sit in the morning seat Comes to my notice the self-same bluff, Plenty of food, but in this they cheat: Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
Take it at breakfast, only to-day: This was the layout, fresh and sweet: Canteloupe, sweet as the new-mown hay;[Footnote: And about as edible.] Cereal--one of the brands[Footnote: To advertisers: This space for sale.] of wheat; Soft--boiled eggs (we've cut out the meat); Coffee (a claro--manila--buff); Napery, china, and glasses complete-- Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
L'ENVOI
Autocratesses, forgive my heat, But isn't it time to change that stuff? Small is the benison I entreat-- Why don't they ever have spoons enough?
Ornithology
Unlearned I in ornithology-- All I know about the birds Is a bunch of etymology, Just a lot of high--flown words. Is the curlew an uxorial Bird? The Latin name for crow? Is the bulfinch grallatorial? I dunno.
O'er my head no golden gloriole Ever shall be proudly set For my knowledge of the oriole, Eagle, ibis, or egrette. I know less about the tanager And its hopes and fears and aims Than a busy Broadway manager Does of James.
But, despite my incapacity On the birdies of the air, I am not without sagacity, Be it ne'er so small a share. This I know, though ye be scorning at What I know not, though ye mock, Birdies wake me every morning at Four o'clock.
To Alice--Sit--By--The--Hour
Lady in the blue kimono, you that live across the way, One may see you gazing, gazing, gazing all the livelong day, Idly looking out your window from your vantage point above. Are you convalescent, lady? Are you worse? Are you in love?
Ever gazing, as you hang there on the little window seat, Into flats across the way or down upon the prosy street. Can't you rent a pianola? Can't you iron, sew, or cook? Write a letter, bake a pudding, make a bed or read a book?
Tell me of the fascination you indubitably find In the "High Cash Cloe's!" man's holler, in the hurdy--gurdy grind. Are your Spanish castles blue prints? Are you waiting for a knight To descend upon your fastness and to save you from your plight?
Lady in the blue kimono, idle, mollycoddle dame, Does your doing nothing never make you feel the blush of shame? As you sit and stare and ditto, not a single thing to do, Lady in the blue kimono, lady, how I envy you!
To Alice--Sit--By--The--Hour
(Being the second idyl to an idle idol.)
Lady in the blue kimono, May we write of you again? Do not hand us out a "No! no!" Do not dam the flowing pen. Once again a poem at you Crave we leave of you to write-- Lady idle as a statue, Lady silent as the night!
Lady in the blue kimono, Heavy is our heart and dumb, Though we weep no tear nor show no Sign of sadness, we are glum; For that wrapper, silk or cotton, You eternally had on-- It is gone, but not forgotten. Still the fact is, it is gone.
Lady in the blue kimono, Although deadly hot the day, Don't you think--(alas! we know no Way to put what we would say!)
Er--although your smile is pleasant, Wondrous fair, and all that stuff-- Do you really think, at present, It is--er--ahem--enough?
Notions
Myrtie, my notion of no one to write about Seems to be any one other than you; Therefore, Myrtilla, I'm penning to-night about Twelve anapestic good verses and true.
Eke my conception of no girl to gaze upon, O my Myrtilla, includes all the rest, Saving the one that I'm spilling this praise upon-- You, as it isn't unlikely you've guessed.
Also my notion of nowhere to be at all-- Pardon, Myrtilla, my lack of restraint-- Notion of mapless location is----d. it all-- Anywhere you simultaneous ain't.
My Ladye's Eyen
Poets ther ben in plenteous line yt take ye auncient theme Of singing to a ladye's eyen whiche maken them to dreme, And through ye blessed hours of slepe--thilk eyen or browne or blue Doe soothe ye poet's slumbers deep: by goddiswoundes thaie doe!
O gentil reder, wit ye well, yt mony soche ther bee, And whan an eyefulle damosel hath made a hitte wyth mee, Hir eyen ben soe o'erpassing bright yt holden mee in thrall, I tosse about ye livelong night, nor can ne slepe atte all.
To a Lady
Ah, Lady, if these verses glowed Warmer than chill appreciation-- If they should lengthen to an "Ode On Fascination--"
If I should cast this cold restraint, Nor dam this pen's o'ereager flowing-- If but your portrait I should paint In colours glowing--
Assuming I should write such dope-- If, haply, you can but conceive it-- As Fahrenheit as Laurence Hope-- You'd not believe it.
YOU'D not; but, oh, Another would! For, by and large and altogether, Us potes must be misunderstood. * * * What lovely weather!
"A Perfect Woman Nobly Planned"
(The man who wants the perfect wife should marry a "stock-size." She comes cheaper.--_London Chronicle_.)
Ah, Myrtilla, woe and dear me! Lackadaydee and alas! What is this, I greatly fear me, That has come to pass?
Craving, as I do, perfection, Loathing anything like flaws, I must raise a slight objection To your building laws.
You are five one-and-a-quarter, And your girth is thirty-three-- Myrtie, you're a little shorter Than you ought to be.
It is far from my intentions Your proportions to describe, Briefly, Myrtie, your dimensions Do not seem to jibe.
Farewell, Myrt, for Ethelisa Seems to be my certain fate, Stupid? Silly? Sure, but she's a Perfect thirty-eight.
An Ultimatum to Myrtilla
(Inspired by the shameless styles in hair.)
Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said-- And your tone was earnest, very-- You would never deck your head With this vernal millinery.
Myrt, to mince no words, you lied; Oh, that I should live to know it! You that are my nearly-bride; I that am your nearly-poet!
For I saw the awful lid You had on at 10 this morning; Myrt, it was a merrywid, Spite of my decisive warning.
Still, I can forgive you that; Though the thing look ne'er so silly; I will overlook the hat If you promise this, Myrtillie:
Wear your lacebelows and fluffs; Wear the awfullest creations-- But--omit the stylish puffs And the vogueish transformations.
Myrt, if you inflate your hair I shall--well--excoriate you, And, I positively swear, Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you.
Love Gustatory
Myrtilla, I have seen you eat-- Have heard you drink, to be precise-- Your soup, and, notwithstanding, sweet, The gurgitation wasn't nice, I overlooked a tiny fault Like that with just a grain of salt.
And, sweetest maid in all New York, When all ungracefully you pierce The toothsome oyster with your fork I realize you're pretty fierce; But such a feat, be't understood, Nor Venus nor Diana could.
I've seen you hang, high in the air, A stalk of fresh asparagus, Guiding its succulence to where It ought to go. I did not cuss. You had it hot and vinaigrette, Myrtilla, and I loved you yet.
Myrt, I have stood for a good deal, As one will in this Cupid game, But now I know I'll never feel Toward you, dear Tillie, quite the same Since I have seen you on the job Of eating corn--corn on the cob.
She Is Not Fair
"She is not fair to outward view"; No beauty hers of form or face She hath no witchery, 'tis true, No grace.
Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind, Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair Hath she. She is--I am not blind-- Not fair.
What makes me love her, then? say you, For such a maid is not my wont. Love her! What makes you think I do? I don't.
To Myrtilla Again
Myrtilla, when the thought of you Obstructs my cold, unbiased view, And keeps me from My hard though hum- Ble task, I do not murmur nor complain I do not ululate nor feign A love for _vin_ Or what is in A flask.
When, as I said in stanza first, My mind is thoroughly immersed With you until My pulses thrill And throb, I don't, in tones more picturesque Than journalistic, slam my desk, And in a fit Of frenzy quit My job.
When, as I may have said before, Your image I can not ignore, I do not tear My thinning hair Nor cuss;
I leave such sentimental show To bards like Shelley, Keats, and Poe I merely spill Some ink, Myrtil- La, thus.
Myrtilla's Third Degree
(With deep bows to Adelaide Anne Proctor's heirs, administrators and assigns.)
Before I trust my Fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine-- (This is an easy parody, Without a change of line.) Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.
Is there, within thy dimmest dreams, This dread ambition, Myrt? Hast thou the ghost of a desire To wear a hobble[Footnote: "Harem," or whatever is to come in the future, may be substituted here.] skirt? If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost.
Look deeper still. Dost underline Most words in writing letters? Or "Local" write on envelopes? Say, ere I bind my fetters. Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.
Once more. Dost thou, in easy speech, Ever let fall "those kind"? Art thou to nutmeg in a pie Unalterably inclined? If aught of these, maid of my wooing, there's absolutely nothing doing.
To Myrtilla Complaining
Myrtie, you weep that the bard has neglected you, Passed you, forgotten you, let you alone. Bless you, Myrtilla, I never suspected you Ever would speak to me, sweet, in that tone.
Myrtie, you say that my poems are penned to you Only on days when I've nothing to do, Otherwise I have no time to attend to you, Others, you say, are more weighty than you.
Sweet, you allege I have not enough time for you, Yes, and you say that I hold you but light, Only when pressed do I reel off a rhyme for you
* * *
Lady Myrtilla, you've doped it out right.
Christmas Cards
I
TO THE GROCERY BOY
Before you send me up that card With rime and diction far from subtle, Hear what a now rebellious bard Says in a quasi-pre-rebuttal.
"A nickel in a poor boy's hat!" You, minion of a grubbing grocer, You dare, indeed, to ask me that? Bold and relentless, say I, "No, sir!"
You who bring some one else's tea To us, while ours goes to the neighbours, And yet you dare demand from me Reward for inefficient labours!
You who but lately made me hit My head upon the dum-dum waiter-- From me you get no silver bit. Fie, out upon you, youthful traitor!
Hard is my heart and tight my purse; Deaf is my ear to all your suing. Except this little bit of verse, There's absolutely nothing doing.
II
TO THE JANITOR
Sullen, surly Scandinave, Smoking on a pipe, Valiantly I cast the glave At thee and thy type.
Person of the shakeless grouch Tamperer with the cream, Idler, lounger, sloven, slouch Despot of the steam--
Thou who bangest garbage cans In the hollow court, Thou whose children spin tin pans Deeming it is sport--
Tyrant of the tenement, Take thy card and flee! Not a nickel, not a cent Dost thou get from me.
III
TO THE WAITER
O waiter, will you tell me why You think to get at Christmas time A five-case note, for do not I Slip you each day a dime?
When as I crave Prime Ribs au Jus [Footnote: Well, how do you pronounce it, then?] And beg that you will bring them rare, They are well done. I fume and fuss And yet you do not care.
Haply I order apple pie, But NOT your counsel or advice; You rub your hands and tell me: "Why, The mince is very nice."
You hide my hat, you hide my coat. Let others, if they care to, give, But as to this here gentle pote-- Be glad he lets you live.
IV
TO THE APARTMENT HOUSE TELEPHONE GIRL
Proud, imperious female person That presideth o'er my 'phone, Hearken while I do some verse on Thee, and thee alone.
Puffed and pompadoured and ratted, Reading _Munsey's_ all the day, Pony-coated, otter-hatted-- Listen to my lay:
When I beg in desperation, "Eight O Seven Riverside," Why do I get "Information"? Is it justified?
Why--I ask it with insistence-- Why--prepare to be appalled-- Why "$2.85 Long Distance" That I never called?
When I call thee, "They don't answer" Tells me Central. (Oh, the crime!) Then thou sayest, thou Romancer, "Been here all the time!"
Tyrant trim and telephonic, Christmas offerings to thee? Pardon if I seem laconic: Not a single c.
V
TO THE BARBER
Prince of the parlour tonsorial, Knight of the razor and shears, Who have from time immemorial Snipped it too short round the ears--
You with your long academical Causes for "thinning on top," Selling me gallons of chemical Tonic, a brush, and a strop;
You with your sad comicality, You with your bum badinage-- Confound your congeniality! Confound your "Facial Massage?"
Still, though you shave contragrainious,[Footnote: Well, there ought to be.] Healing the cut with a lime, Don't I, quite nice and spontaneous, Daily contribute a dime?
Mountain of foreign servility, Butcher of chin and of lip. Maugre your marked inability, Do I not fall for the tip?
Hope you at Christmas for currency, Fiend of tonsorial tricks? Never was greater aberrancy-- Coarsely I say to you, "Nix!"
VI
TO THE HALL-AND-ELEVATOR-BOY
Lo, the West Indian! whose untutored mind To Christmas giving makes me disinclined, Who tellest callers I have moved away And mixest up the morning mail each day. When for thine elevator car I ring Thou telephonest or some other thing; While, when I ask for Byrant Eighty-four, Thou'rt busy somewhere on the seventh floor-- I wish thee from my soul all Christmas joy, But not a cent, O Elevator Boy!
Ballade of a Hardy Annual
Many a jest that refuses to die Bobs up again as the seasons appear; Deathless it hits us again in the eye-- Changeless and dull as the calendar year. Musty and mouldy and yellow and sere, Stronger, withal, than the sturdiest oak; Ancient and solemn and deadly and drear-- Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly, All through the day of the "leathery sphere," Jokelets and pictures and verses we spy All on the theme of the grandmother dear. Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer Please us and tickle us quite to the choke. But--on this matter our attitude's clear-- Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
Giggle we can at a blueberry pie; Scream at a comedy king or ameer; Simply guffaw when the jestermen guy Marriage, a thing at which no one should jeer. Things that in others elicit a tear All of our risibles simply unyoke; But from this stand we're unwilling to veer: Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
L'ENVOI
Brothers in motley, the season is here; Small is the boon that we sadly invoke: Butcher it, murder it, jump on its ear!-- Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!
A Plea
Writers of baseball, attention! When you're again on the job-- When, in your rage for invention, You with the language play hob-- Most of your dope we will pardon, Though of the moth ball it smack; But--cut out the "sinister garden," Chop the "initial sack."
Rake poor old Roget's "Thesaurus" For phrases fantastic and queer; And though on occasions you bore us, We will refrain from a sneer. We will endeavour to harden Ourselves to the rest of your clack, If you'll cut out the "sinister garden" And chop the "initial sack."
Singers of words that are scrambled, Say, if you will, that he "died," Write, if you must, that he "ambled"-- We shall be last to deride. But us to the Forest of Arden, Along with the misanthrope Jaques, If you cling to the "sinister garden" And stick to "initial sack."
Speak of the "sphere's aberration," Mention the "leathery globe," Say he got "free transportation"-- Though that try the patience of Job. But if you're wise you'll discard en- Cumbrances such as we thwack-- Especially "sinister garden" And the "initial sack."
Footlight Motifs
I
MRS. FISKE
Staccato, hurried, nervous, brisk, Cascading, intermittent, choppy, The brittle voice of Mrs. Fiske Shall serve me now as copy. Assist me, O my Muse, what time I pen a bit of Deathless Rhyme!
Time was, when first that voice I heard, Despite my close and tense endeavour, When many an important word Was lost and gone forever; Though, unlike others at the play, I never whispered: "wha'd'd she say?"
Some words she runstogetherso; Some others are distinctly stated; Some cometoofast and s o m e t o o s l o w And some are syncopated. And yet no voice--I am sincere-- Exists that I prefer to hear.
For what is called "intelligence" By every Mrs. Fiskeian critic As usual is just a sense Of humour, analytic. So any time I'm glad to frisk Two bones to witness Mrs. Fiske.
II
Olga Nethersole
I like little Olga, Her plays are so warm; And if I don't see 'em, They'll do me no harm.
My Puritan training Has kept me from going To dramas in which Little Olga was showing.
But I like little Olga, Her art is so warm; And if I don't see her She'll do me no harm.
Ballade of the Average Reader
I try to touch the public taste, For thus I earn my daily bread. I try to write what folks will paste In scrap books after I am dead. By Public Craving I am led. (I' sooth, a most despotic leader) Yet, though I write for Tom and Ned, I've never seen an average reader.
The Editor is good and chaste, But says: (Above the public's head; This is _too_ good; 'twill go to waste. Write something commonplacer-- Ed.) Write for the average reader, fed By pre-digested near-food's feeder, But though my high ideals have fled, I've never _seen_ an average reader.
How many lines have been erased! How many fancies have been shed! How many failures might be traced To this--this average-reader dread! I've seen an average single bed; I've seen an average garden-weeder; I've seen an average cotton thread-- I've _never_ seen an average _reader_.
L'ENVOI
Most read of readers, if you've read The works of any old succeeder, You know that he, too, must have said: "I've never seen an Average Reader."
Poesy's Guerdon
( * * * I do not believe a single modern English poet is living to-day on the current proceeds of his verse.--From "Literary Taste and How to Form it," by Arnold Bennett.)
What time I pen the Mighty Line Suffused with the spark divine As who should say: "By George! That's fine!"
Indignantly do I deny The words of Arnold Bennett. Why, Is this not English verse? say I.
And by the proceeds of that verse-- Such as, _e. g._, these little terc- Ets--is not filled the family purse?
Do we not live on what I sell, Sonnet, ballade, and villanelle?
* * *
"We do," She says, "and none too well."
Signal Service
Time-table! Terrible and hard To figure! At some station lonely We see this sign upon the card: [Footnote Asterisk: Train 20: Stops on signal only.]
We read thee wrong; the untrained eye Does not see always with precision. The train we thought to travel by [Footnote Dagger: Runs only on North-west division.]
Again, undaunted, we look at The hieroglyphs, and as a rule a Small double dagger shows us that [Footnote SmallDoubleDagger: Train does not stop at Ashtabula.]
And when we take a certain line On Tues., Wednes., Thurs., Fri., Sat., or Monday, We're certain to detect the sign: [Footnote SectionMark: $10 extra fare ex. Sunday. ]
Heck Junction--Here she comes! Fft! Whiz! A scurry--and the train has flitted! Again we look. We find it--viz., [Footnote DoubleBar: Train does not stop where time omitted.]
Through hieroglyphic seas we wade-- Print is so cold and so unfeeling. The train we wait at Neverglade [Footnote Paragraph: Connects with C. & A. at Wheeling.]
Now hungrily the sheet we scan, Grimy with travel, thirsty, weary, And then--nothing is sadder than [Footnote PointingHand: No diner on till after Erie.]
Yet, cursed as is every sign, The cussedest that we can quote is This treacherous and deadly line: [Footnote TripleAsterisk: Subject to change without our notice.]
Sporadic Fiction
Why not a poem as they treat The stories in the magazines? "Eustacia's lips were very sweet. He stooped to"-and here intervenes A line--italics--telling one Where one may learn the things that he, The noble hero, had begun. (_Continuation on page 3_.)
Page 3--oh, here it is--no, here-- "Kiss them. Eustacia hung her head; Whereat he said, 'Eustacia dear'-- And sweetly low Eustacia said:" (_Continued on page 17_.) Here, just between the corset ad. And that of Smithers' Canderine. (Eustacia sweet, you drive me mad.)