The Modernist: An Essay in Verse
OUR age for charms untold is rhymed and fêted,
But I — I like its human antics best:
The man cosmopolite, expatriated,
Who hugs the wandering planet to his breast;
The man who, with religions satiated,
Still jests at faith and finds a faith in jest;
The specialist whom ponderings deep enable
To frame an index or affix a label;
But I — I like its human antics best:
The man cosmopolite, expatriated,
Who hugs the wandering planet to his breast;
The man who, with religions satiated,
Still jests at faith and finds a faith in jest;
The specialist whom ponderings deep enable
To frame an index or affix a label;
The pessimist who finds in facts horrific
Occasions for exultant self-applause;
The statesman, sure that nations grow pacific
The more they furnished are with teeth and claws;
The symbolist with verse hieroglyphic;
The cubist undisheartened by guffaws:
All, all I love, but topmost on the list
I rank, to-day, the gallant modernist.
Occasions for exultant self-applause;
The statesman, sure that nations grow pacific
The more they furnished are with teeth and claws;
The symbolist with verse hieroglyphic;
The cubist undisheartened by guffaws:
All, all I love, but topmost on the list
I rank, to-day, the gallant modernist.
He’s what I call — in trope — the ‘early riser.’
Astir when all the household are abed;
At breakfast, primed, inestimably wiser —
The weather presaged and the journals read —
He holds forth to the dutiful surprise or
Faint thanks of those on whom is richly shed
His affluence, whom an hour’s disastrous lateness
Has made his almsmen, parasites to greatness.
Astir when all the household are abed;
At breakfast, primed, inestimably wiser —
The weather presaged and the journals read —
He holds forth to the dutiful surprise or
Faint thanks of those on whom is richly shed
His affluence, whom an hour’s disastrous lateness
Has made his almsmen, parasites to greatness.
He views time as a pyramid inverted,
Poised deftly on the apex of the Now;
Or ship whereon, by order preconcerted,
His post is always neighboring to the prow,
The spot where, as in mockery inserted,
The figurehead — his emblem — shades the bow;
Each barge, each headland, swims into his ken
Ten seconds ere it greets his fellow men.
Poised deftly on the apex of the Now;
Or ship whereon, by order preconcerted,
His post is always neighboring to the prow,
The spot where, as in mockery inserted,
The figurehead — his emblem — shades the bow;
Each barge, each headland, swims into his ken
Ten seconds ere it greets his fellow men.
He deems that God himself is journalistic,
Each daytime’s issue, smoking from the press,
Remanding by succession fatalistic
All earlier dates to chaff and nothingness;
Each form, howe’er ingenious or artistic,
Born with the day, exhales with day’s recess;
Time like a broom or snow-plough is designed;
Ahead lies substance — vacancy behind.
Each daytime’s issue, smoking from the press,
Remanding by succession fatalistic
All earlier dates to chaff and nothingness;
Each form, howe’er ingenious or artistic,
Born with the day, exhales with day’s recess;
Time like a broom or snow-plough is designed;
Ahead lies substance — vacancy behind.
His glance is still round far horizons playing,
Where gas-jets loom like planets to the eye;
He loves in lettered fields to walk a-maying,
Where through the drifts peep buddings faint and shy;
For him the only ore that tempts assaying
Is that new-mined, bared freshly to the sky.
The past is but time’s ash-heap dim and gray:
Hades is synonym for yesterday.
Where gas-jets loom like planets to the eye;
He loves in lettered fields to walk a-maying,
Where through the drifts peep buddings faint and shy;
For him the only ore that tempts assaying
Is that new-mined, bared freshly to the sky.
The past is but time’s ash-heap dim and gray:
Hades is synonym for yesterday.
He loves to make in nascent reputations
Investment of discreet, precursive praise,
Which, later, when fame passes expectations,
Its dividend of honor duly pays.
The stocks are scanned: ‘Those Meredith quotations
Scale high — with Bennetts all the mart’s ablaze;
Wards falling slowly — water in the stock;
Hold Shaws, buy Masefields in the solid block!.’
Investment of discreet, precursive praise,
Which, later, when fame passes expectations,
Its dividend of honor duly pays.
The stocks are scanned: ‘Those Meredith quotations
Scale high — with Bennetts all the mart’s ablaze;
Wards falling slowly — water in the stock;
Hold Shaws, buy Masefields in the solid block!.’
He nurses fames. ‘This stripling Archidamus —
I’ve called him hopeful — Really? classed as sound
In Archer’s foot-note? Why, the fellow’s famous!
I think I’ll risk the epithet “renowned”!
Besides, his voyages to Crete and Samos
Kind notice from the Argonaut have found.
What? two, three columns in the Polypus?
Strike out “renowned” and write “illustrious.”’
I’ve called him hopeful — Really? classed as sound
In Archer’s foot-note? Why, the fellow’s famous!
I think I’ll risk the epithet “renowned”!
Besides, his voyages to Crete and Samos
Kind notice from the Argonaut have found.
What? two, three columns in the Polypus?
Strike out “renowned” and write “illustrious.”’
And, not content with altruistic nursing,
He loves to wind fame’s earliest bugle-horn;
For him, Pope’s motto poignantly reversing,
At every word a reputation’s born;
The babe may thrive, its sponsor reimbursing,
Or if, by ailments infantile uptorn,
It dies — what matter? It finds cosiest room
For the belied prognostic in its tomb.
He loves to wind fame’s earliest bugle-horn;
For him, Pope’s motto poignantly reversing,
At every word a reputation’s born;
The babe may thrive, its sponsor reimbursing,
Or if, by ailments infantile uptorn,
It dies — what matter? It finds cosiest room
For the belied prognostic in its tomb.
And then, since praise unmixed is meretricious,
A pinch of blame must season our critique;
We’ll drop betwixt ‘enthralling’ and ‘delicious,’
Some muttered hint like ‘structurally weak’;
Faults shine like merits in a phrase judicious;
‘Crux writes in cipher: dub his style unique.
Pax raves: why, yes, berserker-like, convulsive.
Nex stabbed his brother: true, Nex is impulsive.’
A pinch of blame must season our critique;
We’ll drop betwixt ‘enthralling’ and ‘delicious,’
Some muttered hint like ‘structurally weak’;
Faults shine like merits in a phrase judicious;
‘Crux writes in cipher: dub his style unique.
Pax raves: why, yes, berserker-like, convulsive.
Nex stabbed his brother: true, Nex is impulsive.’
He loves a dashing word, a phrase new-minted,
But new words age so lamentably fast;
There’s ‘colorful,’ no longer blithely tinted,
And ‘artistry’ with damaged wares is classed;
I fear lest, too assiduously printed,
‘Convincing’ leave us skeptical at last;
‘Mordant’ has lost its tooth. We need ‘invasive’;
‘Compelling’ — that’s as lamblike as ‘persuasive.’
But new words age so lamentably fast;
There’s ‘colorful,’ no longer blithely tinted,
And ‘artistry’ with damaged wares is classed;
I fear lest, too assiduously printed,
‘Convincing’ leave us skeptical at last;
‘Mordant’ has lost its tooth. We need ‘invasive’;
‘Compelling’ — that’s as lamblike as ‘persuasive.’
‘Not mine,’ he says, ‘to count tradition folly;
In youth I could read Tennyson at sight;
And Arnold, reticent and melancholy,
In whom fond antiquarians delight;
I once perused an ancient named Macaulay,
Who spake of Burke, the vanished Troglodyte;
Our libraries these prehistoric data
Guard, fossil-like, in shelves that mimic strata.
In youth I could read Tennyson at sight;
And Arnold, reticent and melancholy,
In whom fond antiquarians delight;
I once perused an ancient named Macaulay,
Who spake of Burke, the vanished Troglodyte;
Our libraries these prehistoric data
Guard, fossil-like, in shelves that mimic strata.
‘There’s Shakespeare, now, a most, ingenious fellow —
Read him some idle week at Spa or Ems —
The daisies in his meads are fair and yellow,
Though Avon’s force is surely not the Thames’;
His works re-read from Tempest to Othello,
Yield copious store of pungent apophthegms;
A man not void of humor; and his dramas
Serve still as trestle-work for panoramas.
Read him some idle week at Spa or Ems —
The daisies in his meads are fair and yellow,
Though Avon’s force is surely not the Thames’;
His works re-read from Tempest to Othello,
Yield copious store of pungent apophthegms;
A man not void of humor; and his dramas
Serve still as trestle-work for panoramas.
‘ The truths we love are many-hued as Iris —
Be they but fresh, they’re palatable all;
With Bergson all our spirits can desire is
More draughts and lustier of the élan vital;
We’ll carve our God, like primitive Osiris,
For James’ (the elder’s) sake, in pieces small;
Nietzsche is godless — pæans be upraised;
And Chesterton’s religious, Heaven be praised!’
Be they but fresh, they’re palatable all;
With Bergson all our spirits can desire is
More draughts and lustier of the élan vital;
We’ll carve our God, like primitive Osiris,
For James’ (the elder’s) sake, in pieces small;
Nietzsche is godless — pæans be upraised;
And Chesterton’s religious, Heaven be praised!’
The age draws truth into its own mutations
(For us the ship’s course guides the polar star)
It nods — responsive to our lucubrations —
Which proves that affirmations priceless are;
It turns, it winds, in unforeseen gyrations,
Which make it plain that truth is circular;
It gives itself the lie; we know by trial
The heart and pith of truth is self-denial.
(For us the ship’s course guides the polar star)
It nods — responsive to our lucubrations —
Which proves that affirmations priceless are;
It turns, it winds, in unforeseen gyrations,
Which make it plain that truth is circular;
It gives itself the lie; we know by trial
The heart and pith of truth is self-denial.
He joys to find the generous earth productive
Of those rich cacti called the pessimists;
He loves a soul that’s wholesomely destructive,
A soul that carries falcons on its wrists;
Malevolence is wooingly seductive;
What blandishment so sure as doubled fists?
If his god chides him: ‘Dastard, slave, unbred,’
He bows in meekness: ‘Master, thou hast said.’
Of those rich cacti called the pessimists;
He loves a soul that’s wholesomely destructive,
A soul that carries falcons on its wrists;
Malevolence is wooingly seductive;
What blandishment so sure as doubled fists?
If his god chides him: ‘Dastard, slave, unbred,’
He bows in meekness: ‘Master, thou hast said.’
He loves each note in the incessant howling,
Emitted from his strange menagerie:
The Swedish bear, insatiately prowling,
With woman’s flesh fed hourly, — grim to see;
Sp-t-zz! the cat Nietzsche with his valiant growling
At love, faith, patience, ‘mouse’ morality;
See, his fur sparkles! From the adjoining yard
Heard ye that baying? That’s our St. Bernard!’
Emitted from his strange menagerie:
The Swedish bear, insatiately prowling,
With woman’s flesh fed hourly, — grim to see;
Sp-t-zz! the cat Nietzsche with his valiant growling
At love, faith, patience, ‘mouse’ morality;
See, his fur sparkles! From the adjoining yard
Heard ye that baying? That’s our St. Bernard!’
The clocks tick faster in the stimulation
His presence yields. That loafing earth and skies
Should twice twelve hours consume in one saltation
Affects him with intolerant surprise;
Fired newly by his kindling expectation,
The sun feels fresh encouragements to rise;
He, supple athlete, sound in wind and limb,
Keeps gray time breathless, chasing after him.
His presence yields. That loafing earth and skies
Should twice twelve hours consume in one saltation
Affects him with intolerant surprise;
Fired newly by his kindling expectation,
The sun feels fresh encouragements to rise;
He, supple athlete, sound in wind and limb,
Keeps gray time breathless, chasing after him.
Long may it be ere Death, that grim precisian,
Halts his gay car for speeding over-fast.
Shall he incur that uttermost derision,
Consignment to the stationary past?
Must he behold from shaded fields Elysian
The saucy Now fade in the formless vast,
And Time and all Time’s couriers such as he
Stalled in that mighty pound, Eternity?
Halts his gay car for speeding over-fast.
Shall he incur that uttermost derision,
Consignment to the stationary past?
Must he behold from shaded fields Elysian
The saucy Now fade in the formless vast,
And Time and all Time’s couriers such as he
Stalled in that mighty pound, Eternity?