the word « like » or that « evocation » of the « image » which served us for a time. Its abuse is apparent. The insignificant «image» may be « evoked » never so ably and still mean nothing.
With all his faults Alfred Kreymborg never did this. That is why his work — escaping a commonfault — still has value and will tomorrow have more.
Sandburg, when uninspired by intimacies of the eye and ear, runs into this empty symbolism. Such poets of promise as ruin themselves with it, though many have major sentimental faults besides.
Marianne Moore escapes. The incomprehensibility of her poems is witness to at what cost (she cleaves herself away) as it is also to the distance which the most are from a comprehension of the purpose of composition.
The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
It is no different from the aristocratic compositions of the earlier times, The Homeric inventions but these occured in different times, to this extent, that life had not yet sieved through its own multiformity. That aside, the work the two-thousand-year-old poet did and that we do are one piece. That is the vitality of the classics.
So then — Nothing is put down in the present book
— except through weakness of the imagination — which is not intended as of a piece with the « nature » which Shakespeare mentions and which Hartleyspeaks of so completely in his « Adventures »: it is the common thing which is annonymously about us.
Composition is in no essential an escape from life. In fact if it is so it is negligeable to the point of insignificance. Whatever « life » the artist may be forced to lead has no relation to the vitality of his compositions. Such names as Homer, the blind; Scheherazade, who lived under threat — Their compositions have as their excellence an identity with life since they are as actual, as sappy as the leaf of the tree which never moves from one spot.
What I put down of value will have this value: an escape from crude symbolism, the annihilation of strained associations, complicated ritualistic forms designed to separate the work from « reality » — such as rhyme, meter as meter and not as the essential of the work, one of its words.
But this smacks too much of the nature of — This is all negative and appears to be boastful. It is not intended to be so. Rather the opposite
The work will be in the realm of the imagination as plain as the sky is to a fisherman — A very clouded sentence. The word must be put down for itself, not as a symbol of nature but a part, cognisant of the whole — aware — civilized.
V
Blacks wind from the north
enter black hearts. Barred from
seclusion in lilys they strike
to destroy —
Beastly humanity
where the wind breaks it —
strident voices, heat
quickened, built of waves
Drunk with goats or pavements
Hate his of the night and the day
of flowers and rocks. Nothing
is gained by saying the night breeds
murder — It is the classical mistake
The day
All that enters in another person
all grass, all blackbirds flying
all azalia trees in flower
salt winds —
Sold to them men knock blindly together
splitting their heads open
That is why boxing matches and
Chinese poems are the same — That is why
Hartley praises Miss Wirt
There is nothing in the twist
of the wind but — dashes of cold rain
It is one with submarine vistas
purple and black fish turning
among undulant seaweed —
Black wind, I have poured my heart out
to you until I am sick of it —
Now I run my hand over you feeling
the play of your body — the quiver
of its strength —
The grief of the bowmen of Shu
moves nearer — There is
an approach with difficulty from
the dead — the winter easing of grief
How easy to slip
into the old mode, how hard to
cling firmly to the advance —
VI
No that is not it
nothing that I have done
nothing
I have done
is made up of
nothing
and the dipthong
ae
together with
the