The Nation (American magazine)/Volume 123/3194/First Glance

by Mark Van Doren

First Glance

Few things arouse my curiosity more than a new book by an interesting poet. There are no straight lines in the careers of poets—they must curve up or down, and the reader, if he can, may share the writer's sense of adventure as the two move together into the dark or light of a new level.

The second of Amy Lowell's three posthumous volumes, "East Wind" (Houghton Mifflin: $2.25), is neither better nor worse than any of the seven volumes which preceded it. It has all of their famous qualities and all of their notorious defects—speed, dexterity, garrulity, and glitter. But its subject matter is different, as that of any new book by Miss Lowell was likely to be; it represents an extension of her effort to cover a great deal of ground as perfectly as her impetuosity would permit. And it proves that she had it in her to become one of our best narrative poets—with the emphasis on the narrative rather than on the poetry. In "Legends" and "Can Grande's Castle" she labored with a manner. Here she has her hands full with the material of thirteen New England stories. These would have been difficult to tell in any medium, for the problems of their chief characters are problems which the services of psychoanalysis are necessary to make intelligible. That Miss Lowell is not only clear but continuously and simply interesting means that she has removed most of the obstacles between herself and the public; "East Wind" should be her most popular book. It does not mean that she stands any higher as a poet. She probably had gone as far in the direction of art as she would ever go. In the other direction of theme there were no limits upon her energetic mind. She would have continued to entertain us vastly, and I look forward to the collection which still remains to be published.

E. E. Cummings in "is 5" (Boni and Liveright: $2.50) plunges straight ahead along the path he has so indignantly claimed to be his and only his. On he goes, shouting abuse to any little fellow who may stand in his way and lowering his really fine voice to the lyric pitch whenever the proper persons over the hedge incline respectful ears. It is right that he should take his own road, and it is refreshing to hear him on the subject of his far too many competitors,

let freedom ring

amen. i do however protest, anent the un-spontaneous and otherwise scented merde whichgreets one (Everywhere Why) as divine poesy perthat and this radically defunct periodical. i would

suggest that certain ideas gesturesrhymes, like Gillette Razor Bladeshaving been used and reusedto the mystical moment of dullness emphatically areNot To Be Resharpened.

This is amusing and good, and not to be contested. Most of the time Mr. Cummings as satirist is a man to be feared and hence to be enjoyed. I am interested, however, in the very plain signs here that the highway tilts dangerously before him; he may lose his balance and fall flat, or go rolling dangerously down hill. He misses his step at least as often as he hits it, both in his serious work and in his foolery. The extreme of his foolery is meaningless vulgarity; the extreme of his serious work—done too distinctly on the rebound—is sentimentality. He is free now; why should he not consider his pace?

Orrick Johns, who in his time has been something of an experimentalist, settles into simplicity with "Wild Plum" (Macmillan: $1.25), a group of thin lyrics most of which are stale and three or four of which achieve a beautiful brightness. He has undertaken a difficult task—to say old things, and small things, well; he seems not to have known just how difficult this can be. Vachel Lindsay takes to the mountains of the West again in "Going-to-the-Stars" (Appleton: $2). The book is to Mr. Lindsay, evidently, a valuable record of pure moments spent among flowers and stars. To his readers it will say less, since, alas, Mr. Lindsay sings mostly into his own ears these days. The tune of other times is hardly to be heard, though here and there we get sweet quavers of it. Mr. Lindsay, being truly simple, has developed a complicated way of expressing himself. All but inaudible under his symbols, he sings on in happy solitude, renaming all the posies of the world and scratching hieroglyphics on stones which never saw a man. In that solitude we must, it seems, respectfully leave him. Leonard Bacon, meanwhile, cannot be admitted into the company of simple souls. The clever author of "Ulug Beg" and "Ph.D.'s" attempts in "Animula Vagula" (Harper: $1.50) to shake Off his cleverness and pierce to the center of a dark experience he has had. He never arrives with the humble mien that would be fitting. He is ingenious in the way he leads us up to the horror. He says a number of very neat things about it—

I shall not take my life. It has been taken—

but he does not forget that he is writing long enough to give us the thing itself. That, and that only, would have been simplicity. Mark Van Doren