Equipment for Living
Poetry
One man attains self expression by becoming a sailor, another by becoming a poet.
—Counter-Statement (53)
Untitled Review of Pens for Wings by Emanuel Morgan
Pens for Wings by Emanuel Morgan
The Freeman, 3 June 1921, 286
It has been said that by the law of permutations if you juggle the Greek alphabet long enough you will get the Iliad. By juggling with the most incompatible images Emanuel Morgan in his Pens for Wings at least succeeds in reconstructing with surprising aptness three score or more modern poets. Whether it is Mr. T.S. Eliot, “The wedding cake of two tired cultures,” or Mr. William Carlos Williams, “Carbolic acid in love,” this skillful prestidigitation is applied with singularly accurate results. Mr. Chesterton, for instance, is revealed as “a Cardinal on a merry-go-round,” while poor Mr. Arthur Symons is nearly destroyed when the toss comes to “enchanted Roquefort.” Mr. Walter de la Mar is reproduced as dreamily as one of his own lines by “a door-knob in the mist.” What with Spectra and Pens for Wings, Emanuel Morgan threatens completely to outdistance his intimate and associate, Mr. Witter Bynner. The book is illustrated with caricatures by Messrs. Ivan Opffer and William Saphier, a happy combination, since Mr. Opffer’s predilection for the generous thumb-smear method complements Mr. Saphier’s trim hair-lines and silk-stockinged silhouettes.
Heaven’s First Law
Sour Grapes by William Carlos Williams. The Four Seas Company
The Dial, February 1922, 197–200
It had once been my privilege to see a page written by William Carlos Williams on which he undertook to reproduce nine times the lovely sunshine thought, “Order is Heaven’s first law.” Now, by the fifth time, the poet became noticeably impatient, and from the seventh on the copy was completely unreadable. The ninth version was a mere wavy line, broken in four places. At first I took this to be quite damning; but on second thought, what use could Williams make of order? He thinks in an entirely different set of terms. To add organization to his poetry would have no more meaning than to insist that his lines begin in alphabetical rotation.
What Williams sees, he sees in a flash. And if there is any correlation whatsoever, it is a certain determined joyousness in a poet who would find it awkward to weep. For as his arch-enemy has noted, Williams is a bad Freudian case whose poetry is certainly not allowed to come out the way it came in. But beyond this very reasonable prudency, which he shares with no less an artist than Flaubert, consistency falls away.
No, Williams is the master of the glimpse. A line of his, suddenly leaping up out of the text, will throw the reader into an unexpected intimacy with his subject, like pushing open a door and advancing one’s nose into some foreign face. Given a subject, he will attack it with verve, striking where he can break through its defense, and expecting applause whenever a solid, unmistakable jolt has been landed. It would be mere idleness to give his ars poetica in more presumptuous terms. The process is simply this: There is the eye, and there is the thing upon which that eye alights; while the relationship existing between the two is a poem.
The difficulty here lies in conveying the virtues of such a method. For the method itself is as common as mud. The minute fixating of a mood, an horizon, a contrast; if one finds there any unusual commendation for Williams it is not in the excellence of his poetics, but in the excellence of his results. His first virtue, therefore, lies in the superiority of his minute fixations over those of his ten million competitors. He is a distinguished member of a miserable crew.
Honest people who really think highly enough of words to feel unhappy when they are vague will rejoice that Williams’s new volume, Sour Grapes, is more sober in this respect than the Improvisations. For the Improvisations were not finally satisfactory. Clear notes were there in abundance, but they were usually preceded and followed by the usual modern data for mental tests. (How beautiful the association of ideas would have been in art if used in one work, by one man, for one page, and for some end other than that of a beautiful association of ideas.) True, by the mere dissatisfaction of their context, such momentary beatitudes of expression received their full share of enthusiasm, but having twenty sentences of chaos to heighten one sentence of cosmos is too much like thanking God for headaches since they enable us to be happy without them.
Sour Grapes, however, skips a generation and takes after the volume, Al Que Quiere. And in these two works, it seems to me, Williams is at his best, since here he is not handicapping his remarkable powers of definition, of lucidity. You may wonder, perhaps, just why the poet is going off in some particular direction; but you are always aware just what this direction is. Here also his inveterate lustiness is up to par; for Williams knows Walt Whitman’s smile down to the last wrinkle. If there are logs in the grate, he puts a match to them; if it is a warm Easter morning, he throws off his coat. And if, behind it all, there is evidence of a strong tendency towards transgression, towards, let us say, the mountains of Tibet or a negro harem in Madagascar, such things are there as an irritant rather than as a subject. The face value of the poems will always remain the definition of the poet’s own gatepost. His peculiar gifts of expression, if nothing else, dictate this simplification. Williams evidently realizes that his emotions are one thing and his art another, and that those who wish to go beyond his minute fixations can find a great deal more implicated in them; but in the meantime, let the minute fixations suffice.
I should say, therefore, that Williams was engaged in discovering the shortest route between object and subject. And whether it is a flamingo befouling its own tail, or the tired ogling at little girls, or trees stark naked in a wind, one must always recognize the unusual propriety of his poetry, the sureness and directness with which he goes at such things. A fact with him finds its justification in the trimness of the wording.
If a man is walking, it is the first principle of philosophy to say that he is not walking, the first principle of science to say that he is placing one foot before the other and bringing the hinder one in turn to the fore, the first principle of art to say that the man is more than walking, he is yearning; then there are times when scientist, philosopher, and poet all discover of a sudden that by heavens! The man is walking and none other. Now, a good deal of this discovery is in Williams’ poetry, and, if I understand the word correctly, is contained in his manifesto praising Contact in art. For I take Contact to mean: man without the syllogism, without the parode, without Spinoza’s Ethics, man with nothing but the thing and the feeling of that thing. Sitting down in the warmth to write, for instance, Kant might finally figure it out that man simply must have standards of virtue in spite of the bleakness of the phenomenon/noumenon distinction, and that this virtue could be constructed on the foundations of a categorical imperative. But Williams, sitting down in the warmth to write, would never get over his delight that the wind outside was raging ineffectually; and, in his pronounced sense of comfort, he would write:
January
Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder.
You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.
Seen from this angle, Contact might be said to resolve into the counterpart of Culture, and Williams becomes thereby one of our most distinguished Neanderthal men. His poetry deals with the coercions of nature—and by nature I mean iron rails as well as iron ore—rather than with the laborious structure of ideas man has erected above nature. His hatred