DEMOCRACY AND THE NEW THEMES At the Author's Congress of The Panama-Pacific International Exposition in 1915, Edwin Markham, who is often called "The Dean of American Poetry," gave an address on the subject of contemporary verse. Those who listened felt that, in spite of his venerable appearance, he was one of the youngest and most promising poets present. In the course of his discussion he told the following story. A young man once went to Mr. Markham and said, "Mr. Markham, I feel sure that I have it in me to write a great poem. I know that I can do it. But I have not been able to think of a subject worthy of my powers. Now, Mr. Markham, if you will suggest the subject, I will write the poem." Mr. Markham fumbled in his pocket, and, after a moment's deliberation, drew thence a rusty nail. "This is as good a subject as any," said he to the young man. And the young man was properly rebuked. For a man who, in a world of physical and spiritual miracles, could think of no subject "worthy of his powers," would write no better of the grand march of the galaxies in the milky way than of a little piece of metal covered with rust. After all, the little piece of iron has been a part of the procession of stars and planets. And, if our minds are so dull and unimaginative that we find no cause for wonder in near and familiar objects, why should we dare to suppose that we can fathom, describe, and interpret marvels vast and remote? Mr. Markham knew very well that a rusty nail in the pocket of a genius may be anything that the genius wishes it to be. It may be the very nail that held down the first plank in the floor of the house that Jack built. Or a leprachaun may have used it in cobbling the boot of a giant. But in the pocket of a dull, uninteresting man a rusty nail becomes a dull, uninteresting object. Now the moral of Mr. Markham's story is simply this: It is the poet who makes the poem, not the theme! A poor poetaster will make poor poetry, or slipshod verse out of the greatest theme of all-if there be any greatest theme. And indeed his inadequacy will be the more apparent when he strains after that which his intellect can not reach. A great poet, on the other hand, will make great poems out of things that others pass by heedlessly. The beauty of the poem is not in the theme but in the poet's power to present it. This truth can be convincingly illustrated by reading and comparing good and bad poems on the same subject. Let us read and compare three poems on the same theme, the mature woman who has known the sorrows and joys of life and found her serene fulfillment. Probably the three men who wrote these poems had felt the same feeling. Probably they had the same ideal in mind. They differ from one another in their skill as poets. The first stanzas quoted are dull and prosy, directly stated abstractions. We are willing to believe that the worthy woman Roscoe Gilmore Stott describes has lived a worthy life and merits praise. But we do not care. We are not interested. THE STRONG WOMAN Somehow her very delicacy was strength, With which she met the tempest-tide of life; Somehow her gentle tenderness was pow'r, Somehow her unfeigned purity was rule, With which she wrought in meek yet regal mien;— Unknown, uncrowned, unseen! Hundreds of verses like this are written daily. It does no harm provided no one is led to suppose that they are poetry. This particular set of verses is not even clearly thought and phrased. We notice that the lady changes incredibly from line to line. In the first stanza she is a "frail craft," in the second a "frail toiler" and a "sturdy workman," in the third a "frail monarch" and her "Maker's tool." Imagine a tool that is 'unknown, uncrowned, unseen." Note the silly spelling of "power," the redundancy of "gentle tenderness," the tiresome triteness of the use of the symbol chosen for life, the tempest, and the triteness of the rhymes. This all indicates inability. Mr. Stott has not made a poem. But that is not the fault of the theme chosen. Scudder Middleton has made a poem out of the same theme. It is written quietly and sincerely, in good English, with no absurdities and incongruities. It gives us a glimpse of a real personality and a sense of pleasure in the woman described. It is called "A Woman." A WOMAN She had an understanding with the years; As though she kept a secret none might guess— Some confidence that Time had made her heart. So calmly did she bear the weight of pain, With such serenity accept the joy, It seemed she had a mother love for life, And all the days were children at her breast. But even better than this poem is Joseph Campbell's lyric, "The Old Woman." In it not a word embarrasses the meaning. Every line fits into a perfect picture which the poet has freshly seen and felt and presented. The symbolism is strong and true. The melody lives. THE OLD WOMAN As a white candle In a holy place, As the spent radiance With her travail done, Her brood gone from her, And her thoughts as still Under a ruined mill. In these three poems, I think, we can all see clearly that it is the poet who gives value to the poem. And the natural corollary of this idea is the belief that there is no such thing as a "poetic subject." We are sometimes told, even yet, that stars and flowers are poetic, that kings and gods are poetic, but that men's labors and creations and the plain things of the earth are not poetic. A few dogmatic persons still tell us that poets should write about the past and about the traditions of the past, that they should never write about the crude and unassimilated present. Such persons bristle with other "shoulds" and "should nots." But poets are not likely to be greatly influenced by their opinions. For good poets of to-day, like good poets of all time, begin their work of creation wherever they touch life most closely. They build no partition between themselves and every day. And although this fact is sometimes responsible for much that is bizarre and awkward, sordid and trivial, in the lesser work of the minor poets, it is responsible, also, for the soundness and vigor, the fearless truth, keen irony, and brilliant beauty of our best poetry. In our times the poet's choice of themes has been much influenced by the growth of the spirit of democracy in the world. A real poet is not a dilettante, an onlooker, but a full-fledged human being. He shares the spiritual life of his times. If we remember the Iliad, we remember that only one poor man was personally and individually mentioned in it, the wretch, Thersites, who was not favored of gods or men because he was neither beautiful nor good as were the heroes of Greek story. This, undoubtedly, was because the Homeric poets lived in a |