accompanied by subscriptions, were arriving from all parts of the
country; and floods of contributions, many of them from persons I had
never heard of before, began to be addressed to “Editor, _Wings_.” Not
that the great majority were of much value; but how eagerly I pored
through the piles, hoping to unearth the rare divine contribution! I
will not say that my search brought to light any latter-day Milton,
or any new _Ode on a Grecian Urn_ or _Ode to the West Wind_; but many
gratifying contributions were contained in those growing heaps of long
envelopes, including poems that, I still believe, are of enduring
value, though often the author was unknown and in some cases remains
unknown.
I shall never forget, for example, the glow of discovery when Mary
Cecile Ions, writing from Coral Gables, Florida, submitted to a _Wings_
contest her twelve-stanza poem, _Letter to the Dead in Spring_,
beginning:
Do not be fretful of your old repose
Though April sunlight warm your hearts’ dust through
And fragrance of the everlasting rose
Assail the grave and penetrate to you.
Who was Mary Cecile Ions? I do not know, except that she had graduated
from the University of Alabama with Phi Beta Kappa honors, and
subsequently taught English and French. But I cannot say what else
she has accomplished, and in fact have seen little of her work.
Nevertheless, the poem, which the judges agreed in putting first of
all the submissions, has clung to my memory. I was gratified when the
well-known British anthologist Thomas Moult confirmed our good opinion
by reprinting it in _The Best Poems of 1935_; and ten years later, I
had no hesitation in giving it a place in my own anthology, _The Music
Makers_.
Or take the case of Otto Freund. Although he had contributed to various
magazines, I had known nothing of him or his work until he began
sending me, from Portland, Oregon, a series of poems of unusual depth
and accomplishment. Rarely, for example, does one come across four
lines with the finality of _Requiescat_, written in memory of John
Barrymore:
Unanswered encores, rue, and requiems sung,
Forgetful dust, the turning of a page,
But still the voice of Hamlet rings among
The silent galleries and an empty stage.
Whole elegies are contained in the above; and whole volumes of grief
are compressed in _Heart Wound_:
The wound is healed, but still the pain is there,
And stabs with anguish, like a sudden sword,
When sunlight feigns the spun gold of her hair,
Or music finds her lost voice in a chord.
With sorrow I report that Otto Freund has silently dropped out of
the fold. One day, many years ago, he wrote me that he was leaving
for the east; he did not mention any reason, nor give any forwarding
address--and that is the last I have heard of him or his work, though I
have never ceased to regret his disappearance.
Or consider Francis Vaughan Meisling. All that I know of him is that he
was a journalist and foreign correspondent, who sent me a single poem
from Los Angeles. And yet this poem, _I Dreamt She Came_, has a real
lyrical quality--the sort that makes an editor feel that his labors
have not been wholly in vain:
I dreamt she came as fire and as rose,
Fragrance and light, and leaning o’er my head
Whispered those burning words none other knows
And took between her hands my peaceless head;
And kissed. There was a movement in the air
As if the blossoms of the year had blown
Their petals and their odors round us there,
As I awoke, as I awoke alone.
Next my mind goes back to Celia Keegan, a Long Island girl whose work,
as in the case of Miss Ions, I first noticed among the submissions
in a contest, though I afterwards met her at a gathering of _Wings_
contributors in my apartment in New York. She sent _Wings_ some of the
most poignant poems of love I can remember; I cannot forbear quoting
the whole of _Renunciation_:
How more than blind the hooded fates to weave
So sere a skein; to wing two hearts with fire
Of ecstasy and melody ... then leave
To human wills the quenching of desire!
I did not hide love from your loving eyes,
Nor do I whisper nobly, “I will go,”
Then teach my lips such trite and songless lies
As, “Happiness will come through doing so.”
This way I give you up: Against the blades
Rebellion lifts in myriad array,
I raise a sword whose clean strength surges ... fades ...
And wins again ... till I have cut my way
Past you, and love, and toward Tomorrow’s mark
Go stumbling, stricken, blinded, through the dark.
Miss Keegan, like Mr. Freund, vanished suddenly from my ken, and
likewise from that of some mutual friends, who heard their last from
her about twenty years ago. Whither has she gone? To join the songbirds
of last spring?
Then there was the case of Florence Wilson Roper, formerly of
Petersburg, Virginia, but now deceased, whose poems had first attracted
me in the pages of the Dallas verse magazine, _Kaleidograph_, and who
won one of the annual book-publishing awards of that periodical. She
too contributed many moving poems of love, and many reflective pieces,
as in the sequence of five sonnets, _Retrospect_, with some exquisite
lines, such as
Remembering! It has a pleasant sound
Like water falling softly over stone--
A phantom hand that holds with fleshless bone
The present, past and future firmly bound!
But I have set out to write a narrative, and not to compile an
anthology, and cannot go on to quote other excerpts. In any case, the
occasional discovery of such material, more than anything else, made me
feel that _Wings_ was indeed serving a purpose, and might be accounted
a modest success.
Meanwhile, with the feeling of an inexperienced rider clutching at
a balky steed, I was attempting to manage the new enterprise. The
second and third issues were put forth in California, by a printer
recommended by Arthur Chamberlain; but the following issues, during my
remaining five years in New York and even for a time afterwards, all
proceeded from the metropolis. But in New York, aside from Mr. Post’s
connections, I knew no printer. I tried one who, due to an error,
trimmed the magazine down so far as to give it a truncated appearance;
I tried another, who inked the pages so badly that they were painful
to read; and then one day, not knowing where to turn, I walked into
the office of a small establishment in Washington Heights, the Artype
Press, and made arrangements with its proprietor, Paul Grossman. Though
picked merely by chance, he proved to be conscientious and capable, and
did a good job so long as geographical considerations made it possible
to leave the printing in his hands.
I need hardly add that our agreement provided for a price which, in
these more expensive days, would hardly suffice for printing more than
a few pages of _Wings_. Had present-day rates prevailed, I would have
been blocked by unscalable walls, even before I started. And this
makes me wonder as to the fate today of editors in approximately my
former position. I should like to know just how the development of art,
literature, and culture in general may be affected by our “higher”
standards of living and the accompanying higher standards of inflation.
But let me go back to my problems as an editor. They were to be many,
and seasoned with curious vicissitudes. Not a few of them, as I suppose
is true for most editors, were to proceed from the daily mailbag, which
was in a sense a grab-bag, since I never knew what I would pull out
of it. In the course of the years, there were to be many sweet and
beautiful letters, which I would value as among the chief compensations
of an editor’s task; but there were also to be letters of various other
types.
I will never forget, for example, the lady who mailed me a sentimental
lyric on _The Old Plush Sofa_, and accompanied the manuscript with
a strip of purple velvet. “I thought you might appreciate the poem
better,” she obligingly wrote, “if you had a piece of the sofa before
you.”
Again, there was the correspondent who, having sent me a page-long list
of all the places where his work had appeared, from the Newtown High
School _Quarterback_ to the Green Plains _Meteor_, followed it two
days later with an air-mail apology: one of his poems had not actually
seen the light in the _New Age Hardwareman_, as he had absent-mindedly
declared; it had blossomed forth in the _New Era Hardwareman_.
Another case, which also earned an editorial smile, was that of the
verse-writer who wrote in from a small Canadian town. He hoped I would
publish his poems, but if so, would I not kindly pick a _nom de plume_?
The reason, he explained, was that he could not let it be known that he
wrote poetry: he was one of his city’s policemen.
Then occasionally a would-be contributor has sent a letter of several
single-spaced typewritten pages, or, worse still, in largely illegible
handwriting, devoted to personal reminiscences interlarded with
questions. As well as I could, I have usually answered the questions,
if they pertained to poetry; but time and eye-power are limited--and
more than once an oversight has brought me another letter, of almost
equal length, in which I am properly reproved: “Dear Editor: You have
not answered the question in the third paragraph of the fourth page of
my last note....”
The editor of a poetry magazine, I soon discovered, is regarded as the
chief clerk of a public bureau of consultation and criticism, whose
duty is not only to answer questions, but to give advice, and comment
on manuscripts--all, of course, absolutely without compensation (not
even in gratitude, since frank criticism is likely to win one nothing
but an enraged correspondent). To an extent, the editor is willing,
even glad to accept the mantle laid upon his shoulders--but there are,
unfortunately, limits to his endurance. Those limits are reached, for
example, when he receives a bulky manuscript, accompanied by a note:
“Dear Sir: I am sending you herewith _Ruminations_, an epic of 4,700
lines, some considerable parts of which I hope you will publish in your
next issue. If not, will appreciate detailed criticism.”
Again, one’s patience is severely tested by a letter such as this:
Dear Mr. Editor: I am a subscriber and well-wisher. I have sent you
poems several times, but do not hold it against you that you have
returned them. Of course, poetry is only a sideline with me; my
business is fire and casualty insurance. I have just written a book
of 179 pages on my experiences in this line, and am mailing it to
you under separate cover. Would appreciate your going over it, and
correcting all the mistakes in grammar and style.
Ah, if these people would only realize that the editor is not only
engaged in running a magazine, but incidentally is trying to earn a
living!
Beyond all the above, there is the aspiring contributor who goes out of
his way to find ingenious means of attracting attention. An occasional
method is to send a poem (one such, received not long ago, was exactly
two lines long) in a huge envelope by special delivery; this usually
arrives just when the editor is in the middle of dinner, and does
succeed in drawing attention to itself--though not always the attention
that results in an acceptance. Again, there is the versifier who mails
a poem on each successive day for two or three weeks. One does, indeed,
note the fact that he exists, and even gets used to him in a way; one
rather misses him when at length the daily submissions cease. But alas
for the assiduous poet! he gets just the same attention as everybody
else, and if he stands out in any way, it is as just a sort of amiable
pest.
More common are the decorative means of attracting attention. One poet,
invariably a lady, will adorn her manuscript with graceful water colors
in pastel tints--all very pleasant to look at, but, unfortunately, not
in the least improving the quite hopeless verses. Another rhymester
will submit poems in lavender or purple ink on goldenrod-yellow paper;
still another will send poems typed in a glaring red, or typed all in
capitals, or oddly letter-spaced--all of which do, indeed, give the
poems a unique appearance, though the authors seem not to realize that
their chances of acceptance are not improved by anything that makes the
work harder to read.
But these are minor matters, which I can pass over with a smile. There
is, however, one type of letter that causes me to glare. It arrives
periodically, and is usually worded about as follows:
Dear Editor: Enclosed find three poems, entitled _Spring Flowers_,
_April Sunshine_, and _First Love_. Immediately upon acceptance of
any of them, my subscription will follow....
I need only say that the poems _Spring Flowers_, _April Sunshine_,
and _First Love_ do not long clutter up the editorial office. Though
I may be fiendishly eager for subscriptions, I am not quite so hungry
for them as the correspondent evidently supposes. No, though I may be
corrupt as old Boss Tweed himself, I am not to be tempted by bribes
of one dollar. The author, by his supposed shrewdness, has insured
an action I would not otherwise willingly take. Since I could not
accept the poems without the imputation of having done so for ulterior
motives, I have no choice but to return them without even a reading,
and usually with a printed rejection slip.
In one of the several variations of the above letter, the author
notifies me that he has just put out a book, and is sending it for
review; immediately upon the appearance of the article, he will join
the subscription list. He might be surprised to know that, after this
letter, his chances for a review would be as great if the book were
printed in Chinese.
Then there is the versifier--comparatively rare, it is true--who seems
to imagine that a subscription dollar automatically provides a ticket
of admission to the pages of the magazine. She (for I cannot recall any
men who committed this particular indiscretion) begins with a fulsome
letter of praise, telling how much the quarterly means to her, and how
she would not be without it--no, not for the world. Accompanying the
letter, is a dollar bill, and five or six poems. The dollar bill is
accepted by the subscription department; the poems, being unworthy of
acceptance, go back to the author, along with a polite note of thanks
and regret. And thus the tempest is unleashed. By return mail, another
letter arrives--one which, somehow, has lost the admiring tone of the
earlier epistle:
Sir: What do you mean by sending my poems back? In your last issue,
you published some poems that were not half as good as mine. Besides,
better magazines than yours are glad to get my work So from now on I
want nothing whatever to do with you. Return my dollar at once, and
cancel my subscription.
Since it is worth more than the price to have the writer off the list,
I do indeed return the dollar and cancel the subscription.
A less infrequent type of correspondent is the one who waits till
the year’s end before making his feelings known. Then he vents his
stored-up disappointment:
Dear Editor: I have just received a renewal notice. I am not
renewing, and this is why. During the past year, I sent you six
batches of manuscripts. They have all come back. That being the case,
I am saving my subscription dollars for magazines that will print my
work.
There is, of course, nothing for the editor to say in reply. But
he cannot help asking himself why writers seem invariably to blame
editors for the lacks in their own work; and he is inclined to wonder
how many readers would be claimed by magazines such as _Harpers_, the
_Atlantic_, and the _Saturday Review_ if they were expected to rely
upon the subscriptions of contributors.
The sad fact is that there actually are some poetry magazines that
publish only subscribers’ poems; I know of one that, some years
ago, promised to print one poem a year by every subscriber. Such
magazines, which cannot possibly maintain any standards whatever, have
apparently given certain verse-writers the idea that they should be
taken as models. And the results have not always been happy for other
periodicals, as will be seen not only from the examples given above,
but from a letter which reached me just today from a writer who, though
never published in _Wings_, began by lauding the magazine, and went on
to say:
When I get ahead of several subscriptions obliged by recent
acceptances, I will certainly add _Wings_ to my wanted ones.
The thing I particularly note here is the word “obliged.” I can safely
attest that no writer, whatever his complaints, has ever been able
justly to use that word in connection with _Wings_.
Along with the pricks and prods of those who would like to see the
editorial and subscription departments merged, there have been the
problems of submitted manuscripts in general. One of the first duties
of an editor, of course, is to say “No!”; after all, it is difficult
to find room for all the available good material. But “No!” is at all
times a painful syllable to utter; the editor knows what warmth, hope,
and even devotion have gone into many of the poems, and what a chilling
blow a rejection can be. And if this is normally true, there are times
when “No!” literally sticks on the lips. One of those times is when
manuscripts are submitted or a book is sent in for review by an old
acquaintance or friend, a writer whom one especially likes, or to whom
one feels a personal obligation. Nevertheless, “No!” must be said just
as firmly in these cases as in others--though the after-effects are
sometimes disheartening. Thus, I remember that some poems were once
submitted by another editor, toward whom I felt warmly disposed, and
who had, some years before, accepted some of my own work for a college
publication. But his own verses were not good--and so what could I do
but return them with a friendly note, meant to be disarming? I had
thought that an ex-editor, even though an editor only in a small way,
would understand, but perhaps he was moved by higher principles, beyond
my comprehension. In any event, I know that when, sometime later, I
had occasion to speak to him over the telephone, he suffered a sudden
attack of amnesia in regard to my name.
Another time when it hurts one to say “No!” is when an expectant
contributor has been submitting again and again, trying very, very hard
to produce acceptable material. “Why, _why_ do you not keep any of
my work?” he may ask, plaintively. But can the editor help it if the
writer has not mastered the problems of his craft? True, the editor
can and does give hints and suggestions--at least, when the work seems
promising. But there are many, very many cases in which hints or
suggestions would be of no avail.
This brings me to the problem of criticism in general. Many
contributors ask for it, and seem to look for it almost as a matter of
course, as in the case of a letter (sent in with insufficient postage)
in my current mail: “Enclosed please find copies of some poems. I do
not necessarily expect that you would consider publishing any of them,
but would appreciate criticism.” Unfortunately, if the editor heeded
all the requests, he would not have time to eat or sleep. Even in
the few cases in which he does attempt criticism, he proceeds at his
peril--that is, when he deals with inexperienced writers (the “arrived”
or professional author is invariably receptive to criticism). More than
one beginner, having asked me for comments, has flared into fury upon
receiving them, and has written in indignantly to put me in my place,
assuring me, in effect, that I could not distinguish a poem from a
potato. No wonder that editors become wary about criticizing!
Then there was the woman whose poem would have been acceptable except
for one grossly inept word, for which it was easy to suggest a suitable
substitute. Hence I wrote her, commending the poem, and returning it to
her with the promise to accept it if it were changed as recommended.
Back came the poem in an early mail, along with the author’s outraged
assertion that her poems were put down just as God dictated them, and
that to change a syllable would be sacrilegious. Of course, it is
impossible to argue with God. And so the poem made its second return
trip to the divinely inspired author. So far as I know, it has still
not been shared with the reading public.
I shall never forget, likewise, the young man who, in the early days
of _Wings_, made an impromptu and uninvited visit to my apartment,
accompanied by a sheaf of poems, which he asked me to glance over.
Being still greener than a cucumber, I took him at his word, and
literally did glance over the material; a glance, in most cases, was
all that was needed, since it is no more necessary to read all of a
bad poem in order to know it is bad than it is necessary to swallow
all of a bad apple in order to be sure it is not honey-sweet. But
perhaps my speed of reading displeased the young author, or perhaps
something in my expression was to blame (for I have never learned the
art of the poker-face, a desirable acquisition for editors). Whatever
the cause, he sprang to his feet, his cheeks flaming red; snatched the
manuscript from my hand; and stormed toward the door. “If that’s how
you read manuscripts, Mr. Coblentz--” was all he could sputter. Then,
inarticulate with rage, he went stamping out, and slammed the door
behind him. Since that day, I have made it a rule never, never to read
a manuscript in the author’s presence.
And while on the subject of criticism, let me tell about Mr. Cooley.
Who he was, I cannot say; I have never seen him, and do not even know
if I spell his name correctly; all that I can say is that, during the
fledgling days of _Wings_, he introduced himself to me by telephone as
a native of the Bronx, and proceeded to read one of his poems, on which
he solicited my comments. No one but a newcomer at editing, I am sure,
would have given the comments: nowadays I would ask the writer to send
the manuscript through the mails. However, I did yield to Mr. Cooley’s
request, and thenceforth, unhappily, whenever he committed a poem, he
would hastily telephone me. As his favorite time of composition was
late at night, the telephone usually rang just as I was in the process
of retiring; more than once, having no clairvoyant perception of who
was at the other end of the line, I rushed out of bed, and hastily
donned my dressing gown. But I was less elated than Cooley may have
supposed when I heard his hearty voice, “I’ve just written another, and
will read it to you!” Poor Cooley! I had then, as ever since, a great
amount of sympathy for the creative fervor. But there were times when,
yawning and hardly able to keep awake while he read some interminable
bit of blank verse, I devoutly wished that the telephone had never been
invented.
Another problem, affecting _Wings_ in its early days, was connected
with another magazine, an aviation monthly which went by the same
name. Whether it antedated my publication I do not know, but I have
an impression that it had existed before, had been discontinued, and
had been revived after the establishment of my own magazine. Though
neither periodical ever questioned the other’s right to use the name,
both were put to much inconvenience--I know this from the sets of poems
occasionally forwarded to me from the other _Wings_ (which did not
publish poetry), and from the long stories on flying experiences that
sometimes added to my own mail, along with articles on subjects such
as _The Problem of Air-Cooled Engines_ and _Projected Explorations of
the Upper Stratosphere_. Many years later, after the rival _Wings_ had
ceased to be, I still received an occasional letter inquiring in which
issue we had published a discussion of _High Octane Gasoline and Cargo
Planes_ or _Air Flight Records in the Southern Hemisphere_.
As if such problems did not add sufficiently to life’s spice and
variety, there was the recurrent dilemma of the racketeer. You would
suppose that, in a field like poetry, where idealism is supposed to
rule and the prospects for financial profit are slight, the racketeer
would be as unknown as the hired assassin. But such, I discovered, was
far from the case. In a page of short comments and news items entitled
_Wing Beats_, I like to give publicity to new enterprises of possible
advantage to poets; but it was always difficult to be sure whether or
not a given project would actually be beneficial. And in the callow
early years of the magazine, I had several unfortunate experiences.