_Virginia York in “The Richmond Evening Journal”_:
As we said a couple of months ago, THE LITTLE REVIEW, published in windy
Chicago, is claimed by its editors and readers to be the very, very last
word in prose and poetry. Also, it is the organ, the mouth organ,
perhaps, of that unsustained tune known as “vers libre.” In a criticism
of some of the Review’s lurid, foolish contents we poked a good deal of
fun at the publication in general and one piece of loose, or free, verse
in particular. This gem, entitled, “Cafe Sketches,” by Arthur Davison
Ficke, said, in part:
Presently persons will come out
And shake legs.
I do not want legs shaken.
I want immortal souls shaken unreasonably.
I want to see dawn spilled across the blackness
Like a scrambled egg on a skillet;
I want miracles, wonders.
Tidings out of deeps I do not know, ...
But I have a horrible suspicion
That neither you
Nor your esteemed consort
Nor I myself
Can ever provide these simple things
For which I am so patiently waiting
Base people.
How I dislike you!
As we said a couple of months ago, “Maybe you think this is funny, but
certainly it is not intended to be. Seriousness, thick, black, dense
seriousness is the keynote of THE LITTLE REVIEW.” However, the current
issue of said magazine carries our editorial remarks in full, and with
our hand on our heart we make a deep courtesy for the honor conferred
upon us. Though we distinctly deplore the fact that absolutely no
comment is made upon our criticism of THE LITTLE REVIEW and Mr. Ficke’s
remarkable “pome.” It is as if we were taken by the editorial legs and
shaken. And we do not want legs shaken. We are a lady. We would far
rather have our immortal editorial soul shaken unreasonably and spilled
across the literary blackness and blankness “like a scrambled egg on the
skillet.” Yet, we have a horrible idea “that neither you,” nor our
esteemed contemporary, “nor I myself,” know what it is all about; but we
do wish that Margaret Anderson and the other editors of “Le Revue
Petite” had made a few caustic remarks on our feeble attempts to be
funny. “Base people! How I dislike you!”
But to show that we can be generous and heap coals of fire upon the
heads of our enemies, we propose to reproduce two short, sweet poems
from this month’s (beg pardon, the January-February issue, lately out,
“on account of having no funds during January,” as the Review editors
admit) issue of THE LITTLE REVIEW. The first selection on our program,
ladies and gentlemen, is by Harriet Dean and is called “The Pillar,”
though much more effectively it might have been headed “The Pillow” or
“The Hitching-Post.” Here goes:
When your house grows too close for you,
When the ceilings lower themselves, crushing you,
There on the porch I shall wait,
Outside your house.
You shall lean against my straightness,
And let night surge over you.
Now if it were only a nice slim lamp-post of a man giving such an
invitation we should pray that the ceilings would descend, and should
hasten to the porch—strangely enough on the outside of the house—and we
should love to lean, and lean, and lean, surge what may.
The second, an “Asperity,” by Mitchell Dawson, is labeled “Teresa,” and
madly singeth as follows:
“Do you remember Antonio—
Swift-winged, green in the sun?
Into the snap-dragon throat of desire
Flew Antonio.
Snap!...
The skeleton of Antonio has made
A good husband, a good provider.”
La, la, la! At first we thought “Antonio” was a green dragon fly, but,
finally, by exercising a bit of common sense, we know that Tony is a
locust and left his “skeleton,” or “shell,” behind; and that Mrs. Tony
must have subsisted on the “leavings.”
Oh, this nut sundae, chocolate fudge, marshmallow whip vers libre
poetry! Isn’t it just too lovely? Snap! “Into the snap-dragon throat of
desire, Flew Antonio.” Honestly now, Tony, don’t you wish the lady had
kept her mouth shut?
We should like to comment upon these remarks, but surely they are too
good to spoil.
_A Boy, Chicago_:
I am a boy sixteen years old, and one could not expect me to know much
about poetry—especially free verse. But I have heard of your magazine as
a magazine that was ready to print what all kinds of people thought. So
I have written a little verse—it is not a poem—telling you something
about what is going on inside my mind, for these matters trouble every
boy’s mind, although you may think that we are light-minded at my age.