The journalist-poet seems to be a hybrid born of the present day when
rapidity and feverish haste are the necessary conditions to success.
There is hardly a newspaper of the first class in the land that does
not include a jingler in its staff.
A journalist is one thing, and a poet should be another. A combination
of the two--or rather a man who tries to do the work of both--is very
nearly a union of opposites.
A journalist is a recorder of transient impressions; he seizes
whatever is worthy of note from the swiftly-moving stream of current
events, and stamping his data with the seal of his own originality--if
he possesses any--he flings his paper damp from the press at the heads
of the public and is off pursuing fresh quarry. He is a machine--but
of admirable efficiency--that threshes the chaff from the million
happenings of the day, and delivers the wheat to those who would
flounder helplessly among the piled sheaves if left to themselves.
The poet should be of different mold. He should not be vexed with the
task of winnowing, but, with the golden grains laid before him by his
more active brother of the winged feet, he should be allowed to sit
apart and view life in its entirety with calmer, larger, and
unobstructed vision. A poet-journalist may rise to be a journalist of
renown, but he will never be a great poet. The muse is too shy to
appear daily at the bidding of an ink-grimed copy boy. In glancing
over the daily papers, we occasionally find a verse of merit, that,
though evidently scribbled during the daily grind that must come,
whether inspiration impels or not, yet has some touch of the true
fire. Indeed, many gems that will long be remembered have thus been
dashed off in a few minutes, but these are exceptions.
Some paper mentioned recently that Frank Stanton wrote his exposition
ode at his desk amid the confusion of a newspaper office in two hours,
fanning himself with one hand and writing with the other. The ode was
said to have been a good one, and much commendation was bestowed upon
the writer. Now, this is unjust to Mr. Stanton's fame, for he can
write poetry, and the people will persist in praising those daily
jingles of his in the Atlanta Constitution. No one seems to suggest
that he could have written a much better ode by taking a day or two
over it, and not overheating himself and having to waste so much vital
energy in fanning.
* * * * *
The idea intended to be advanced is that it is more than likely that
newspaper versifiers as a rule do not claim to be poets, and would
rather be known as journalists who sometimes drop into rhyming skits
as a relaxation and for diversity.
The great public, though, must dub anything poetry that rhymes, and
often spoil a good journalist's reputation by insisting on his being
passed on to posterity as a poor poet.
A good paragraph on a timely subject often gains a spiciness by being
turned in rhyme--especially in the form of parody--but our newspaper
poets have not yet learned the fact that an article uninteresting in
the form of prose will not gain in merit when written even in the most
faultlessly metred verse. Somebody has described poetry as lines of
equal length, with rhymes at the end and sense in the middle. The
daily column which so many newspaper versifiers now turn out is a
mistake, if it is poetic fame they are seeking. The "demnition grind"
as the wheel turns will soon exhaust all the water in the Pierian
spring, as the grist itself bears witness.
This is said in reference to those who are really ambitious of winning
poetic laurels. Those who attach nothing more than ephemeral
importance to their topical skits need no criticism, for they will
incur no disappointment.
Some of the more serious newspaper rhymesters evidently are making
attempts more ambitious than the time occupied in their preparation
warrants, and the hasty work and lack of finish and pruning plainly
visible in their efforts are to be deplored.
If the truth were known, inspiration has played a small part in the
production of the most famous poems of the world.
It is the patient toil, the unremitting and laborious cutting away of
inferior parts; the accurate balance and the careful polish that
develops the diamond from the rough stone to the perfect gem.
One poem a month from some of our prolific writers might claim our
admiration for thirty days, at least, but three in a day have a
tendency to force us to save up a portion of our appreciation for the
three more we will have dished up to us in the morning.
Our Southern poets especially are guilty of over-production. Those
among them most generally accepted as representative voices among our
writers of verse are occupying positions in which they are doing
better work in other than poetic lines. A few of them have talent that
would bring them fame if allowed space, time and scope for full
development and use.
Mr. Will T. Hale, whose poems appear in the _Memphis
Commercial-Appeal_, shows a clear and praiseworthy conception of the
situation when he says:
"I dare say that Tennessee poets, including among the
many, Walter Malone, Howard McGee, R. M. Fields, Leland
Rankin, Mrs. Hilliard, Mrs. Boyle, Mrs. Gilchrist, Mrs.
Barrow and Mr. Lamb, have written jingles which they never
called poetry, never expected to be taken as anything more
than ephemeral things to be glanced at and forgotten;
written in rhyme because as easily written as a prose
paragraph. I, an humble versifier, a toiler in
newspaperdom, like my confreres throughout the State,
arrogating nothing to myself, but pleased if my writings
are copied and complimented beyond their deserts--I have
done so. I shall continue to do so. Why should it be
insisted that I want to cram it down one's throat as
poetry? Let me jinglify if I want to."
Mr. Hale realizes the transient nature of such verse as the journalist
must needs write to fill space, although he has written in this way
some gems that study could scarcely improve upon.
* * * * *
It is doubtful if Mr. Frank Stanton, who has struck some high and
abiding chords upon his lyre, could be, or would care to be,
remembered by the jingles he turns out daily for his newspaper. Yet,
if the popular impression is correct, Mr. Stanton aspires to poetic
proficiency and fame.
One poem on which he would spend days of labor would do much more
toward gaining him reputation than the wonderful number of rhymes that
he turns out within that space of time.
A short time ago he dashed off two or three verses on a Midway dancer,
called something like "Papinta," that had a rhythm and a lilt and
swinging grace to it that were fascinating and truly admirable. The
poem was delicate, airy and sprite-like, and one could almost see the
form of the dancer and hear the castanets and guitars while reading
the musical lines.
But the amount of verse he writes daily will not permit of such a high
average, and the moral of it all is that, while he is succeeding as a
journalist and an interesting writer upon the day's topics, his future
as a poet is not being benefited by his overproduction of poetry at
present.
* * * * *
The late Eugene Field might in time have become a poet of considerable
ability, but there is little question that his newspaper labors were
too onerous to allow of a thorough development of his poetic powers.
The verses he wrote have always been popular because they were simple
and musical, and addressed themselves to an almost universal sympathy
for children, and his poems, charming and lovable as they were,
stopped short of being great. It was the subject and the sentiment,
rather than the literary proficiency of his poetical work, that made
him so widely known. A poem to be great and long-remembered must be
erected in the same way that a house is built. The foundation, the
superstructure, the architectural proportions, the ornament and finish
must be the result of care and labor, or else it abideth not.
Judge Albion W. Tourgee, whose opinions on matters literary deserve
respect, however it be concerning his political proclivities, advises
poetic as well as other literary aspirants to always work in a room
with an open fire--not for the sake of the fire, but in order that he
may burn five sheets for every one he sends to the printer. W. S.
Porter.
(_Houston Daily Post_, Sunday morning, November 24, 1895.)