  Our New PoetCharles Ashleigh, who makes his appearance in this issue, was born in London twenty-five years ago. He was educated in England, Switzerland, and Germany, and speaks French, German, and Spanish, “as well as two or three varieties of English and American slang.” He has wandered in Europe, South America and this country, traveling on foot through Argentine, Chile, and Peru, and in the States as a hobo. He has been sailor, newspaper man, tramp, actor, farm hand, railroad clerk, interpreter, and a few other things. He has written verse, short stories, social studies, literary criticism, and lectured on his travels as well as on sociological, literary, and dramatic subjects. Quite unlike those poets who insist that they have no opinions on any subject—that they simply photograph life—Mr. Ashleigh states his creed in this way: “I am interested in Labor, literature, and many other aspects and angles of Life. Men and deeds are to me of primary importance and books secondary.” We look for big things from this young man. Two Important BooksMary Austin has written a study of marriage which she calls Love and the Soul Maker. It appears to be about as big a thing on the subject as any American woman has done. Will Lexington Comfort has written an autobiographical novel which he calls Midstream. It tells the truth about a man’s life, and is also a big thing. Both will be reviewed in the August issue. The CongoNicholas Vachel Lindsay’s new poem, The Congo, is to appear in The Metropolitan for August. Mr. Lindsay’s opinion is that the best effect will be got by reading it aloud. The Basis for a New PaintingTruly these Imagists are enchanting! The following examples are selected from the anthology published by The Glebe: Fan-Piece for Her Imperial LordO fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade, You also are laid aside. Ezra Pound. In A GardenGushing from the mouths of stone men To spread at ease under the sky In granite-lipped basins, Where iris dabble their feet And rustle to a passing wind, The water fills the garden with its rushing, In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns. Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone, Where trickle and splash the fountains, Marble fountains, yellowed with much water. Splashing down moss-tarnished steps It falls, the water; And the air is throbbing with it; With its gurgling and running; With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur. And I wished for night and you. I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool, White and shining in the silver-flecked water. While the moon rode over the garden High in the arch of night, And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness. Night and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing! Amy Lowell. Au Vieux JardinI have sat here happy in the gardens, Watching the still pool and the reeds And the dark clouds Which the wind of the upper air Tore like the green leafy bough Of the divers-hued trees of late summer; But though I greatly delight In these and the water lilies, That which sets me nighest to weeping Is the rose and white colour of the smooth flag-stones, And the pale yellow grasses Among them. Richard Aldington. Ts’ai Chi’hThe petals fall in the fountain, the orange coloured rose-leaves, Their ochre clings to the stone. Ezra Pound. Liu Ch’eThe rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is no sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them. A wet leaf that clings to the threshold. Ezra Pound. |
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