Bismarck weekly tribune., 1899-09-01
SOME MAGAZINE POETRY.

True poetry is song-the untram-
meled and unstudied outpouring of
genius. that flows free and musical
as the ripple of brook between banks
OF moss, purling over it's bed of stones
with tinklng murmur like the soft
notes of Il distant harp. Magazine
poetry is artiticial-the poetry Of pom
derous profundity and Of unutterablc
thought in which the mind Of the
singer wrestles with Il conception too
distant. deep and dense for isolation
and Identification. And the result of
this literary wrestling match is
stanZa that paralyZes the intellect and
myStificS the comprehension.
When the magazine singer gets his
muse into corner and chokes her un-
til she gives vent to an unintelligible
ana lncoherent sequence Of gasps and
surgles. we may expect to find some-
thing like this:
Oh, ponderorS, portentous Infinituic!
Out! Out beyond tn ethereal vale what lies?
swell within mo what sOul-enhungered
signs?
Beating their vast wings in tho solitude?
| am frank enough to confess that
l don't know what that means, and it
is only reasonable to suppose that no
one else does. 1t may mean some-
thing. but life is too short to try to find
out what it is. But it's good maga-
zine poetry. 1t has all the mystery
and elusiveness Of the real article and
it is profound. But as Il singer
would sooner write song that would
bring tear to the eye of one person
that a sonnet that brought nothing
bllt mystery to the multitude.
Let lis take a lighter subject. by
way OF illustration. The magazine
singer has a sonnet to inscribe to
mosquito. Here it is:
Thing !Spec!e or ofthe gloom-cnshroulcd night
"hHigl',aE; higl,tE through tho cnvelopins dark thy
Rest me; Rest me! away and let me keep
MY Vlgi! lone! l would asleep! Asleep!
Aslcep!!Y
There's Il magazine mosquito for
YOU. 1t might be tom cat on the
back fence or Il man with hobnailed
shoes rushing a can of beer, but it
isn't. It's mosquito-a ponderous.
profound. mystical mosquito full Of
parentheses. exclamation points. and
dOuble-jOinted adiectives-and it re-
sembles mosquito about as closely
as a stuffed duck does a twelve course
dinner.
But that isn't what 1 started out to
say. want to make a little COM
parlson between simple set of verses.
touching in an Ineligible way the
mysteries Of life, and the same idea
clothed in an approved magazine
garment. Here's the simplicity:
Seek not to fat HON Fatcs Decree
Whateverl has been was to be.
~ .sNF' 'Ts,,,n <loA,
The heavy hand she seeks to lay,
Not al! the tears of all tho years,
Could blot one page from yesterday.
Seek not to see beyond the cloud,
Il; To fath9m depths beneath the sliroud,
Thy little knowledge scars in vain
To beat its wings in dust again.
II is thy doom to dwell in gloom
Till Death shall see thee rest or reign.
Thou canst alone hope some wise plan
Pervades the destiny of man.
That purposes divine are blent
With what seems CHANGE accident.
That out afar. the falling star
Sees purpose to its mission bent
Thou art Il prisoner here, alone,
And helpless as the sod or stOne
Small as on greatness layst thou stress,
(ireat as thou know st thy littcncSs.
\ child of Chance and Circumstances,
Gods infant, in thy helplessncss.
Now here's the magazine substitute.
It's shorter, because the second in
stallment Of the mysterious Mr. Mole
skin.' or some other latter day serial
with a purpose takes up most Of the
page and there's only room to jam in
Il few lines at the bottom:
Unuttcrable void! Fatlomless abyss and
dark!
Th heavens jeweled with their glittcring
stars--but stark
And cold and motionless and voiccless cen
to speak.
Through tho vast emptiness cnhungeredly
seek
Light. Enfettercdly my spirit Graves TO soar