Evening star., 1921-08-07

n
- bling negligently in yet grace
full spit curls over brow and
ears, bid fearful Eau revoir" to
the Latin Quarter and sailed for the
United States-on tour as prince of
poets" Nobody, told him about pro-
hibition.
Therefore. anything may happen
were he other than Paul Fort; but,
being he, before he is half parched
and desiccated, all kinds Of helping
hands will surely reach out to the
best liked man of all the Latin Quar-
ter on his travels. He has the heart
of a boy Cor Of a skylark) and the
charity of saint
One of his volumes is entitled
simply THE Lark" and you would
swear, on reading its verses. that they
have been composed in the midst OF
wheat fields or in meadows dotted
with blue bells. Yet it would be an
error. He has scarcely seen mea-
dow or wheat field, and to write
his lark stuff" requires less pious
communion with nature than ptous
accumulation of goblets. We Ameri-
cans, who cherish so dearly every
thing that is exceptional and rare
will be charmed by Paul Forts sin.
gular distinction of having frequented
the same Latin Quarter cafe for
twenty years. Will it not be some
thing to announce THE prince OF
poets, the one and only French poet
who has passed his life at the cafe?
The establishment is poetically
most calm, correct and cultured cafe
of the quarter. In it Paul Fort has
led, for twenty years. an existence as
regular as literary and adorned with
goblets.
You should see the prince of poets"
in his home surroundings. He enters
the cafe. He seats himself worthily
at marble-topped table. A deft
garcon worshipfully fetches the swift
goblet, caraffe of ice water and two
Jumps of sugar. Confidentially he
pours the divine ambrosia. green in
color. with a fragrance of paregoric.
and the water. mixing with it, turns
it cloudy with opalescent glints. the
dying glory of all the greens in the
world whence the homely express
sion ito strangle parrot"
r x X
THE poet gravelv sips He pours in
L more water thoughtfully. replac-
ing the displacement he has slipped.
He sips again. He pours again. The
milky green clears and the opal fires
CLINT brighter. His disciples. wor-
Shipping, draw round the prince of
poets" Thus Paul Fort has written
| fifteen volumes.
When France was invaded in 1914.
absinthe was put against the wall and
shot. Blameless and mild. our hero
turned to simple bitters. never doubt
! ing in his heart of boy that the real
thing would return in its time. as it
| has done. With this same optimism
he now risks the parched alkali sands
! Of the great American desert to lee
! ture happily and with emotion of his
beloved France, with wit and intelli-
gence of French poetry and literature.
And when you hear him you will
not need to understand his Ian:
Fort, and it is enough. Because
kindly observe that other men ir
France and elsewhere have entered g
| cafe, seated themselves at a marble.
! topped table and instructed the garcor
| to bring one of them things; and the
garcon's face did not light up p Witf
love, and no throng of disciples
gathefed round to worship.
It takes a Paul Fort to draw &
Paul Fort crowd.
| Here is a man so silly. simple. lSint
of heart. that he would rather hell
another man succeed-no matter who
than make his own success!
If this be poetry. make the mos
of it. Paul Fort lives poetry as vel
as writes it. And this lived stuff 1!
so rich and rare in the world tina
Ireal tough men are singularly touched
by it.
We Americans, who appreciate 81
highly everything that is exceptiona
and rare, will find Paul Fort equal!
phenomenal in his written, word.
Continuing our announcements. on
might make another poster like this
| THE prince of poets. the one AM
only French poet who writes hi
poetry in prose" In other words, h
writes poetry without seeming to d.
So. The heart of it is poetry. bu
the form is skylarking. 1t is no
what the pretentious noodles call yer
libre; no, no. for 1t is art and ha
real verve, real freshness of sentf
ment, frank and beautiful joy o
living. and an ingenious ardor to SIM
and laugh.
Paul Fort is typographical. H
starts a new line every two lines, thel
hides two rhymes in these two lines
very tricky. 1t is not verse. 1t is no
! prose. It is Paul Fort. His page
are beautiful. There is more whit
n them than black. He leaves fai
blank spaces, like broad meadow
for the little lambs Of fancy to dis
port in.
\ X X 4
1.-THE tired business man finds tn
blank spaces easy reading. Wan
dering in their spacious whitenes'
you will come on heart songs ele
gies. heroic odes and panic chants,
idylls and antique poems, littl