The Wilmington morning star., 1940-11-27
Fair Enough
nv wEsrBRooK PEGLER

The STAR WISHES AeS |
to know that views and opln-
ions expressed in this article
are those of the author and
may not always harmonic
with its position.-The Editor.
NEW YORK, Nov. 26.-Not many
of nv readers suspect that, in ad-
dition to my well-known knack OF
expressing petty irritation in terms
Of high-sounding, morallshc scorn,
I possess also an ability to create
poetry of great confusion and
charm. That is my fault, for these
months have been crowded with
shrill pickering with the new deal,
the gangsters of the labor rackets,
the furriners of the newspaper
guild and that always-provocative
he-shrew, Mr.. Harold F. Ickes.
Now I feel, however, that I owe
it to myself to show something of
my esthetic nature, but, as a pre-
liminary, would like to explain that
poetry is a great fake, at once
the most pretentious and the least
respectable method of literary ex-
preston.
The poet has a tremendous ad-
vantage owe those. who write in
prose in that he works under no
requirements to make any mean
ing clear. This explains why Kip
ling and Longfellow, for example,
are regarded as hack, or naive,
poets and their work doggerel.
Thus Mr.. George AIDE was banging
his old gray head against a rein
forced concrete artistic absolute
when he said that James Whit
comb Riley was "a genuine poet,
even if people could understand
him." A brave but futile remon-
STRANGE on behalf of an old friend.
If it had been true Mr.. AIDE would
ont have felt the need to say it, and
he said it only because he realized
that, for all its beauty, Riley's
work never could be certified as
poetry because of the very fact
that people can u%nder-tand it.
Now, I find poetry quite easy
and a pleasant relaxation from the
toll of standard writing under what
might be called straight commits
sion rules. You start with no idea,
write in all directions from a point
some distance off center, and your
work can ask no higher praise
than the verdict that it doesn't
seem to mean anything.
For instance:
Night owe Jugoslavia. i
Let cravens crawl when the
bugles call
And war clouds lower near:
Let vultures fly in the tumbling
sky,
What know the brave of fear?
For it's the Spartan breed that
cries
From soul to soul over tn
centuries
And all is lost when honor dies
For the hearth-fires burning
dear.
So spring to arms mid wars
alarms.
And curs'd be he who ouails.
When strong men fight to defend
the right
And Sharon stalks the wales.
1t is mans way to die in war
Ondaunted yet, forevermore:
What else was valor given for
While freedom yet prevails?
Starts nowhere, goes nowhere.
means nothing, but resounds in a
sort of way. In short, poetry.
Or this:
Last night, in the storm.wrack
down the glade,
Where cowslips bloom in Ii e
gentle shade,
My soul went wandering. sore
afraid
To drink the wine of fear.
While lightning flashed in the ebon
sky,
Your hot lips murmured a gentle
cry,
MY lover" and I knew twas ].
Alone at cupid's bier.
And yet from the crucible of time
In ecstacy of love sublime
n shadows in every pantomime
they danced in measures drear.
On. say, when in the bosky swale
n klne are lowing, wan and
pale,
My love sings sweet as the
nightingale,
FOR you are ever near. :
could develop this demonstra-
lion II l had more space, but there ]
are Mrs. R., the general and Raw t
think of, and the desk probably .
Will cut hell out of it as it is. I
which, to poetry, fortunately, l
makes no difference. But I lust
wanted you to know. 2 :
Hickory Woodworking (
Plant To Reopen Today -,
HICKORY, Nov. 26. Up The !.
Hutton Bourbonnais Woodworking /,
{ iaiit, smut down almost a week by
d stflke, will reopen tomorrow.
AS they return to work, the an.
proXlmately $50 employees will vote
Joining a CLIO union, l