ED. AND PRINTED AT COMMONWEALTH, KANSAS

D TEACHER

William Carlos Williams
9 Ridge Road
Rutherford, N. J.

COMMONWEALTH COLLEGE
FORTNIGHTLY

VOL. XI., NO. 10

MENA, ARKANSAS: MAY 15, 1935

$1.00 A YEAR

C. C. SUMMER
PLANS SET

Large Group Seen;
Lecture Staff
Increased

HUNDREDS of inquiries and requests for information on the Commonwealth summer session have been received by the college office during the past month. This unusually large number indicates that enrollment for the summer quarter will tax the Commonwealth housing capacity to the limit.

Charlotte Moskowitz, secretary, is therefore asking that those who are expecting to enroll at Commonwealth for the ten-week session beginning July 1 send in their applications at once. If necessary, tents will be purchased or other housing facilities arranged to take care of all accepted students. In order to do this properly the housing committee must have information on the approximate enrollment by the first week in June.

John Gould Fletcher, outstanding American poet, has been added to the schedule of special lecturers who will be at Commonwealth for the summer session. Mr. Fletcher will talk on modern poetry and modern European literature. Other speakers who have accepted invitations to be at Commonwealth for one or two weeks are: Mother Bloor, Ward Rodgers, Jack Conroy, David Englestein, Carl Haessler, James T. Farrell, Bill Reich, Ben Botkin, Marshall Lakey, Charles J. Finger, Winifred L. Chappell, and Eleanor Risley.

Courses will be offered by the resident faculty in such subjects as American Labor Movement; Political Economy; Creative Writing; Current Events; Farm Problems; Labor Orientation; Labor Drama and Music; Drawing, Composition and Poster Design, etc.

TOUR LEAVES JUNE 29

Bob Brown in New York

Bob and Rose Brown, members of the Commonwealth staff who attended the recent Writers Congress in New York, are still in that city completing arrangements for the Writers and Artists Tour to the USSR this summer. The group is sailing from New York June 29 on the S. S. Britannic under the leadership of the Browns, and will spend six weeks in the Soviet Union—four at the Summer Session of Moscow University.

The Browns will accompany this Writers and Artists Group to assist each member to get what he wants out of study, travel and entertainment. Bob and Rose have literary and theatrical connections with both Russians and Americans in Moscow. They are good sailors and linguists, and have been studying Russian all winter at Commonwealth. The tour they are conducting is the most inexpensive trip to the Soviet Union this year. All readers of the Fortnightly who might be interested in joining the group should write to the Browns for information immediately.

Mail should be addressed: Bob Brown, care of World Tourists, 175 Fifth Ave., New York City.

NEIGHBORS
VISIT SCHOOL

Large Crowds At
May Day Program
And Gallup Protest

IN THE past two weeks Commonwealth has held two large meetings for its neighbors—one in celebration of May Day and one on May 11 in protest against the framing of the Gallup, New Mexico, miners. On both occasions the crowds numbered between one-hundred fifty and two hundred. With the exception of a few friends from Mena, Ink, and nearby towns, visitors came from within

a radius of a few miles of the college.

At the May Day celebration the neighbors participated in horse shoe playing and volleyball in the afternoon, although it drizzled slightly. Later supper was served in the Commons, and the crowd of guests was so large that most of the Commonwealth group ate in relays at the ping pong table. After the evening program lemonade was served and the crowd square-danced 'til twelve o'clock.

The Gallup protest meeting, which was held under the auspices of the Commonwealth I. L. D., was as well attended as the May Day program. Following a talk on the Gallup situation by Raymond Koch, the entire group voted to send protests to the prosecuting attorney in Gallup and the immigration authorities in Washington. A one-act play by Max Schwartz dramatizing the Gallup shootings was given. A homemade cake was auctioned off to help raise funds. Square-dancing and round dancing followed this meeting also.

Published twice a month at Mena, Arkansas, by Commonwealth College. Subscription one dollar a year. Entered as second class matter. January 30, 1926, at the post office at Mena, Arkansas, under the act of August 24, 1912.

Page Four

Commonwealth College Fortnightly

May 15, 1935

[ ] PLAY FROM PAGE 3 ]

Larry - I'm not gonna. I'm going if you're not. Somebody's got to do something about this.

Mr Parker - [angry] I'm telling you to sit down.

Larry - I ain't going to.

Mr Parker - (gets up) Sit down.

Larry - (squaring his shoulders) I ain't going to.

Mr Parker - (reaches out and grasps his shoulder) You listen to me. This here's my farm and I'll do as I please. I don't want no government trouble. Now you sit down.

Larry - (tries to wriggle out of his grasp but can't) I won't.

Mr Parker - (smacks him hard) When I tell you to do something, you do it. (he forces him down into the chair)

Mrs Parker - (comes forward) Leave him be, Joe. He's right.

Mr Parker - I'm the judge of that. You mix out.

Mrs Parker - It's my home too. Meribel's my girl. Ain't gonna let them throw her out without doing nothing.

Mr Parker - I ain't going, and Larry neither. (in the distance is heard sounds of men approaching)

Larry - That's them coming. One of us's gotta go. (tries to rise, but Joe's hand on his shoulder stops him)

Mrs Parker - (has retreated slowly and now turns towards Meribel's bed. As she turns she faces the gun for a moment, and at that moment, hesitates. Larry is still pleading with Joe, who doesn't answer. The voices of the men are coming closer. Suddenly she walks over and lifts the gun. She adjusts it and levels it at Joe. Then, in a very steady and strong voice) Joe! (Both turn towards her) Let the boy go!

Mr Parker - Put that gun down, Annie. (he takes a step towards her thereby taking his hand from Larry's shoulder)

Mrs Parker - You try to take it and I'll shoot! So help me God! You're gonna let them kill Meribel without raising a finger. Let the boy go, else I'll shoot. (it is obvious that she is in earnest) Go ahead, Larry. (Larry gets up. He is hesitant. Afraid of his father) Go ahead, he won't do nothing. If he does I'll shoot. He knows I will. (The sounds of the men come closer. Larry turns and darts out of the door. As he does Joe takes a step around after him, but Annie lifts the gun to shoot and he stops. As they stand there you hear the men come up)

Larry - (outside) I'm coming along. Pa ain't feelin' well. Let's go!

(They depart as the CURTAIN goes down)

SCENE: Government agent's office. He is putting his papers into the desk preparatory to closing the office for the day. Sounds of men coming are heard. They

are talking quietly. A second later there is a knock at the door.

Gov't Agent - Come in. (six or seven men file in quietly, among them the three farmers we saw at the store, and Larry, all rather embarrassed)

Will - We gotta see you, Mr Albee.

Mr Albee - It's closing time.

Will - We know, but this is important.

Mr Albee - Couldn't wait until tomorrow?

Will - 'Drather get it done tonight.

Mr Albee - Hm—. Well, what is it?

Will - We're a committee from the U. F. L. and a committee from the Holiday. Came to ask you about giving Joe Parker that loan.

Mr Albee - [very much surprised] But I told Parker this morning that if he got me the bank's signature guaranteeing that they wouldn't foreclose the mortgage, the government would be glad to give it to him. I don't see that it was necessary for either the U. F. L. or the Holiday to take it up.

Farmer - He couldn't get it.

Mr Albee - That's too bad!

Farmer - It sure is. He got neither seed to plant or feed for his cows.

Farmer - Pretty soon won't have nothing for the family to eat.

Farmer - Got a crippled girl at home, too. Can't walk at all.

Larry - She might, if we could get her some braces.

Mr Albee - That's all too bad. But I'm only the agent for the government. And according to the law I've got to have a guarantee before I give a loan.

Farmer - Like a banker, huh?

Mr Albee - Well, if you put it that way.

Farmer - Bankers are in business for money. The government too?

Mr Albee - No. No. But it can't lose money. After all, it's your money that would be lost.

Farmer - Well, we're willing.

Mr Albee - But it's not up to you.

Farmer - You just called it our money.

Mr Albee - But you've given it to the government.

Farmer - And they're reholdin'tight, eh?

Mr Albee - The government lends money to anyone who needs it, but it has no right to lend your money if it has no guarantee of getting it back.

Farmer - We don't get nothing else out of our taxes. Not even a new road. Might's well help a neighbor.

Mr Albee - You'll get a new road next year.

Farmer - Come outa next year's taxes. Worry about it then. Let's help Joe now.

Mr Albee - I can't do a thing without the mortgagor's signature.

Farmer - Always gotta have a signature?

Mr Albee - Never gave a loan without one.

Farmer - How about Tim Raynow?

Mr Albee - (confused) We always have a signature.

Farmer - Couldn't have one for him. Mr. Wilson's in Europe and nobody knows where.

Farmer - He didn't even need the money. Just wanted to breed new cows.

Farmer - But they gave it to him without a signature.

Farmer - And Joe's pretty near starving.

Mr Albee - Raynow's got a good farm.

Farmer - Then he don't need no money. Drouth hardly hit him.

Mr Albee - Besides, if Wilson had been here he would have signed for him.

Farmer - But you didn't have a signature.

Mr Albee - Because Mr Wilson is abroad.

Farmer - So you ain't got no signature for his loan?

Mr Albee - This is different. I must have a guarantee from Parker.

Farmer - Don't need no guarantee for Tim. Is he better'n Joe?

Mr Albee - Hadn't we better leave this until tomorrow? It's quite late.

Farmer [with determination] Going to finish it right now. Joe needs that money soon's he can get it. Besides, the men are waitin' to hear now. [silence. It is obvious that the farmers are determined. Their hesitancy is all gone now. In the silence the voices of those outside are heard]

Mr Albee - Well, I'll take it up with the government. I'll write them and recommend an exception.

Farmer - How long'll that take?

Mr Albee - Oh, a few weeks or so.

Farmer - Planting time's now. Joe's gotta have the money right away.

Farmer - And unless he gets some feed his cows are gonna die.

Farmer - He needs that loan now.

Farmer - And we aim to stay right here until he gets it. Don't we? [all nod and shift to settled positions, lean against the wall. Albee paces the office.

Farmer - You can think it over.

Farmer - We'll wait.

Mr Albee - [furiously] Well, all right. Send Joe around in the morning and we'll see what can be done.

Farmer - How about now? Larry's here. Just as good.

Mr Albee - You certainly are in a hurry.

Farmer - Government's in a hurry when it comes to taxes too.

Mr Albee - [takes papers out of desk] Well, I'll make an exception in this case. But this is the only time. Never again. [All nod. As he writes one of the menslimps out. A second later a burst of shouts is heard from outside.

Mr Albee - [to Larry] Sign here. [As Larry signs the men file out.

CURTAIN

the village VOICE, March 2, 1961

## THEATRE:

# A DREAM OF LOVE

A play by William Carlos Williams, presented last Sunday by the National Arts Club in a staged reading by members of the Manhattan Theatre Club. Directed by Fred Stewart.

"A Dream of Love" should be performed again, with its splendid cast intact, for a big 50-cents-a-head audience—if only to show Congress, where the National Cultural Assistance Act was introduced this month, what is needed in theatre, and what will offer spiritual and not commercial competition to existing theatres.

This play of death and adultery has all Williams' power of understatement, humor, fearlessness, shorn of Butterfield 8 morality. Fred Stewart has made it a masterpiece of direction, the voices won-

derfully chosen and tuned. The characters (in order of magnificence and all magnificent) are E. G. Marshall as the love-seeking doctor-writer-husband; Nan Martin, his sharp and suffering wife and widow; Maggie O'Neill, Clifton James' voluptuous wife, who is in the hotel room with the doctor when he dies of a heart attack; Joseph Sullivan the comic milkman; Musa Williams the laconic maid; Evelyn Davis the seer; Ron Leibman the butcherboy.

"How common and profane!" exclaimed a member of the club afterward, but appreciatively. The Yes-Yes-Yes orgasm was very nice, with the maid, butcherboy, and milkman joining in, drums, flags, and rifles. Strange that in the fastness of tradition, on Gramercy Square, as in the Poets' Theatre of Cambridge, Massachusetts, the odd logic, language, and morals of the American poet are allowed to flourish. The Mayors forbid but the Queens allow. (The Eagle suffers little Birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing, etc. "Titus Adronicus.") The National Arts Club has shown us a poets' theatre; so has the Theatre de Lys; but Gramercy Square has more earth, somehow, being healthfully far from Broadway.

—Ruth Herschberger

HERALD TRIBUNE, THURSDAY, APRIL 1, 1954

BOOK REVIEW

By LEWIS GANNETT

YOU often hear it said—I have said it myself—that we have no Grand Old Men of Letters in America today. We have rafts of brilliant young men and women writers—one, two or three book writers—but the promises fade.

No "Grand Old Men of Letters"

Ludwig Lewisohn put the case, more than twenty years ago, in his "Expression in America": "The crucial and strange tragedy of the creative artist in America," he wrote, is his "inability to develop, to strike within himself new rocks whence might spring living waters, his apparent petrification at a certain age." And he cited the cases of Dreiser, then sixty-one, who, Lewisohn said, had not developed beyond "Sister Carrie," written when he was twenty-nine; of Edgar Lee Masters, who wrote "Spoon River" at forty-six and at sixty-three had not matched it; of Hergesheimer, then fifty-two, whose masterpiece was "Linda Condon," written when he was thirty-nine; and of Sinclair Lewis, then forty-seven, whose power had ebbed after "Arrowsmith."

Others have since pointed to the sustained, long-pull creativity of the great Victorian novelists, and said that there was no writer in America today who represented the younger generation what Mark Twain, Howells and Henry James meant a generation ago.

Robert Frost

It is often said, but it isn't quite true. Last week Henry Holt & Co., publishers, gave an eightieth birthday party to Robert Frost, and as the poet stood and "said" a few of his poems and commented on them, he seemed younger far than those who introduced him or those who listened to him. For the occasion Holt distributed a book, "Aforesaid," of Frost's own selections from his own poems (unfortunately published in a limited edition which is already exhausted). If I count aright, only eight of the sixty-six poems included in that selection had been published before Frost was forty, and half of his favorites had first seen print in his seventh and eighth decades. The Frost fruit has continued ripening, is still ripening.

Robert Frost is, of course, an exception to all rules. He is, as has often been remarked, a poet who waited until he was thirty-eight to publish his first book of poetry. Moreover, for more than forty years his books have appeared under the same publishing imprint, which is an unusual record. Indeed, it might easily be argued that the firm has changed more than has Frost.

But there he stood, our Grand Old Man of Poetry, "saying" poems that he had composed more than four decades ago, and others recently shaped in his mind, and I doubt that any one

in that enchanted room was thinking to himself that Frost was aging, or was even "grand." He was just Robert Frost, the quietest of major poets, who has been growing on us for forty years.

Sandburg in His Seventies

As I came away I began to think that people who call this an age-of young writers must be forgetful. Carl Sandburg, another poet who had patience to wait until he was thirty-eight to make his claim for fame, is only three years younger than Frost, and he has made three reputations. Sandburg was nearing fifty when he began writing biography, for which he won his first Pulitzer Prize, and he waited until he was seventy to publish his first novel. (Santa yana, we may recall, was seventy-two when "The Last Puritan," his first and only novel, ap peared.) And, in another field, if Van Wyck Brooks is almost a decade younger than Frost and Sandburg, he published his first book five years before Frost's "A Boy's Will," eight years before Sandburg's "Chicago Poems"—and forty- six years is a long span for any writer.

Our Promising Poets and Novelists

Ask any one to name the most exciting and promising writers of today. Will they name men and women in their twenties, or even thirties or forties? No.

Some will name poets, and these names are likely to appear on the lists: T. S. Eliot, now sixty-six, whose first book, "Prufrock," appeared thirty-seven years ago; William Carlos Williams, now seventy-one, who has been publishing poetry for forty-five years; Robinson Jeffers, now sixty-seven, who published his first book in 1916; Conrad Aiken, now sixty-four, whose "Earth Tri umphant" appeared in 1917; and possibly, as an example of the *avant garde*, E. E. Cummings, who will not be sixty until next October.

Others will name novelists, and the promising novelists may be a decade younger. Dos Passos was born in 1896, published his first book (poetry) in 1919; our Nobel Prize novelist, Faulkner, was born in 1897 and published his first book (also poetry) in 1924. Hemingway, born in 1899, published his first ("Three Stories and Ten Poems") in 1923. Even young John Steinbeck, born in 1902, has been publishing books for twenty-five years.

No, it seems hardly just to call this an adolescent age in which young writers predominate. If any one dare say today that we have no Grand Old Men of Letters, it can only be because we have come to be afraid to use such words as "grand," and because our age has made such a fetish of youth that we wait far beyond three score and ten before we dare to call a writer "old."