Others

Edward J. O'Brien OTHERS A Magazine of the New Verse Edited by Alfred Kreymborg ASSOCIATE EDITORS William Carlos Williams Maxwell Bodenheim Helen Hoyt Alanson Hartpence MAY-JUNE 1916 Vol. 2 No. 5-6 New York Others c/0 John Marshall, 331 Fourth Avenue 15 cents a Copy $1.50 a Year

####OTHERS For May June, 1916 JEANNE D'ORGE MUNA LEE ANNE BLAIR S.S.S. ORRICK JOHNS RICHARD BUTLER GLAENZER EDGAR LEE MASTERS ADOLF WOLFF BENJAMIN DE CASSERES HORACE HOLLEY CLINTON JOSEPH MASSECK CONRAD AIKEN Vol. II Nos. 5 and 6 ##Bulletin — Owing to Mr. Marshall's retirement from the publication of Others, the May and June issues were delayed, and are therefore presented herewith as a double number. It is being hoped, kind Sir and Madame, that this extreme vicissitude, or what under ordinary conditions is branded as reprehensible tardiness, will not discourage you from a continued encouragement of the brave ways and inclinations of a periodical which has had only you to look to for its moral and financial endowment. The hint is, unloosen the purse strings of your faith and extract your subscription renewal—Others is in need of birthday gifts. A child, one year old, should not be held entirely responsible. Beginning with its birthday issue—July, 1916— still another innovation will be tested. Various writers are being invited to edit Others, each for a period of one month. Williams Carlos Williams will have charge of the July issue, which he announces as A Competitive Number; Maxwell Bodenheim of the August, which he announces as A Chicago Number, and Helen Hoyt of the September, which she announces as A Woman s Number. Incidentally, the present incumbent will endeavor to enjoy a much needed rest. A. K.

##Jeanne D'Orge 217 THE MEAT PRESS I have a longing To strip raw live flesh From my bones And squeeze it in the meat press. Blood will drip, Enough to write a few lyrics Red and sacramental. RUTS Ruts, nothing but ruts, Made by great wheels, The wagon, Creation. I myself have fallen into the rut of sex, Deep it is, a trench Where I sit, not lacking company, Playing with mud, Making mud pies And setting them to bake in the sun. I cook innumerable meals Of mud, all mud. (Do you wonder I look lean and starved?) Here is soup ##218 Jeanne D'Orge Put down on the menu as cream of sentimentality (Mud and water, slush). Here is a grand hunk of meat, frankly flesh, Smothered in modest white sauce, Mud too, caked, baked. Here a dream of dessert, An aery trifle of the ideal (Mud mixed with air and water). Each course is served with wine of the senses, An ancient vintage (Water this, colored with mud, Red mud). There are many shades of color In mud And dishes can be cooked to suit all appetites, Mud, all mud Found in the rut, As good stuff as any for a make-believe. But do you wonder that I am reduced in weight And troubled with inordinate longings? Do you wonder that reality looks green to me And fresh and succulent as grass? LEGEND When I think of life now It is in terms of faery. ## Jeanne D'Orge 219 I am living the old legend Of the sprite With a body of fire and light And no soul, Who fled to earth Longing to gain a soul Through human love and sorrow. I know myself that sprite As I know the country that is tucked away Between the mists of dawn and day As I am aware Of the faery lover I had there, And when I go to walk With meek hair smoothed And modest as a mortal bride should be, A shadow waits for me, My phantom lover waits invisibly cloaked At every corner, on every street, He stands whistling my song, Calling my name, And I will not hear, My ears are sharpened to a sweeter sound. I listen, I follow my own soul As it goes up the way ahead of me Blowing on ghostly pipes Of immortality. ##220 Jeanne D'Orge INITIATION You suffered, Body, You are marked for life. When I look on you now I have the impulse to kneel As before one who has undergone Trial by fire And is become an initiate Into the lesser mystery Of pain. MORTALITY The milk of desire is dried in me. When passion wails with querulous hunger I may not bare my breast to give him suck. Instead, With patient eyes Upon the clock of duty I feed him broth Or prepared milk, Artificially heated To a certain tepid temperature. He lingers in frail life. I still his cries. ## Jeanne D'Orge 221 I soothe his pain And hope for miracles Not daring to see or mourn The wasted limbs, The uneasy breath, The brow already dark With mystery And death. THE CRYSTAL A man wants me: Because the curves of my neck sing to him And the shape of my body tortures his dreams A man wants me. He looks into the crystal And sees visions. . . . Two lovers in the garden of Eternity Plucking the rose. . . . A House built upon a rock With an open door And eager children flitting up to it. . . . These are his happy visions. Once I looked into the crystal, I will not look again, The picture moves across the curtains of my eyelids still, ## 222 JEANNE D'ORGE I close them and remember Barbarie figures, Brute man hunting his mate Whom having captured He proceeds to woo With the conventional club of the period. The uncouth struggle over, she Rising enraptured from the dust Kneels And with bruises burning sweet as kisses In a fury of worship Surrenders herself. THE QUESTION You answer the questions my body put With utter understanding. Now I begin to be aware Of that which is not flesh. Some day It will blurt out its first question— What answer then from you? ##JEANNE D'ORGE 223 THE MICROSCOPE Only to look— To take at random slide after slide of life, Put it under the lens, Observe the blood of nation's heart, The bloom on the wings of emotion, The clear still wriggling of obscenity, Or section by section, the changing cells Of one's own soul— Curious! ##224 MUNA LEE I I thought love would come gloriously, with the clash of tambourine and the swirl of silver bugles, Lighting the night with his blazonry; And I found him in two sad eyes so tired they could not look on mine. II I shall light a candle in my heart, Else, entering, he would lose his way in the shadows. III Do not chafe at your bonds, dear. It is only my heart that holds you; That is easily broken. IV I would have borne long the torture of the flesh for you— Would have given my body like grass, But unending torment of the spirit I cannot give. My pain passed With the blossoming of the first blue morning glories. V I was sent from a far country that I might bear one message— You will neither hear it nor let me return. ## MUNA LEE 225 VI In our town There are painted wooden houses and one dusty park and I. We grow more faded each year, More hopeless, More alike— The houses, the park, and I. VII Has no one a gift to bring to you, My heart, So tired, so lonely? Why, I shall sing to you, My heart, I, I! ## 226 ANNE BLAIR WEDDED TO A SHREW Midsummer sultriness, Distant rumblings Among low half-hills Of Reason. . . . The fine white linen Of your courage wilts. . . . Simultaneous with a blinding flash Comes the downpour— You cannot escape Its sharp pelting hail. "Good day to you!" A voice behind— Your neighbor! Hastily you wrap a Smooth white cloak Of blandness about you To hide the shrinking Drenched lines Of your outraged composure. ## s. s. s. 227 And Death came, Stealing in on tip toe Like a Thief. And went away, smiling, Like a Victor. Waving one long bony arm, While the other gripped His Victim close, Like a miser. He left the door wide open. In the doorway stood a woman. Her eyes were dry. She stared into the distance, And could see nothing. Like the Future. She turned And saw the leaden skies. Here and there a glint of gold, Like the Past. And she saw The wasted years. Of the Dead. And of the living dead. Like in a Dream. And she dreamed Of Peace, And she hoped For Rest. And she prayed ##228 s. s. s. For Death. Like a Vision. To be met, With outstretched Arms Like a Lover. ##ORRICK JOHNS 229 TO ONE IMPENETRABLE I. GLASS I think it was the most beautiful night of my life. I was jealous of the moon for making you look so strange and lovely that he seemed to be a part of you; or at least to have you in his embrace. And while you were asleep, I took all of the delicate little glass treasures I had carried in my soul; and I laid them in your arms which were open just right to receive them. And then I waited for your drowsiness to wear away. When you awoke you looked up wearily from beneath your heavy lashes and with a single languid movement of your arm you threw the cherished ornaments upon the stone floor, where they broke. You had merely lifted your hand to look with complacency at its carefully polished nails; it is a favorite gesture of yours, and one I have often loved to watch. . . . But my soul is a very patient laborer; and it will begin To-day to make you some new treasures, only a little less delicate and of a somewhat coarser material. ##230 ORRICK JOHNS II. BUTTERFLIES It was at dawn, as I remember. You had gone for a little while over the top of the hill. In your absence I began to call out to you: "It is such a big World, and I am trying to get my arms around it. If you would only come from the other side and take my hands!" You did not answer, and moved by a new freak of ambition, I had forgotten all about you in a trice and was laboring hard at some stupendous task. Then suddenly I know you were sitting on a blade of grass tickling my nose. You fretted me so with your mockery that I struck at you in a fit of anger and you turned to a butterfly. Since that day I have never been able to do anything but chase after butterflies, which constantly mock me. ... I suppose in order to make my penance more complete. III. WHAT YOU SAID TO GOD One evening God stopped you just as you were entering the door of your bedroom; and would not let you go further until you had spoken with him. Since your secrets are so mysterious and ## ORRICK JOHNS 231 impenetrable, I believe they are in the keeping of Heaven, you were not at all embarrassed, and this dialogue ensued: "My daughter, you have come here night after night alone; and yet it is some time since you knew that you loved, is it not?" "Yes," you confessed. "And what has he done to you?" "He has kissed me." "That is well, and has he sought you diligently, my daughter?" "At all times and everywhere." "But—" said God, for he was greatly puzzled. Then you explained to him with a remark that must have been stranger than his own thoughts because he allowed you to pass immediately and murmured to himself: "Ah, I shall have to punish him. . . . That is clear." I have been wondering whether He will wait at your bedroom door until I come to cross its threshold . . . and if He will tell me what it is you said, so I may know why I am punished. ##232 ORRICK JOHNS IV. CANDLES There is a funny little man who tends the candles in your soul; and I bribed him with all manner of gifts to allow me to take his place. "How absurd," he would say. "You cannot do my work; you are very conceited to imagine such a thing." No matter how I smoothed his feathers it was of no use. He obstinately refused. But the other day he fell asleep, just at the time the candles ought to have been lighted. So I went in, not entirely devoid of fear, and managed to light them all without ever waking him. Ever since then he has seemed to understand that he is not needed any more, and I think he will probably die or go away. ## RICHARD BUTLER GLAENZER 233 SOUVENIR OF DOMINICA And from now on The perfume of roses Will evoke memories of Roseau And its valley dreamy with haze, And Morne Anglais sulking in a cloud, And the Pitons insolent on a clear day, And rainbows and rainbows and rainbows; But against them all A shingled house and its mango tree, A shingled house and its scarlet passion-flowers, A shingled house and its white-bloomed ixora Iridescent with humming-birds; An old gray gabled home, With Miss Maud playing fairy to the ferns, And Miss Carrie trying hard to look severe, And Miss Alice, very stately, pouring tea: Three dear friendly gentlewomen Smiling at me from the hearts of roses! L'ARC DE TRIOMPHE For all the fire of your heroism, France of Le Roi Soleil, To-day you loom up for me Like the calvary of Guimiliau . . . That strange stone calvary ##234 RICHARD BUTLER GLAENZER Gray as the moors of its Brittany, Gray as the menhirs of Carnac, Gray as the Druid stones! Between Mary and Magdalene Hangs the Terrible Fruit of the Tree: And the Tree stands among Devils and Saints And Soldiers: And these are crumbling. Flat on the earth Lie the gray stone slabs of the dead; But erect and sturdy and solid, Under the calvary, Spread three arches Doved soundly together In ancient triumphal form. SCALES As I was dusting a long unopened book, Two tiny oval scales Went fluttering to the floor Like a small brown moth. . . . Dead leaves like living wings— But the might of them! They have lifted me over the seas, And from March to September! ##RICHARD BUTLER GLAENZER 235 They have carried me from wind-buffeted Bermuda To the breathless slopes of Canandaigua, Violet-green with hop-fields. Once more I hear the singing of the hobos, The wandering hop-pickers; Of the village girls In checked ginghams and poke bonnets; And the swish and rustle of the vines As the pole-pullers swing them to the bins. Once more I smell the bitter-sweet Of the yellow-green tasselly cones; And my fingers burn and grow black From stripping the scales from the stems. I am walking home, Plodding along moodily At the foot of orderly vineyards Half cleared of grapes. . . . Concords, Wordens, Niagaras, Pink Delawares, ruddy Catawbas, And Agawams like maroon marbles. Below, meadows purple with alfalfa: And through a cloud Of little white butterflies Floating over one, I see the slumbering sapphire of the lake— Which made me dream of Bermuda! ##236 EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SUBWAY* There was the white face of Fear, And the solemn face of Duty, And the face of Self looking in the mirror. But there were voices calling from vernal hill-tops, And silver spirits by moon-lit gardens calling, And voices of no sound from far horizons calling. But even if there be penitence for living, And thought and tears for the past, And even shame and even hunger; And if there be nothing gained at the last in living, And much to pay for the madness of briefest bliss, And if there be nothing in life, and life be nothing, So that to nail one's self to the cross is nothing lost— Is Death not even less? These were the voices whereto we tore our flower Petal by petal apart and scattered it And paused and paltered. But lest the whispers grow louder, And the eyebrows arch to a fiercer scorn You fled away to France and left me With only a poor half uttered farewell, A scrawl put off to the last, then written As with shut eyes, swift nervous hands, * Copyright by Edgar Lee Masters. ##EDGAR LEE MASTERS 237 As one might wait for the heroic thought To take his poison—wait in vain, and then Cowardly gulp it down and reel to death! I could not hate you for the pain of hate, And could not love you who had hid yourself, Belied yourself behind this scrawl. I could only sit half-numb, And drift in thought. And afterwards it wasn't so much to be alone, Nor to dream of the days that were done, Save as it deepened the surge in my heart, Or strengthened the ebb of my soul for thought Of your soul drawn away from me— So needlessly drawn it seemed. And it's the music that deepens and changes,— For as your soul adds strings to its strings There are fingers to play—it almost seems There are fingers about us that watch and wait For a soul that's adding strings to its harp To play them when they're strung. And so it's the music that deepens and changes That kills you at last I think. Well, I had a dream one night That a dead man well could dream. They had buried me in Rosehill. ##238 EDGAR LEE MASTERS And after twenty years from France they brought you And put you just across the walk from me, Where we slept while the crowding city grew To a vast six millions, and they were building A sub-way to Lake Forest. And we were forgotten of every-one, And almost our family names were lost. And our love you fled from all forgotten, And everything we said, or thought, or felt forgotten With the whispers of boys and girls In a temple's shadow in Babylon. Well, to pursue, it's a day in March When the colors are brilliantly white and blue; And it's cold except for Poles and Italians Who dig with spades and cut with picks. And some of these fellows are digging us up, We lie in the way of the sub-way, you know. And they dump our bones in a careless heap, The ribs of me by the ribs of you, My skull lies ignorant by your skull. And behold our poor arms are entwined. For Death, you know, is a mocker of Life. And there we lie like stocks and stones, And where is our love and where is your fear? And a young Pole pushes our bones together With a lusty shove of his heavy shoe, And he says to another: "You saw that girl ##EDGAR LEE MASTERS 239 I was dancing with last night? Well, I don't think I'm the only one, And besides she bothers me most to death. And as soon as this sub-way job is over, Which will be in a year, or year and a half, I'm going to beat it back to Poland." Then the other beginning to shovel muttered, "1976." ## 240 ADOLF WOLFF FIREFLIES Three nuns Three nuns pass by Three upright coffins passing by Three nuns. The elephant sways from side to side slowly solemnly like an old Jew praying. The public square A telescope The moon The mountains of the moon Jupiter His several moons Other glories of the night sky Brilliant Icy Remote For a nickel Trum tum tum ##ADOLF WOLFF 241 Trum tum tum soldiers, soldiers marching by Trum tum tum Trum tum tum soldiers, soldiers going to die Trum tum tum Trum tum tum soldiers, soldiers marching by Trum tum tum Trum tum tum. Among the shadows under the table the tip of a dainty shoe the tip of a shoe less dainty seeking each other meeting mating amorous birds among the shadows under the table. ##242 ADOLF WOLFF Considering the length of Long Island or the circumference of the earth or the distance between Venus and Mars what's half an inch? But applied to your nose my beloved Ah! Oo . . . Oo . . . I'm an ogre I eat little ones little women I eat 'em alive I eat 'em raw on the bone I'm an ogre Oo . . . Oo . . . He shines my shoes Why does he stop betwen uterus and grave to shine my shoes? I couldn't help it I was born a legitimate child. Could I help it? ##BENJAMIN DE CASSERES 243 THE HAUNTED HOUSE My brain is like a tropical forest, dark and sinister, In whose branches and hedges thoughts dart and play like scarlet scarabees; Or, sometimes, like a sea of phosphorescent light In which images sport like flying fish. A garden, too, wherein walk sadic Christs and Neros that are Paraclete, Which on a sudden changes into a seraglio peopled with scarlet angels Who choir their prayers of passion to a cataleptic Sultan. In fortunate hours it is like a chariot made of sun-motes Drawn by two great butterflies caught by Titans of the Moon, And it carries me past the sparkling sweat-beads on the face of the celestial Ethiope And the sorrows of the multi-billioned creatures who pullulate in their depths To the solemn solitudes of the Nirvana of fairies who drowse forever on the Golden Thigh of Pythagoras. ##244 BENJAMIN DE CASSERES My brain! my brain! 'Tis star-exiled from space And sent to the Siberia of my skull without reprieve; A stomach that I shall one day disembowel, Whose spillings shall become beautiful words and shall dance and dance away! ##HORACE HOLLEY 245 DIVINATIONS I Blind footprints treading the snow In crazy hieroglyphs: History . . . (For my beloved the snow lies white again!) II My beloved call one to another "There is no yesterday! "Memory, the fortune-teller of souls, "Slinks from her broken tent "Fearing the storm." III My beloved cry "We move in a joyous Dream "Parted from all that is! "O God, Destroyer of paths that returned!" IV That you are brother to a slave in the far desert And not to him laughing beside you in the household; ##246 HORACE HOLLEY That you are son to him who kneels on the hills of prayer And not to him whose hand you fondle; That you are without language for speech or custom for action, By My name Be joyful! In this new Season Wherever the seeds of your endeavor strike, There is perception. V Know you not, beloved, I give you My sight That you may behold all ends as beginning; My heart That you shall adore things eternal; And My memory, To know yourselves? VI Vainly in passionate arms you hold, Or snare in whisper's echo ##HORACE HOLLEY 247 The strangers That move in a World a world apart, By paths that join you never. VII Over the gate of Death I carved in flame "Not adoring My beauty again "With these eyes; "With this heart falling in love "No more." VIII None are the hieroglyphics within My court You shall not read, beloved, Save those yourselves devised, Yourselves admiring! IX Not in your eyes that look to hill and cloud, Nor in your hand plucking the yellow blossom Does Spring return, But in My radiant Will That burns upon the winter of your soul! Love, passion, hate, knowledge and doubt and faith ##248 HORACE HOLLEY Fuse in the virgin earth of My desire: My Spring renews its season in your blood. X My beloved, I stand about you like a bright Horizon Burning with many suns; As flowers firmly rooted in the warm earth of Spring You live in the midst of Me. ## CLINTON JOSEPH MASSECK 249 A DAY AND ITS JOURNEY The dawn came in Fever-swift and hot. . . . And I ran from its touch and clasp. . . . And all my roads wound upward To the hills, And there they ceased. . . . The hills received me, And in unharried valleys My spent and blowing soul Was stilled and calmed and recreated. . . . And the lowlands, With the netted roads And clotted houses Were phantoms of a dream. Cool and finger-soft The night crept in, Slipping on from peak to peak. . . . And I found my roads again, Winding roads that downward wound To the lowlands Where they ceased And were unraveled, Into sundry quiet streets. . . . And lights were glowing, Amid the ample trees Like little errant stars; ##250 CLINTON JOSEPH MASSECK And all the houses, White and trim, Were dimly dancing in the dusk Around the luminous square; For all the world they seemed As many maidens Waiting Each her lover and his coming. . . . I was home again. ## CONRAD AIKEN 251 MERETRIX: IRONIC Things mused upon are, in the mind, like music, They flow, they have a rhythm, they close and open, And sweetly return upon themselves in rhyme. Against the darkness they are woven, They are lost for a little, and laugh again, They fall or climb. Here, it rains. The small clear bubbles Pelt and scatter along the shimmering flagstones, Leap and sing. Streaks of silver slant from the eaves, The sparrow puffs his feathers beneath broad leaves And preens a darkened wing. Yet round a windy corner of the mind, A block away, or at the selfsame place,— We meet you face to face. You cough with the dust, we hear you say once more There in the shadow of a deserted door, You are cold, you have no money, and you are hungry. You open your purse to show us that it is empty. You are crying, and that is strange, for you are a whore. . . . Bubbles of soft rain scurrying over a pavement,— ##252 CONRAD AIKEN Slanting from dark eaves— Where did I see a sparrow beneath broad leaves? . . . . . . Rain, rain, rain. All night the rain. The roofs are wet, the eaves drip. The pelted leaves bend down and rise again. The bubbles chirp and skip. This is spring. The snowdrops start to grow, The rain will wash them clean. This is spring, the warm drops wound the snow, The black earth aches with green. . . And now that it is morning, we will go. What do we care for you—you, only a whore? Starve if you like! You'll have to end it sometime. There will be plenty more. Sell your hangings, pawn your dress, your ear-rings. What do we care? You knew we wouldn't pay. That's right, cry! It'll make you feel much better,— Meanwhile we go our way. The lamps are turned out on the music racks, The concert ends, the people rise, The applause behind us roars like rain on a roof, The great doors close. We shrink beneath blue skies. Was this a music? Or did I hear a story? Yet I remember well that hair, those eyes. . . . And much besides, that, nimble even as music, Sings, flashes, is gone. . . . ## CONRAD AIKEN 253 For a million years the gods have been telling me secrets. I do not remember one. Well, take us home with you; and when we have loved you, (Stroked your drowsy hair, your subtle flesh, And held your golden throat in the palms of hands) When we have loved you, and rise Once more into mortal evening out of your eyes, We will both give you money; and you may go To order peacocks' tongues, or a little snow. .... There is a seeth of foam far over our hands On the pale surface. . . . We glide above our shadows along the sands. . . . If you are really so tired, take my arm. Is this your door? . . . Give me the key. Why don't you sell these hangings if you are poor? You deserve to be. . . . . Something about your skin is like soft rain— Cool and clear ... it reminds me of many things. Your eyes, they are like blue wells of pain— I remember a sparrow preening his rainy wings. . . . He sat under broad leaves, puffing his feathers and winking. . . . What are you thinking? ##254 CONRAD AIKEN Now that you're here—there's no use in your going . . . Wait till the morning. When we have loved we'll sleep. Sleep is better than wine; and hunger will keep. ######