Poetry

I, TOO, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.

Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in

it after all, a place for the genuine.

Hands that can grasp, eyes

that can dilate, hair that can rise

if it must, these things are important not because a

high sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they are

useful; when they became so derivative as to become unintelligible, the

same thing may be said for all of us—that we

do not admire what

we cannot understand. The bat,

holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under

a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base-

ball fan, the statistician—case after case

could be cited did

one wish it; nor it is valid

to discriminate against “business documents and

school-books”; all these phenomena are important.

One must make a distinction

however: when dragged into prominence by half poets,

the result is not poetry,

nor till the autocrats among use can be

“literalists of

the imagination”—above

insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads

in them, shall we have

it. In the meantime, if you demand on one hand,

in defiance of their opinion—

the raw material of poetry in

all its rawness, and

that which is on the other hand,

genuine, then you are interested in poetry.