Close Up (Oct 1920 - Aug 1923)

16 Bright Hints For Human Beings By “US” or “WE” THE POET’S DREAM Ex Nihilo — Nihil Fit By Marshall Lorimer I had determined I should write a poem, A classic for posterity to read, Which as an Epic should possess a Proem, That step, by step to my grand plot would lead. This purpose served, let’s say, in stanzas forty? Crammed full of pleasantries, and rich wit, With here and there a spice of something naughty, (Essential this to lighten it a bit.) From thence to where the Dialogue commences. Would occupy seme ninety lines profound, About a broken stile, a lane, and moss’d green fences, A lonely birch tree, and gaunt hills around. The plot would then unravel by slow stages. For what is poetry without its length? With rare descriptive matter thro’ twelve pages, Which should not lack a certain rugged strength. Then in a natural way would come my creatures! Each breathing his or her own sentiments ; With villainy and worldliness, as features, Which in the end should bow to innocence. To do this properly I think ’twere little If ninety pages would suffice the task For characters all love to tattle-tittle, And some in their profoundness love to bask. And then! but wait — before proceeding further, ’Tis meet the tragic muse should have a say, A suicide perhaps! and then a murder, With nemesis to overtake and slay. All this might be fulfilled and still give pleasure, By leading to a quaint catastrophe, Where all the characters would step their measure, Thro’ eighty pages of choice repartee. And so on to the end, in varied metre, Not leaving out a moral epilogue, (These I have oft been told could not be neater) And this — to them, would be as shine to fog. But step! the subject has not yet been chosen, The difficulty is to try the lot, For each appeals to me out of a dozen, With fascinating problems for a plot. To make all ready for the swift perception, I laid the desk for my poetic think, And placed upon it things to aid conception, And quills were there of course, and paper pink. I sat me down to light upon the subject, (All poets do this E’re they ’gin to write?) I rolled my eyes about to find an object To hold my vacant stare till I saw light. I stared, and stared, and stared with nervous tension. The meanwhile chewing many quills to pulp No worldly sound distracted my attention, Except! and here— but poets even gulp? The luncheon and the dinner bell had sounded, But still I sat and stared, without a bite, My nimble wit, from thought to thought rebounded, In fact mine was a long poetic flight! It went so far — alas! in its dream groping, That I could not recall it from its quest, But still I hoped it would return, still hoping (Midnight!) With due solemnity retired to rest. Epilogue If sense or reason you expect from prattle, Like me I think you will have searched in vain! It is not always he who fights in battle. Who ever has the chance to fight again? BARTINE BURKETT Ingenue in Comedies THE PASSENGER By Marshall Lorimer Sweet girl of gold, I saw you Across the aisle from me, Asa “ dream girl” whom 1 knew From scenes in Destiny. Your cheeks, like summer peaches, Turned scarlet ’neath my glances; How oft ONE overreaches The truth of new romances? You heard each word we uttered; Nor let on that you heard. Yet once your eye-lids fluttered. As if your pulses stirred. You left — we kept on going — But as you went you smiled; l thrilled to you unknowing In your dear token Child. PLEASE PATRONIZ E— W HO ADVERTIS E— I N “CLOSE-UP” « f