can properly employ that which has been made use of before.
Enheartened by this thought THE TRADITIONALISTS OF PLAGIARISM try to get hold of the mob. They seize those nearest them and shout into their ears: Tradition! The solidarity of life!
The fight is on: These men who have had the governing of the mob through all the repetitious years resent the new order. Who can answer them? One perhaps here and there but it is an impossible situation. If life were anything but a bird, if it were a man, a Greek or an Egyptian, but it is only a bird that has eyes and wings, a beak, talons and a cry that reaches to every rock’s center, but without intelligence? —
The voice of the Delphic Oracle itself, what was it? A poisonous gas from a rock’s cleft.
Those who led yesterday wish to hold their sway a while longer. It is not difficult to understand their mood. They have their great weapons to hand: „ science”, „ philosophy” and most dangerous of all „ art”.
Meanwhile, SPRING, which has been approaching for several pages, is at last here.
— they ask us to return to the proven truths of tradition, even to the twice proven, the substantiality of which is known. Demuth and a few others do their best to point out the error, telling us that design is a function of the IMAGINATION, describing its movements, its colors — but it is a hard battle. I myself seek to enter the lists with these few notes jotted down in the midst of the action, under distracting circumstances — to remind myself (see p. 2, paragraph 4) of the truth.
III
The farmer in deep thought
is pacing through the rain
among his blank fields, with
hands in pockets,
in his head
the harvest already planted.
A cold wind ruffles the water
among the browned weeds.
On all sides
the world rolls coldly away:
black orchards
darkened by the March clouds —
leaving room for thought.
Down past the brushwood
bristling by
the rainsluiced wagonroad
looms the artist figure of
the farmer — composing
— antagonist
IV
The Easter stars are shining
above lights that are flashing —
coronal of the black —
Nobody
to say it —
Nobody to say: pinholes
Thither I would carry her
among the lights —
Burst it asunder
break through to the fifty words
necessary —
a crown for her head with
castles upon it, skyscrapers
filled with nut-chocolates —
dovetame winds —
stars of tinsel
from the great end of a cornucopia
of glass
S O long as the sky is recognised as an association
is recognised in its function of accessory to vague words whose meaning it is impossible to rediscover
its value can be nothing but mathematical certain limits of gravity and density of air
The farmer and the fisherman who read their own lives there have a practical corrective for —
they rediscover or replace demoded meanings to the religious terms
Among them, without expansion of imagination, there is the residual contact between life and the imagination which is essential to freedom
The man of imagination who turns to art for release and fulfilment of his baby promises contends with the sky through layers of demoded words and shapes. Demoded, not because the essential vitality which begot them is laid waste — this cannot be so, a young man feels, since he feels it in himself — but because meanings have been lost through laziness or changes in the form of existance which have let words empty.
Bare handed the man contends with the sky, without experience of existence seeking to invent and design.
Crude symbolism is to associate emotions with natural phenomena such as anger with lightning, flowers with love it goes further and associates certain textures with
Such work is empty. It is very typical of almost all that is done by the writers who fill the pages every month of such a paper as. Everything that I have done in the past — except those parts which may be called excellent — by chance, have that quality about them.
It is typified by use of
Enheartened by this thought THE TRADITIONALISTS OF PLAGIARISM try to get hold of the mob. They seize those nearest them and shout into their ears: Tradition! The solidarity of life!
The fight is on: These men who have had the governing of the mob through all the repetitious years resent the new order. Who can answer them? One perhaps here and there but it is an impossible situation. If life were anything but a bird, if it were a man, a Greek or an Egyptian, but it is only a bird that has eyes and wings, a beak, talons and a cry that reaches to every rock’s center, but without intelligence? —
The voice of the Delphic Oracle itself, what was it? A poisonous gas from a rock’s cleft.
Those who led yesterday wish to hold their sway a while longer. It is not difficult to understand their mood. They have their great weapons to hand: „ science”, „ philosophy” and most dangerous of all „ art”.
Meanwhile, SPRING, which has been approaching for several pages, is at last here.
— they ask us to return to the proven truths of tradition, even to the twice proven, the substantiality of which is known. Demuth and a few others do their best to point out the error, telling us that design is a function of the IMAGINATION, describing its movements, its colors — but it is a hard battle. I myself seek to enter the lists with these few notes jotted down in the midst of the action, under distracting circumstances — to remind myself (see p. 2, paragraph 4) of the truth.
III
The farmer in deep thought
is pacing through the rain
among his blank fields, with
hands in pockets,
in his head
the harvest already planted.
A cold wind ruffles the water
among the browned weeds.
On all sides
the world rolls coldly away:
black orchards
darkened by the March clouds —
leaving room for thought.
Down past the brushwood
bristling by
the rainsluiced wagonroad
looms the artist figure of
the farmer — composing
— antagonist
IV
The Easter stars are shining
above lights that are flashing —
coronal of the black —
Nobody
to say it —
Nobody to say: pinholes
Thither I would carry her
among the lights —
Burst it asunder
break through to the fifty words
necessary —
a crown for her head with
castles upon it, skyscrapers
filled with nut-chocolates —
dovetame winds —
stars of tinsel
from the great end of a cornucopia
of glass
S O long as the sky is recognised as an association
is recognised in its function of accessory to vague words whose meaning it is impossible to rediscover
its value can be nothing but mathematical certain limits of gravity and density of air
The farmer and the fisherman who read their own lives there have a practical corrective for —
they rediscover or replace demoded meanings to the religious terms
Among them, without expansion of imagination, there is the residual contact between life and the imagination which is essential to freedom
The man of imagination who turns to art for release and fulfilment of his baby promises contends with the sky through layers of demoded words and shapes. Demoded, not because the essential vitality which begot them is laid waste — this cannot be so, a young man feels, since he feels it in himself — but because meanings have been lost through laziness or changes in the form of existance which have let words empty.
Bare handed the man contends with the sky, without experience of existence seeking to invent and design.
Crude symbolism is to associate emotions with natural phenomena such as anger with lightning, flowers with love it goes further and associates certain textures with
Such work is empty. It is very typical of almost all that is done by the writers who fill the pages every month of such a paper as. Everything that I have done in the past — except those parts which may be called excellent — by chance, have that quality about them.
It is typified by use of
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