STAFF editor managing editor fiction editor nonfiction editor poetry editor art editor advisors
Albert Wilhelm Pam Saylor Larry Maupin Mary Lee Washburn Carolyn Jennings Louise Stewart Dr. Francelia Butler Prof. John M. Lain Dr. Stephen Mooney Prof. Frank B. Thornburg
CONTENTS fiction There is a Moment, by Drake Bush Leslie Bookblank, by L. Garrett ] Barnaby in Shirts, by Felix Bockhom_ Z
13 15 18
poetry Definition, by Frank Steele -.1___________ n Two for J, by Ronald Stottlemyer n Two Poems, by Chris Wade 20 Poem, by Ronald Stottlemyer ________ _________________ 27 nonfiction Hopkins and Roethke: Poetic Utilization of Inscape, by Albert E. Wilhelm An Interview with Dr. A. L. Rouse, by Mary Lee Washburn______ A Musical Arrangement for “Richard Cory,” by Larry Maupin____ Edward Taylor: of Metaphor and Metaphysics, by Claude Ramer__ Barbarism, 1964, by Marshall Siler 25 Interpreting Modern Dance, by Louise Stewart 26
17 21 23 24
art India ink and tempera wash, by Becky Lewis 12 Collage and wash, by Dwayne Hickman_____________________ ___ 19 Ink sketch, by Louise Stewart 26 Pencil sketch, by Jim Nubie 27
The Phoenix is the literary and art magazine published by the students of the University of Tennessee. It is issued quarterly as a supplement to The Orange & White. Separate copies are sold for fifteen cents. Copies are five cents if purchased enclosed in The Orange & White. Contributions or any correspondence intended for the Phoenix should be ad dressed to the appropriate staff member or to the editor at Box 8690, University _ Station, Knoxville, Tennessee, 37916. Fall, 1964. Vol. 60, No. 19.
DEFINITION Irony is that unfocused space Between bedroom and nursery When after making love we hear The rocking horse creak on its spring. Now I must rise all tousled And creep angelic through the hallway, Focusing one eye at a time Like a drunk with double vision. —By Frank Steele
TWO FOR J. I The look in her eyes Was one of strange wander As if she were seven And swinging through The hourless afternoons Of childhood. II As I lay in sleep, Her voice came to me Like the sound of rain In a dream—soft and sweet As damp air falling Through pale green trees. —By Ronald Stottlemyer
There Is a Moment... By Drake Bush
Headnote for There Is a Moment and Leslie Bookblank There is a certain type of human being whom nobody really likes. We tolerate him because society expects charity of us, but we would never consider befriending him. Both of the following stories are about such persons. In fact, it is this common quality which makes them some what parallel. It is worth noting that Mr. Gar rett wrote “Leslie Bookblank” after hearing Mr. Drake’s “There is a Moment” read aloud. We might con clude, then, that “Leslie” is an im pressionistic interpretation of what Bush’s character might have been like if his mother had remained alive. We might even say that Bush’s character is seeking to kill his mother vicariously through the young lady. At any rate, we receive the impression that in both cases the men are incapable of compre hending and conforming to “normal” society. Crucial to the development of both stories is the irreconcilable loneliness of the misfit and the un satisfied desire for some form of sex ual experience. Both major charac ters achieve a certain degree of “experience” but find that they can not really conquer the loneliness. It is this realization which makes their experiences ineffectual. —^by Doris Yates
In the daytime I am an office clerk. Right now I am on my way to church. What are my prospects ? Barely nothing. But that is all to the good now because I am so tired. I became tired about seven years ago. My father died first, and then my mother. About seven years ago. I just got to my seat in time, be cause the preacher is coming in now. He gives the welcome and then the opening prayer. If I were not so tired, nor so old, I might switch over to the Catholics. The Catholics are better for a lonely man I think. But I am too tired to go over. It would be too hard now, not to be a Baptist. It is hard to be as lonely as I am. I should be listening to the sermon but it is hard, when one is lonely, not to think about it. Was I staring at that girl over there ? I may have been, I must have been, else why should she be staring at me. And it’s a public effort for her, because she has to turn her head at least halfway. I have decided to linger around a while after the service is over. Something may develop. It is so warm and clean in here, and she is so pretty. Some churches are not so cheerful, some Baptist churches I mean. In fact, some
Baptist churches are not cheerful at all. Catholic churches are always mysterious and beautiful, and there are lots of things to look at. And there is usually no sermon to intrude upon one’s thoughts. I love churches though, even the little country ones that are not so warm and clean. Churches have seemed like home to me ever since I can remember. How delightful it is to be in church and to have a pretty girl staring at me. Something will surely develop. The service is ending; I must be cautious. I must not let her out of my sight. It is so bright in here, you can always depend on churches for that. It is easy, though, to be unobtrusive in a church, and I am not worried about keeping track of her. At the same time, I wouldn’t dare confront her inside the build ing. I must wait and be patient, my chance will come. I know that I must make the first move and I have resolved to do it. My chance will come. I watch, watch, watch her, and I am moving out slowly, slowly to ward the fresh air on the steps. It seems to me that we have already made a sort of contact. Surely she is aware of my awareness. Surely this is no dream, no cruel joke.
Did she nod just as we caught sight of each other in the vesti bule? The outer doors are almost within reach. Will she be lingering outside on the steps ? She is a little bit ahead of me across the way. Good. Surely that last glance, that quick toss of her head, was a direct invitation ? She will be waiting. She will be waiting.
gleams brightly at the curb, as if it were on display. When I tell her that I do not know how to drive she seems relieved. I get the im pression that she wants to show off her driving, or perhaps the car is new and she is reluctant to let others drive it. As I lean back into the softness of the seat and look out at the gleaming city lights, I feel, for the first time in years, a sense of easy, almost complete, relaxation. I am amazed at what has happened. And what a way to be leaving church.
to find, it is with myself. Still, there were circumstances beyond my control, and even though this is common to all of us, it is also unique in each of us. But, even at that, to whom am I to refer my reactions if not to myself? I have, it may be said, succumbed to my self. All this as we stand on the over looking rim of the city. All this in a moment, and the moment has just begun. This is the way the world should happen. To everyone, at least once.
But isn’t this a bit odd, a bit dangerous perhaps? She is so young and pretty, so unlikely to be attracted to me. Can there be any Hot coffee. So cozy on her sense to this business? Hadn’t I We are silent as she guides the better just walk on by, aloof and car through traffic, and silence is couch, leaning back luxuriously, al indifferent to the whole affair? surely a virtue at such a moment. lowing myself to be supremely But she will be waiting. I know, Her hair is long and simple; she comfortable. Breaking the silence, I know she will be waiting for me. looks comfortable behind the vague little noises from the kitch wheel. She enjoys driving her car en. Did I hear whispering? She She stands midway down the and she likes our silence together. appears from the kitchen and, as steps, her full skirt fanning out When she breaks it it is only to they say, glides across the room. gently in the breeze. Her hair is point out magnificent view of There is no sound as she sits down golden r- brown in the fluttering the city the around the next bend. very close to me. And when she floodlight. She is talking to a Just as we reach the view we ar leans her lips on mine, clutching fresh-looking young man who looks rive at her apartment building, and my arms, another, entirely differ just her age. When she sees me on ent moment is just beginning. I the top step she makes a hurried I realize that I have never seen become an appetite, an uncons the city from this vantage point. excuse to the young man and starts cious, hungry force that crushes walking up towards me. She is I have always been down there and pummels her, a frenzied flail somewhere, in the anonymous, smiling. I look around. No one. I ing of arms and legs. And then my cannot move, except to lean back crowded mass, with the people hands take over and I begin to who walk everywhere. The air is against the wall. It is forever be rip and claw at her clothes. She is fore she is standing still, in front fresh and crisp up here. The car in some kind of trance, and, sec door makes a crisp, crunchy sound of me. as I close it, and there is a flood onds later, she is naked and help Her voice sounds like it should light that illuminates patterns on less before me. and I am discovering that I remind the asphalt. The city is an abstrac My fury is suddenly arrested. I her of her father. Her words are tion below us; its lights have lost am sweating profusely, unbearably happiness to me. I, happily, lean their urban glare. We look down hot, as I stare hopelessly down at against the wall and relisten to at the iridescent result of a quite her. I am so scared of what I have her description of me. The appro gentle explosion, and when her done that I cannot move. And yet, priate thing has been said and I hand slips into mine I am hardly after all, she did offer herself to am all confidence now. I wonder aware of it. High above, a plane me — at least that is what I took if she noticed my uneasiness? But drones and winks through the her to mean. But now I am tasting that is already in the background, night. How nice. We are in the my tears. I am wiped out, as if I and yet, my calm, assured tones middle. had been a bit of excess ink, blot surprise myself — so much so that ted away hurriedly by an impatient And at the same time, I cannot I am absolutely sure that we will depositor. believe this moment. I have never fall in together in some sort of And so, I am nothing again. The way which I cannot, at present, de had anything like it, and why termine. What will happen will should it come now? And why is couch, the lamp, the door, the my mind ticking away like this, fresh, honey-colored girl, and all happen. letting one thought after another the rest of it are there before me, And as we talk, easily and na have its own way, as if I were a like a framed picture. But where turally, it happens that she invites child instead of a man who reminds do I fit — where — where? Like me to her apartment for coffee. It a twenty-four year old girl of her a spinning disc the world swirls is quite early in the evening and, father? But why am I quibbling? around inside me. after all, she is twenty-four years Shouldn’t I be allowed one moment As I go out the door I hear her old and quite able to invite whom in my life, one carefree experience she pleases to her apartment. And that just happens as it goes, unde crying, I think. I am not at all sure about that, however, and any she is lonely too. termined and spontaneous? way the fresh air tastes so good As we walk towards her car she I would not say that I have been that all I can do is gulp it down looks up at me and I wonder how denied such moments, they have and try to forget. How lucky! she can be lonely. There is a haze just never happened to occur to There’s a cab, just coming around in the air and her car is white; it me, that’s all. If there is any fault the corner. 14
LESLIE BOOK BLANK by L. Garret
When Leslie Bookblank at forty-three began writing loveletters to himself, his mother said that was the end, she could take no more. She had known about the letters for some time now. Three months before, he had left the first of them, as if carelessly forgotten, on his bureau, knowing she would find it while cleaning and read it. It was from a fictitious girl and addressed from a fictitious ad dress, neatly typed, probably by her son himself on his lunch hour. The next letter she found related lurid bits of shared experiences, and in the next to last she, or he.
had written mysteriously of her “rosebud breasts.” In the letter she had found yes terday, left cunningly rolled up into a pair of his socks, the girl intimated that she was pregnant, and perhaps she would have to have an abortion; but, this was no problem, as her parents were quite wealthy and “modern” about such things. There had even been en closed in one of the letters a pic ture of the girl, an extraordinarily beautiful girl, and where in the world Leslie had gotten it she did not know, unless he had found it on the street or stolen it from someone he knew. She shook her head in shame. She could not understand it. Con sequently that morning she sat waiting for him at the breakfast table with a tight-drawn face. Leslie appeared, bleary-eyed, in articulate, and swollen from sleep. Leslie was a big man, but his largeness was all out of proportion. His waist was very high so that it appeared that he had no chest at all. He had a very large, round behind. In school he had been called Hippy because of that be hind, and he was severely, secretly, and immensely ashamed of it. Leslie watched his mother fur tively as she moved about the kitchen. She had once been beau tiful, but at sixty-two her small, neat figure had changed into the squat, short body moving heavily before him. She was very nervous and smoked continually — three packs a day sometimes — and al ways drank a beer before bedtime. She stood before the stove with a cigarette in her hand ladling his bacon and eggs onto the plate. She brought the plate over and sat down with only a cup of coffee. “Leslie,” she said finally, “how’s your girl friend — the one you used to go with who was a secre tary, or something. The one you never brought home to meet me?” She eyed him suspiciously above her poised cup intent on detecting some evidence of betrayal. But in stead of answering her he asked, “Is my costume here?” “Yes,” she said with a percept ible grimace of distaste. “It’s on the hall table, but I don’t see why you want to go as that.” He shrugged, absorbed with his food. “I have to go as something. After all, it is a costume dance.” “Yes,” she said suddenly, almost hysterically, waving her cigarette
across the table. Leslie looked down. In the middle of what was left of his scrambled eggs was a large piece of ash from the ciga rette. He blinked and pushed the plate away wearily. She was still talking, and what she had done had not registered yet in her mind. “Yes,” she had said, “but that!” A second ash flicked out over the bacon. “A gaucho, yes, a skeleton, yes, or even Mickey Mouse, or some damn reasonable thing. But that ?” This time he answered resigned ly. “I’m not the gaucho type. Too tall for Mickey Mouse. And too fat for a skeleton. Besides, I like it.” “You like it,” she said softly. Then, to herself, “He likes it.” Her son had always been strange, she thought; perhaps the strangest son any woman had ever had, except ing actual lunatics. She looked back at him. “But you still haven’t answered my question.” “What question?” He was fing ering his moustache with obvious satisfaction. It was not much of a moustache, a small, thin one that gave his large face a ridiculous appearance. “The question, to wit, of what happened to the secretary. What’sher-name?” “Oh,” he said very softly, as he looked up at her with those cunning little eyes that were too small for his face. “I stopped see ing her. I have someone else now.” And he threw her a quick look then, almost visible in the gay, sunny kitchen. “Yes,” he said happily, leaning back in his chair, and smiling posi tively for the first time that morn ing. “I have someone else now.” She did not comment but satisfied herself with merely glaring at him from behind billowing clouds of light gray cigarette smoke. Leslie stood beside his friend, his only friend, Peter, at the park ing lot of Podium and Custer. Peter was a thin, nervous man, who seemed always to be scratching his bald head, and then looking up al most surprised not to find any loose hairs in his fingers. “There’ll be lots of girls there tonight,” Peter said, “and the good part about it is you can be masked, see? That way if you want to fool around or something, you know, like get a little feel or something— no one knows who it is. You under stand ?” 15
Leslie nodded. They turned to wards the office building. “Maybe the skinny girl you danced with the last time will be there. Helen What’s - her - name. You stuck on her?” “Maybe,” Les lie said, then nodded again. .^‘Wowee!” Pete said, and looked sideways at Leslie with new re spect. “What are you coming as? I mean, costume?” “An elephant,” replied Leslie. “A what?” “An elephant,” repeated Leslie. “Well, I’ll be darned. Whatta you know ? An elephant. Who ever woulda thought of that?” At exactly eight-thirty that eve ning an elephant named Leslie Bookblank lumbered with heavy breaths up the brightly lighted stairs of the True Heart Friend ship Club. Cradled in its right hand it carried its long-nosed and tusked head; it had a thin little moustache, and on its face was an expression of childlike anticipa tion. He paid his dollar-fifty at the entrance desk and went into the ballroom. But here his hopes de serted him, and the transforma tion registered with anguish on his face. He seemed to deflate sud denly, so that a pimply Tarzan and a Rajah, both with identical ciga rettes slanting from identical scowling mouths, turned suddenly away from him, as if a contagion of despair and loneliness had en tered the room, and they too might be infected. She was not there. He went to the little bar across the big room, dragging his ele phant’s head behind him by one ear, and bought a coke. When he had his coke, he noticed the ele phant’s head dragging at his side, and he lifted it up by its long nose and laid it gently, right side up, upon the bar, facing him. At nine o’clock she arrived, a talil, thin, girl flanked by two small women that looked like bookends. She stood a little self-cons ciously in the door between her two companions, sensitive that others realized that she had come here as a last resort just as they had. Here one lost even the dig nity of indifference. Stealthily Leslie reached for his elephant head and put it on. The long, wrinkled nose swung down heavily, and he shook his head ex 16
perimentally. The ears were very large; there were very small eye holes through which to see; around the holes were painted wide comi cal eyes with long, dark eyelashes. Following the coke Leslie had had three drinks, and now, as he swung down from the bar, he real ized that they were beginning to affect him. Everything looked fuzzy. He lumbered heavily, just like a real elephant, over to the three some. “Awooooooo,” he moaned in what was his best imitation of an elephant, and swung his trunk back and forth rhythmically. “Who is it?” one of the smaller women asked, and, as if it were a real elephant, drew back a little behind Helen. She had huge, wide eyes like saucers, and now in her fright they went wider still. “Awoooooo,” he went again. Leslie and Helen sat at the bar of the Trueheart Friendship Club. He had another drink—his fourth. Helen was sipping a Grasshopper. He cleared his throat. “Have you seen any good movies?” he asked suddenly, his voice raised almost to a squeak. “Why?” she said, with an intake of breath that he knew was a prelude to that breathless sentence that would follow. She seemed to start all of her sentences with “Why.” “I saw a Doris Day movie just last night now that you men tion it, you know, with Rock Hud son where she’s a rich widow and he’s a poor fisherman that be comes a famous author so that he can marry her in the end. I think she has such a beautiful figure, don’t you?” “Yeah,” Leslie said. “Yes, I do.” “They say it’s because she’s a swimmer, and you know swimming all the time keeps her in shape, don’t you agree?” “Haw!” He had not meant it to be so loud, but in his eagerness to please, he thought that she was making a joke, but now, very ner vous, he had blurted it out louder than he meant to so that several people turned around and looked at them. Helen watched him tensely from behind her narrow, horn - rimmed glasses. Later, as he danced with her, Leslie had only one thought: he wanted his mother to see this wo man who was his.
“I want you to meet my moth er,” he said at last as he pushed her jerkily from one pre-arranged spot to another across the floor. “I’d love to,” she said. And that was that. When they arrived at the house, the lights were all out but one. The cab driver turned around and faced them. It was obvious that he considered both of his fares in need of observation. Once in traf fic a few miles back, Leslie had rolled down the back window and stuck his head out, trumpeting at a little old lady in the car next to theirs. It had scared the cab driver almost as much as the old lady, and he had watched them cautious ly ever since through the rear view mirror. None of the three people had uttered a word since that incident. “Are you sure it’s all right?” asked Helen. “Of course,” he said, regaining some of his enthusiasm and point ing. “That’s my mother’s light on. Now we’ll be very quiet so we can surprise her . . .” They were very quiet; so quiet, in fact, that Mrs. Bookblank, drunk and naked and sitting in the middle of her bed, did not see them for a full ten seconds stand ing in the doorway of her bedroom. At first she thought it was an ap parition — a huge elephant and this gawky, lean woman in a prin cess- dress. Both women fainted simultaneously. Later, when Mrs. Bookblank came to and looked at the clock, it was three in the morning. She went unsteadily to her closet and got a robe. The rest of the house was dark, and when she got to the living room she saw his shape against the light from the window. He was standing straight and steady in the middle of the floor. She turned on the wall switch, and Leslie blinked in the light. He had been standing as if at attention. The elephant’s head was at his side. As soon as the light went on, he lifted the head and put it on. “Listen to me now, Leslie,” she said. She could hear him breath ing, and knew that he was watch ing her from behind the mask. “Leslie,” she said, “Take off that silly mask. Remove it at once! Leslie, are you crazy?” He walked quietly over to her, wrapped his trunk around her neck and strangled her.
Hopkins and Roethke: Poetic Utilization of Inscape by Albert E. Wilhelm
Occasionally it is the privilege and duty of an editorial staff member to overrule his editor. Such is the case in the presentation of the following essay. Editor Wilhelm requested that this essay, submitted by one of his profes sors, not be published. However, since this essay is a significant piece of exposition and makes a valuable con tribution to literary thought, it is pub lished here. —the Nonfiction Editor
Inscape, says W. A. H. Peters, “ ‘is the outward reflection of the inner nature of a thing, or a sen sible copy or presentation of its individual essence . . For Ger ard Manley Hopkins the inscape appears to be both a source of poetic material and a general means or formula for poetic ex pression. He not only apprehends naturally occurring inscapes but also attempts to produce new in scapes through the medium of language. Let us explore more fully the re lationship between “inner nature,” natural inscape, and created in scape. The relationship is seen to be roughly parallel. It is generally that correlation between essence or quidditas, natural phenomena, and art or artifact. (The term “es sence” is used advisedly, despite its metaphysical connotations, as an approximate synonym for “in ner nature.” I do not presume to theorize upon the exact ontologi cal status of this essence or inner nature. I merely presume, as does Hopkins, that any entity does have an essence which exists independ
ently of its sensible representa tion.) The natural inscape is dis played through natural sensations, for example, the visual image of a tree; the created inscape is dis played through poetically pro duced sensations, for example, the inguistic and musical evocation of “treeness”. It should be pointed out that the created inscape is not necessarily a copy or duplicate of the natural-sensational inscape, for the two usually occur via different media. Both may be direct reflec tions of a thing’s essence. The poet may intuit an essence through a natural inscape; he may then re portray the essence in his art. Since both in scapes are one step removed from ultimate reality, both may be equally real. Later I shall attempt to show that Hopkin’s poetry does often achieve this status of “co-reality.” It would appear that the Amer ican poet Theodore Roethke uti lizes inscapes to a lesser degree than does Hopkins. He, no doubt, perceives natural inscapes and ap preciates them as poetically suit able material. He does not, how ever, create new inscapes with the frequency and vividness of Hop kins. Roethke’s poetry is about in scapes ; it does not often become an inscape in its own right. Some specific references may perhaps make this point clear. Hopkins writes: Cloud-p u f f b a 11, torn tufts, tossed pillows/ flaunt forth, then chevy on an airbuilt thoroughfare: heaven - roysterers, in gay - gangs/ they throng; they glitter in
marches . . . (“That Nature Is a Heraclitean Fire and of the Comfort of the Resurrec tion”) I caught this morning morn ing’s minion king-/ dom of daylight’s dauphin, dappledawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding/ Of the rolling level underneath him steady air . . . (“The Windhover”) In describing similar entities Roethke writes: There were clouds making a rout of shapes crossing wind break of cedars . . . Some morning thing came, beating its wings. The great elm filled with birds . . . (“A Field of Light”) Even out of context the lines from Hopkins achieve a sort of com pleteness. They are complete in that as a series of poetic impres sions they attempt to portray wholly the essence of a particular thing (or things). The created in scape stands alone and as a direct indicator of reality can be appre ciated for itself and without ex ternal reference (i.e., without ref erence to the reader’s own per sonal experience prior to the ex periencing of the poetry itself). Also, the series of poetic impres sions is organized in a particular way, and, as in music, this structure is maintained by its own in ternal forces. For example, one word (or sound) may be pulled to its neighbor as one note is drawn to adjacent notes in music. In a sense then the created poetic in scape has its own instress. Like (Continued on Page 27) 17
Barnaby in Shirts A Whimsical Tale of Malice by Felix Buckhorn (pseudonym)
That did it, that meeting with Phillip Andrews. And the condes cension of man. He was his, John Barnaby’s, age, but he was fat and sleek, whereas Barnaby was thin and tatty; he was wellpressed, dapper, whereas Barnaby was wrinkled, baggy. “Sit down, Higgins.” Phillip Andrews, Presi dent of Woodbane and Letdorf’s Department Store, didn’t even know his name: John Barnaby, low man in the shirt department. Say ing “Goodby, Mr. Woodbane” in leaving the Office was no consola tion either. He’d only said it under his breath. That did it, though, that whole business. Fifteen years and fifteen dollars. “You see, Barnaby,” Mr. Drull the Floor Walker said before Barnaby went up that morning in May to see the President, “You see, Barnaby, when you were here five years the store gave you a five dollar bill. After ten years you got ten dollars. Now it’s fifteen dol lars. Five more years and it’ll be twenty dollars, and you’ll be able to join the Twenty Year Club up stairs.” Twenty Year Club: that store organization with the small penthouse c 1 u b r o o m where the American and the store flags stood side by side; that store organiza tion for salesclerks who’d been with Woodbane and Letdorf’s for twenty years. Barnaby had been with the store for fifteen years now, and he was forty-five. Five more years and he’d be fifty. He’d be old, and a Twenty Year Clubber. How he hated it, the thought of being old and selling shirts. How he despised it, age—old age. There was his invalid mother, old, bed 18
ridden and going “Clerrr” when he fed her. And the smells of age: like Mr. Nichols, top man in shirts and a Twenty Yearer. Barnaby could smell him whenever Nichols was close and happened to open his mouth. So, Barnaby tried to avoid Mr. Nichols in order not to smell him; and so Mr. Nichols thought that Barnaby was anti-social and told them so in the Personnel De partment. Or, at least, this was what old Miss Dabney in ties had once told him. And then the old women customers — how Barnaby loathed them, the ones whose false teeth made their lips mere slits painted red with the area below the underlips convex and running into chins perfectly round above dewlaps. These were the women, Barnaby said to Mrs. Piles, who was second to Mr. Nichols in shirts, these were the women, Barnaby said, who went “Rerk, and scratched their thinly hair.” Thus it was that Mrs. Pilesthought Barnaby was crazy; or so she said to Miss Dabney, who re peated it to Barnaby in what he knew was a moment of malice. He hated these old women, Mrs. Piles and Miss Dabney, and the old women customers who said “I want!” and then usually didn’t want it at all. And mother going “Clerrr”’ and sometimes calling: “John Barnaby! I’m wet!” It would have to be done today, then thought Barnaby, with his fifteen dollars in five dollar bills. I’ll free myself of the Rerk’s and Clerrr’s, and then I’ll burn the store down and watch the seared and burning shirts flap-flap their way to heaven. It would be done:
a monumental act of malice to re pay all the malice which was at the root of all those dreadful sounds and smells of age. Barnaby got off the elevator and walked through men’s wear to his glass counter. Sure enough, there she was, waiting by the size fif teen - thirty - three’s ; standing on the soft carpet, bathing in the soft light. Tightly curled blue hair, and a red slit for a mouth (“Meanly mouthed,” Barnaby once said to Mrs. Piles, who gave him a strange look). “Ah, young man,” she said as Fifteen-Year-Man Barnaby walked behind his counter. “Young man, I want . . .” With her mouth opened there was a smell. Ufff, thought Barnaby, but he brightened as he looked beyond his counter to the glass doors behind which the esca lators moved down. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Well,” she said, looking startled and mean, her spectacles glowing in the soft-glow light. Barnaby was absorbed in him self as he moved slowly from be hind his counter. An old woman like the one who was drooling to get at him had just gotten off the escalator from the floor above and was going further down. There was no one behind her or in front of her, Barnaby saw through the glass. “Wait a minute,” he said, and snapped a shirt out on the counter. “Look at that one and I’ll be back in a second.” He was through the glass doors and at the top of the escalator with
the old women and her shopping bag on it. He would have to move fast: he could hear voices of people on the escalator coming from the floor above. “Hoo,” said Barnaby. As the old woman turned to look up, she moved her free hand from the railing. She was mean. Barn aby knew. Before their eyes met, he shot his hand up to the emer gency stop button on the wall. The escalator made sort of a grinding noise and stopped short. “Erk!” went the old woman just before she tumbled down the metal steps. Small packages, her heavy shoes shocked loose, her glasses rattled on the sharp, metal treads. “Oh, my goodness,” said Barna by. He put his hands in his pockets and started down the steps. None too loudly, he said: “Help, Mr. Drull.” At the foot of the stopped esca lator people were gathering so Barnaby couldn’t see what he had done. He paused as he heard Mr. Drull come through the customers
also grouping at the top of the escalator — “Pardon me, please. Pardon.” He hurried past Barnaby, who was swaying in place on the steps while saying very low: “Help, Mr. Drull.” Two steps below Barnaby, Drull stopped and looked up at him in horror. But his voice was angry when he said, “Get back behind your counter, goddamn you. Get back.” Drull hurried on down among the people and noise where the old women had fallen. “Oh, dear. He must have seen me,” said Barnaby. He walked back up and passed the people gathering to see what had happened. There, behind one of the glass doors, stood his customer. She moved back in time before he could shove the door open and right smack into her. “What was that on the esca lator?” she said. “Nothing. Now, what was it you wanted, M’am?” ISarnaby went be hind his counter as Mr. Drull had
told him to. “Let’s see, you want ed some sixteen - thirty - two’s, right ? Pll have to go into the store room to get them.” “No, wait, I want . . .,” the old woman said. But Barnaby was gone. He wanted a box full of shirts to crown her with. A whole box of lovelies, he thought. Flapping up to heaven when I burn the place down. The store was a narrow, long place of dust and boxes Barnaby detested between the false wall of the show room and the outer wall of the building. Rows of boxes he had helped to stock were piled from the floor to the ceiling on the false wall side. The real wall was brick, dusty, and in it were three large windows painted yel low. When Barnaby passed them, he could feel the sun on his back. He began to sweat. Where are they ? he thought. Those forty-four regulars ? Oh, where, oh, where can my little dog be? (Continued on next page)
Barnaby . . .
TWO POEMS by Chris Wade
I can hear her softness with the gentle sunlight on her yet softer hair, and I am glad we met—with the bleakness of winter to hide our slow ways from the gentle prying of friends with good wishes
If the sun comes up out of the west my world would be right side up Or the sun hands me moon-ebony to show the world my mood, (oh strange shadow that surely is me—bend, bend, cut, shape, design into solitude this mind)
(Continued from Page 19) Barnaby wasn’t too sure of what he was supposed to be doing now. He was only vaguely aware of be ing wet—hot, sweaty, and wet. And then in the show room there was a voice that said: “Where’s Barnaby?” He heard this as he dragged a step-ladder up against the boxes of shirts. He’d get a box from the top and brain Drull with it when he came in looking for him. Twinka-doodle-dum, thought Barnaby as he climbed the ladder and reached for a bright red box that was tightly rammed in among all the others that were white and went “Hoo.” “Hoo ? But I said ‘Hoo,’ ” said Barnaby as he snatched at the red box. He was right in front of one of the windows and the sun that he couldn’t see through the painted glass was hot on his back. The red box was hot, too, and it wouldn’t come out when Barnaby tugged. “Little Red Riding Hood, I’ll hoo your goo,” he said and gave a mighty, enraged tug with both his hands on the red box. “Where’s Barnaby?” a voice said in the show room, and the box screamed as Barnaby’s fingers tore as he tugged. Clerrr went the box as it ripped free. “Oops!” said Barnaby when the red box pulled out and his arms jerked back towards the window. He lost his balance on the ladder, and he heard a minor rumble as some boxes fell around him. First his elbows and then his forearms— with his fingers still clutching a box that was white in the sun — and his head and torso, his whole body crashed and tore through the window. Glass, part of the window frame, white shirts and Barnaby burst out into the bright sun six stories up from the pavement. Mr. Drull heard the noise and rushed into the store room in time to see some boxes falling and Bar naby’s feet disappearing through the window. “Christ!” he said, while the sunlight streamed in on dust and on white boxes stacked against the wall. He felt sick; he leaned on the brick wall as he heard the startled noises in the street below where traffic was stopping and people were gather ing around something that lay amid broken glass and shirts scat tered on the pavement.
An Interview With Dr. A. L. Rouse by Mary Lee Washburn
Even on a small, arty publica tion like the Phoenix we staff members feel ourselves bound by the journalistic ethical code — “Obey thy Editor.” It all began when Editor Wilhelm hailed me two days before the Rowse lecture with: “Wouldn’t it be marvelous if we could do an article about Dr. Rowse’s visit for the Phoenix? Per haps we could even get an inter view — we could ask him a given set of questions, then ask Dr. San ders for a rebuttal on the same points — you know how violently he opposes most of Rowse’s facts —we could print the interviews in two columns, side by side . . .” Yes. Good idea. I was enthused. Then, “Of course as nonfiction edi tor you must arrange the inter views and plan the questions—the article would be in your depart ment — and we need a Shake speare student to interview these two scholars — you WILL have time, won’t you?” And thus I be gan my experience as “Mary Lee Washburn, Girl Reporter.” You must know at this point (1) that I had never interviewed any body about anything before, (2) that I hadn’t the vaguest notion what Dr. Rowse had said in any of his books, and (3) the most hor rible, that I don’t take shorthand. But I polished my journalistic brass and began. Shortly after Dr. Rowse’s scheduled check-in time, I called the Andrew Johnson Hotel. “Good afternoon, Andrew Johnson Hote-elle?” “Dr. Rowse’s suite, please.” Long silence. Then, in Ox ford British, “Hallo? Room 1616—
I suppose that’s what I’m supposed to say.” Suddenly, I had an inter view. “Yes, yes. I’m certain that would be all right. Come around tonight after the lecture.” So I went around after the lecture. Sat in the back row, stayed in the back ground during the “Dr. Rowse-Ienjoyed-your-talk-so much” ’s and the “Splendid-just-splendid” ’s, and hovered around the hoverers in the autograph crowd. Hands in poc kets, collar turned up, notebook in hand, Dorothy Parker approached her prey. “Oh, yes. Miss Washburn. Well, I’m too tired now. Come around tomorrow morning. That should be all right.” To the library. Checked out three Rowse books, absorbed them overnight, planned Intelligent Questions to ask Dr. Rowse, cut my 9 a.m. class, and taxied to the Andrew Johnson. And scared! — no autograph seekers to crouch among, no background to fade in to, no experience. Fortunately, for my journalistic career, I was wear ing my trench coat and shoulder bag ... I waited in the lobby for Dr. Rowse’s arrival, thinking liter ary thoughts and attempting to look New York Times-ish. But the effect must have been rather Sat urday Evening Post-y, for the fol lowing is an account of The Inter view: “Good morning. Now what is it you want to know?” “A few routine facts to begin. Dr. Rows e.” (Just the facts, ma’am, just . . .) “You arrived yes terday for the Philological Club Lecture last evening, from here you go-----?”
“To Winthrop College. You know, this is the first professional tour I have ever made, but I de cided to succumb to the blandish ments of the American agents this year, because ... I do have a mess age to get across, you know.” “Ah, yes, and we were so glad you were able to come. Now, spe cifically, Dr. Rowse, I wanted to question you about your concept of ‘perception’ in the historical ap proach to Shakespeare. (Intelli gent Question No. 1). In your writ ings and in your lecture you men tion the importance of the percep tion of the literary critic and the historian in interpreting an artist and his work. What do you mean by ‘perception’? Are you allowing the interpreter’s imagination to enter his interpretation ? If not, how is perception limited and how does it contribute?” Intelligent Question No. 1 was my first and last. Dr. Rowse needed no prompt ing. “Well of course a certain amount of perception is necessary for the historian and the critic. In fact, it helps to be a poet. I happen to have published several small vol umes of poetry, you know. When one takes a given thinker in the history of literature and gives him a firm historical setting in the ^ frame of his work, only a truly perceiving mind can interpret the facts properly. I think the mar riage of history and poetry gives you a firmer background for the understanding of Shak e s p e a r e than any amount of partisan criti cism in the abstract. 21
“It makes me angry to think that the greatest of our writers should be a target for cranks and crackpots — people who know nothing about the age. It stands to reason that one ought to be im mersed in Shakespeare’s age and time in order to get him in proper ^perspective. I think that I have been putting him back into his real historical environment, which is why I title my lecture, ‘The Real Shakespeare.’ Shakespeare is really what the best of Shakespearean scholars have thought him to be, but the historian has been able to make it firm—to settle a number of hoary old problems. That’s hoary, h-o-a-r-y. Did you get that?” Here I had to smile. Dr. Rowse had just revealed the aspect of his thinking that has brought him such strong criticism: his definite ness, his'absolute certainty that he is the absolute authority on the Elizabethan Age, on Shakespeare —and even on spelling. “The literary scholars, by leav ing so many of the Shakespearean problems up in the air, have left them, wide open for all the cranks and crackpots to seize and use to confuse the public mind. They play havoc in our field. I regard my aggressive campaign — yes, ag gressive — again all this nonsense as a solid contribution to putting the questions about Shakespeare back on the right track. In my last letter from J. B. Priestly he said, ‘Your account of the sonnets is an invaluable contribution to Shake spearean criticism.’ I value that tribute from a creative writer, himself a dramatist, far more than the comments of a lot of uncreative critics. One thing that sur prised me about the reception of my book (the biography of Shake speare) was the notable lack of generousity on the part of so many of the latter towards a scholar from an allied field who, after all, has spent the whole of his life in the study of the Elizabethan age.” His round owlish eyes grew more owlish and there was almost a wist ful sadness in his voice and I al most felt true sympathy for this bluff, gruff old gentleman who, after all, had spent the whole of his life in the study of the Eliza bethan age. “From the first, I realized that there would be some reaction to such definiteness — people like to nurse their old illusions and they 22
don’t like a favorite old mystery cleared up. So I decided to follow up the big biography with an edi tion of the Sonnets with all the evidence set out in the commentary so people could follow for them selves the common sense of it all. As you see, I believe that a combi nation of common sense with a sense of poetry offers a far better approach to Shakespeare than any A. amount of pretention and boring pseudo-criticism. I say, that was pseudo, p-s-e-u-d-o. Did you get that?” In the modern ballad form we Aware by now that we really hadn’t answered Intelligent Ques find a curious amalgam of literary tion No. 1, I prepared to proceed components and the elements of to No. 2, but first, “Dr. Rowse, folklore. The ballad as we common what do you mean by a “sense of ly know it today is a short narra tive poem which retains a songlike poetry?” “Well, indeed, that’s quite ob character. This hybrid nature re vious and self-explanatory. I mean flects the ballad form’s dual anthe capacity to understand and ap cestory and long history of devel preciate poetry. What else could I opment. The original ballads were folk mean?” (I really didn’t know, but ballads. As such they were anony I thought it might help.) “Do you have enough now ? I’m getting mous and were composed specific rather tired of talking, you know.” ally to be sung. These songs were transferred from generation to Intelligent Question No. 2 com generation without being written pletely abandoned, I was grasping down, and in this manner many for the Inspired Conclusion when versions of the same song arose. the lady seated across from us who The earliest stories were based “couldn’t help hearing and becom upon old romances or legends. The ing interested” recited a litany of subject was treated impersonally facts about repertoire theater un and in simple language. There was der Tyrone Guthrie in Minneapo a casual handling of rhyme (often lis, “And what did Dr. Rowse approximate rhyme) and an a-b-cthink?” Dr. Rowse was, of course, b scheme was common. thoroughly familiar with munici It was in the pre-Romantic era pal drama in Minneapolis and of the eighteenth century that thought Mr. Guthrie was produc these ballads first became the ob ing remarkable results. ject of literary interest. Bishop Was there anything else I want Percy published a collection of ed to know or would I like a cup them in a volume entitled “Reof coffee before I left. No, there liques.” James Maspherson’s fam really wasn’t anything else, thank- ous Ossian hoax aroused further him-very-much, and I really didn’t interest in the ballad genre. The care for coffee, but the lady from form became popular with such Minneapolis would join him in a writers as Keats, Coleridge, and cup, and the next time I was in Kipling. Thus the folk ballad Minneapolis, wouldn’t I catch evolved into the literary ballad. Guthrie’s Macbeth? So Girl Re The anonymous song was replaced porter gathered her trench coat by a skilled artist’s imitation of and walked back to her 10 o’clock the more popular form. class pondering how to approach Like the earlier folk ballads, Dr. Sanders with unanswered In many eighteenth and nineteenth telligent Questions for rebuttal century ballads were also set to and how to appease Editor Wil music. These were, however, not helm with the fragments of his folk songs but art songs or lieder. lead article and how to print a Franz Schubert was perhaps the one-sided debate in two columns most prominent composer of these with pertinent prefatory material. “modern ballads.” His musical ar Yes, I still have the list of Intelli rangement of Goethe’s “Der Ergent Questions to Ask Dr. Rowse. konig” is exemplary of his many The next time you’re in Minneapo achievements in the field. lis .. . We publish here a composition
A Musical Arrangement For 'Richard Cory'* by Larry Maupin (commentary by Albert Wilhelm)
of similar nature. Mr. Maupin has chosen a modern American ballad, Edward Arlington Robinson’s “Richard Cory,” as the basis of his musical arrangement. (The text of the poem is not published here because of prior copyright. The reader is urged to consult Oscar Williams’ A Pocket Book of Modern Verse, Louis Untermeyer’s A Concise Treasury of Great Poems or-any other standard an thology.) Robinson uses the ballad form to convey how “we people” re garded Richard Cory, and in the last two lines, how he regarded himself. The ironic contrast startles us and accentuates the tension between public image and self image. In a purely musical sense Mr. Maupin’s composition remains more or less true to the mood cre ated by Robinson’s poem. The ex plication is unfolded calmly but deliberately. The culmination is achieved with a new and some what surprising musical phrase. This phrase is, however, not re solved to the tonic note — we are in effect left hanging in a state of unresolved tension. One might argue that Mr. Mau pin achieves his surprise ending in a way that is inconsistent with Robinson’s method. Robinson’s ef fect is achieved in an offhand way via understatement or litotes. On the other hand, Mr. Maupin choos es to resort to more dramatic means: he introduces a new and complex musical phrase to his score and terminates the phrase on a somewhat unorthodox F-sharp. Nevertheless, the total effect of Mr. Maupin’s composition provides an interesting musical complement to Robinson’s poem.
-gj1 ; y^ rm jTh
----.^-.±lLZlAy iiTTHl,, rr^
— ----aLJ— » 1 rr
JTn J. Kl
^ : n ~= -/■i ^ 4 I77i—|-~Ylll . f ^p-_ # ---------------
111 nn J'Ld_w. >
^ - f-rT
Edward Taylor: Of Metaphor and Metaphysics by Claude Ramer
One of the most notable factors in the construction of Edward Taylor’s poem “Huswifery”i is the profuse and highly specialized use of metaphor. The fact that Taylor uses metaphoric language is not in itself unusual, but the objects il lustrated both direct the method of construction and reveal some thing about the poet and his times. The metaphysical mode in poetry, through the operation of extended metaphor, had its vogue in England some time before Taylor began to use it in America. But the fact of our having a metaphysical poet (and we did not know it until Tay lor was “discovered” in 1939) should be of special interest to us because of the twentieth century revival of metaphysical ways of thinking in poetry. Taylor’s use of the spinning wheel and loom tells something of the time during which he lived. His world, unlike ours, accepted ma chines with more favor than we sometimes do today. The spinning wheel was no doubt regarded as another evidence of God’s bounty; it was certainly a necessary tool of the seventeenth century in which Taylor lived. If he had lived in our modern mechanized age, he might have been forced to write some thing like the following: 24
Make me, 0 Lord, thy IBM 1620 digital computer unerring. Thy Holy Words my electronic tape print-out mechanism make. Certainly this is an absurd com parison which overlooks the reli gious quality of “Huswifery,” ob scures its message, and mocks its symbolism. But it does reflect the fact that Taylor chose familiar articles with which he was well acquainted; his knowledge of the spinning wheel is shown by his use of such words as distaff, flyers, reels and winde quills. One won ders whether a modern poet could assimilate into his vocabulary such terms as “cybernetics,” “diode,” or “thermistor.” Second, and more important than the spinning wheel as it exists in time, is the comparison Taylor makes between the spinning-weav ing process and his primary pur pose in life, which is taken to be complete submission to the will of God in an effort to achieve self purification. In this respect, Tay lor likens himself to a spinning wheel — completely subservient to the will of the skilled craftsman. In the comparison, the three stan zas are representative of the three major steps in the production of clothing: wool-thread, threadcloth, and cloth-clothing. In turn, the three weaving stages parallel three main areas in the attain ment of Christian life: basic teach ings and principles of God, their
integration into the life of man, and exemplification through the life of each believer — in this case Taylor himself. It is Taylor’s wish to be a weaver of God’s cloth on earth, and in the end to be worthy of wearing the cloak which he has helped to make. Again, one is constrained to ask questions, not only about machines and metaphors, but about the figure of machines and mechan isms that, however subtly, may have worked its way into modern religious and poetic thinking. The well-known conflict between sci ence and religion may indeed be illustrated in placing Taylor’s world and our own side by side. Perhaps the real strength of Taylor’s words lies in their sim plicity. The style of “Huswifery” is refreshing but in no manner lacking in depth or meaning. In deed, the ease with which the words flow from the mouth of the reader reveals the real heart of Taylor’s message. It is likely that his devout belief in the wonders of God was itself built on a philosophy of simplicity. The words seem al most to be the work of an inspired child, and yet they embrace the wisdom of ages and the hope for years to come. ^The poem is easily available in many books; for example, Brad ley, Beatty, and Longs’ The Amer ican Tradition in Literature (New York, 1962), p. 38.
Barbarism, 1964 by Marshall Siler
During the reigin of Elizabeth I The dogs were released in packs of England, “bearbaiting,” the of five and immediately the first sport of chaining a bear to a stake five attacked the chained beast. or tree and loosing a pack of dogs The bear dealt three of them a upon him, reached its peak. By the death blow instantly, and the re time the American colonies were maining two became wary and established, bearbaiting had lost stayed just out of the bear’s reach. During this battle I noticed that much of its popularity, and by 1830 the sport was virtually non-exist a man would call out his bet and ent in America. However, this quickly another would match it. sport still occurs occasionally in The unusual feature of this system the remote areas of the East Ten of gambling was the fact that it nessee mountains — it has merely depended upon each man’s memory gone underground like cockfight and his word, and no money of the ing, ratting, and other illegal past- bets was exchanged until the con clusion of the fight. The amounts times. For some time my first cousin of the bets seemed extremely high has been employed at a lumber for these people, but they were mill in a small town in upper East always accepted. No one hesitated, Tennessee. When I received an in no one withdrew. The two remaining dogs of the vitation to visit him last spring, I readily accepted. For some time I first five were entirely too careful had wanted to visit this area and to carry out the engagement, so its people. It was among these ten more dogs were released to simple-living mountain folk that I continue. Having observed the spent the first two years of my fate of the first three, these dogs showed amazing intelligence in life. their attack. While seven dogs en I arrived on Friday night. We gaged the bear from the front, five spent many hours discussing the attacked from the rear and suc paths our separate lives had fol ceeded in hamstringing him. This lowed and somehow our conversa shifted the advantage to the dogs, tion touched upon the subject of for it forced the bear to sit, thus bears. My cousin asked me if I lowering and exposing his vital would like to attend a bearbaiting throat. At this point the last five the next night. Though I had no of twenty dogs were released. The knowledge of the sport, I agreed ensuing clamor between seventeen to attend. My cousin phoned one dogs and one outraged bear was of his friends at the mill and made deafening. The sight was sicken arrangements. ing. For a while it seemed that the The next night we were picked bruin might survive, but the dogs up about 7 p.m. and driven for two suddenly tore open his throat and, hours until both of us were thor bleeding from many vicious oughly lost. Finally we arrived at wounds and nearly helpless, he suc a small clearing in the forest. Ap cumbed. Thirteen dogs were killed proximately thirty men were gath and two badly maimed. ered around an area brightly lit My attention quickly moved by gas lanterns. The dogs were from the spectacle to the spec still caged in the back of trucks. tators. The losing gamblers imme They had picked up the scent of diately sought out their winning a medium-sized black bear chained partner and paid their debts with to a tree, and they were creating out a word of protest or argu a clamor that made me wonder ment. These native backwoodsmen how these men could escape detec not only possessed the Elizabethan tion. We were the last to arrive love of savagery, but also the and the event began immediately. Elizabethan sense of honor. The The owners of the dogs uncaged game, the rules, the code of honor them and held the straining beasts —the sport had been transported on leash for a moment allowing us across four centuries. The sport to observe and decide which ad Elizabeth I loved to attend on Sun versary would win — and govern day — now outlawed and con our gambling accordingly. demned — I saw it last spring. 25
Interpreting Modern Dance by Louise Stewart (from an interview with Mary Byrum)
The art of dance is probably as old as man’s first efforts to com municate. It is presumed that the language of movement (dance) preceded verbal language in the
development of civilization. For in stance, the primitive dances for rain, fertility, and prosperity are representations of their perform ers’ desires. They are similar to
speech but involve far more ex pression. Ballet, the most widely recog nized form of dance, was developed as an offshoot of the court dance of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. During the nineteenth century, ballet was characterized by its forms, rules, fixed vocabu lary, and artificial formulas. It was during this time that a young American dancer, Isadora Duncan, gave birth to a new dance form. She revolted against the tradi tional mode of classical ballet, took off her shoes, wore a loose-fitting costume, and developed a dance based upon the natural movement of the human body. This “modern” or “contempo rary” dance has been uplifted and refined since Miss Duncan’s improvisational dance. Such dancers as Graham, Humphrey, Shawn, Denis, and Wigmann have devel oped the dance to the level of a performing art. Today the cold technical formalism of classical ballet seems to lean more and more toward the looser contemporary dance. Balanchine’s ballet “Elec tronics,” and a new Russian ballet called “A Distant Planet” are two of the better-known works which fall more into the category of mod ern dance as the term is now understood. Modern dance is a three-dimen sional art form. The body is the instrument and movement is its medium. The body must be capable of responding to the will of the dancer. In other words, the dancer must be disciplined in order to be “free,” (to express or project). Through movement, the language of dance, the dancer seeks to ex press the nature of human ideas or feelings. This is not to say he simply emotes. He attempts through movement to express an idea of a subjective experience which cannot be adequately com municated verbally. To do this, a dancer must look within, find what is there, and at tempt to communicate an objective image of the subjective ideas. The dancer must give of himself to the audience. In other words, he must want to share his personal experi ence with others. It is only when this objective image is attained that the dance achieves the sta tues of an art born.
Hopkins... (Continued from Page 17) the natural inscape it is actualized and “‘strive (s) after continued existence’ ” because of a certain internal power or energy In Roethke this innate com pleteness is not sensed. There is little direct and independent rep resentation of reality. The lines function more as propositions — open invitations to the reader to fuse his own remembered experi ences with those offered by the poet. This is not to say that Roethke’s poetry must remain devoid of in scapes. This will certainly not be the case if the poet’s powers of suggestion are acute and if the reader is receptive. In such a situ ation the reader and poet may col laborate in creating a new inscape. Such an inscape will, however, be based in the totality of the experi ence of the poetry rather than in the poetry per se. It will have an experiential status rather than an independent artistic or literary status. In the work of Roethke, then, inscape is realized not in the writing of the poetry, as with Hop kins, but in its reading or hearing. iKarl Shapiro, ed.. Prose Keys to Modem Poetry (New York, 1962), p. 195. 2Ibid., p. 196.
WATCH for the Winter Issue of
PHOENIX (March, 1965) III!
POEM by Ronald Stottlemyer The old, bone-man is walking Down the street while the trees Are still heavy and green In August . . . And the sounds Of his quick, shuffling steps Run the length of the street Behind him as if he were running From the light wind in the trees Or maybe from the sun going down.