Scrutable Poetry Corner: "It Rolls On" by Morris Bishop

A poem for the uneasy modern, from the November 1, 1930 issue of The New Yorker.

This is the time of wonder, it is written;
Man has undone the ultimate mysteries.
(We turn from the Chrysler Tower to watch a kitten,
Turn to a dead fish from Isocrates;

Drinkers on five-day boats are gladly smitten
Unconscious on the subjugated seas;
Einstein is even more dull than Bulwer-Lytton;
You cannot smoke on the Los Angeles.)

Science no longer knows the verb-form "can't,"
Fresh meat will soon be shipped by radio;
Scholars are harnessing the urgent ant
And making monstrous bastard fruits to grow,
Building machines for things I do not want,
Discovering truths I do not care to know.

You can find out more about Morris Bishop and his elf-loathing here.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Anachronism" by Peggy Bacon

From the September 27, 1930 issue of The New Yorker, here's "Anachronism," written by a poetess with the rather unpoetic name of Peggy Bacon.

In the mummy-case the queen--
brittle toes and matted hair!
Her compelling portrait seen
on the lid, returns a stare.

Through millenniums enduring
as a relic, for a while
she was laughing and alluring
as a siren by the Nile.

Bead and bauble, tool and chattel,
symbol, amulet, and token,
effigies of sacred cattle
lie beside her, chipped or broken.

In the Bowery I meet
Sadie, similarly fair,
flashy sandals on her feet,
bangle, bead, and busy hair

(mummy-matted, tonsor twirled,
tinted with a dubious dye),
and a little serpent curled
in the angle of her eye.

Who was Peggy Bacon? She wrote poetry (and later fiction) for The New Yorker from the first month of publication up to the 1950s, and she even drew a few illustrations along the way:


You can find out much more online, starting here. She seems to have been a remarkable person.

1968 Emmanuel Bible College Yearbook

I was thrilled with the idea of posting choice moments from the Emmanuel Bible College yearbooks, but after the 1966 expose things became pretty crazy over here. I'd even gone through the 1968 edition and I had some big plans for it, but I'm afraid I've forgotten my "angles" and all I have on record are the pictures I chose.

So this one will be a quickie without any deep insight. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the 1968 Emmanuel Bible College yearbook.


Students! The people in this yearbook are my mother's contemporaries, and she has confirmed that the EBC students were wearing appropriate, up-to-date clothing. It's interesting to note that she found the clothes in the 1966 yearbook to be stodgy and geriatric...what a difference a few years in the '60s made!

Another interesting thing to note is that the woman in the picture -- Donna Barnell of Indiana -- is my nomination for "Queen of Prom!" This is partly because she's got wicked style, but also because she was on every brainy committee that year: Publications (which kept churches in the area notified about the latest EBC events), literary president, student's council (secretary AND treasurer), and school secretary in general. Donna from Indiana, you've earned this honour!


As for KING of the Prom...well, you remember Harry Habel from 1966? He graduated in '68 with a degree in "Special," which I assume meant that they were anxious to just get rid of him. It pleases me to pair a youthful over-achiever with an annoying old farmer. What must it have been like to be Jewish in an evangelical bible college during the '60s? I don't know, but maybe we can glean something from his graduation picture.

Poor Harry. A little older, a little wiser, entirely special.

Anyway, one thing that set EBC apart from other schools was its emphasis on "Practical Work." This usually meant "perfecting the skills which send non-believers screaming in the other direction."


You in West Rouge and Elmira may have kicked Wayne and Tim off your porch.

These last two pictures are my favourites, and they show the "wacky side" of EBC campus life. First, here's Dixie Dean presenting "music from the four corners of the world" at the Christmas Banquet.


Who's "Dixie Dean," you ask? For shame! He started the "Canadian Accordion Club," and was a bright light in Canadian music during the first half of the century. His star appears to have fallen during the '60s but he worked for the Ontario Conservatory of Music here in good old Waterloo, so his appearance at the banquet must have been a real coup. For those who liked accordions.

Finally, here's one of those yearbook pictures that only makes sense to those who were there. EBC students from '68 are invited to explain not only how good Dixie Dean's performance was, but also why a man in rubber SCUBA gear is molesting this woman in her bed.

1966 Emmanuel Bible College Yearbook

"You" said you wanted more pictures from the Emmanuel Bible College yearbooks...who am I to refuse! I just wish I had a working scanner, instead of a small Hewlett-Packard device that makes a terrible grinding noise and whispers "Need more ink cartridges" when I turn it on.

As I've said previously, yearbooks are fascinating and funny things in so many ways. The EBC yearbooks, however, have an additional interest for the secular reader because they're so totally focused on God, but without the "Christianity is COOL!" element that would no doubt be there if they were external, proselytizing documents.

Ready to see the bible students in their natural habitat, like rabbits in a glass-walled hutch? Without further ado, here are some choice moments from the 1966 edition of the EBC yearbook, "The Pilot."

First off, the prayer/bomb drill/corporal punishment picture that will soon be the subject of its own fetish.


Now that we've got that over with, a few words about the degrees. It seems like the ultimate goal at EBC was to be a "Bachelor of Theology," but I find it interesting that the only B.Th graduates were males, at least for the first several yearbooks that I have. The "Missionary Course" and "Christian Education" degrees, however, were granted to both sexes.

Here's the president of the college at the time, Reverend H. B. Wideman, on a day that I charitably assume was windy.


Some sleuthing has revealed that the other man is Reverend Kenneth Geiger, and the book he's presenting -- "The Word and the Doctrine" -- is a collection of papers from a conference about Wesleyanism. What's Wesleyanism? Damned if I can figure it out! That's why Wideman was the president of EBC and the Bachelor of Divinity, not me.

A few thoughts about the teachers that year: none of the women were pretty and most of the men were schlubs, except for Mr. Wilson T. Wiley (English & Guidance Instructor), who wore a small fedora and looked like he wrapped his secret gat in a copy of "Catcher in the Rye." You'll be comforted to know that the "Social Dean of Women" and the "Social Dean of Men" were a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Warner Spyker.

Here's some insight into student demographics:

The afternoons are times of service, study, and wage earning.

Many students work with Child Evangelism, teaching Bible Clubs for boys and girls. Other students find opportunities to witness while working at a part-time job. At Emmanuel, we have a barber, an auctioneer, carry-out boys, salesmen, office workers, nurses, teachers, farmers, waitresses, and construction labourers.

Here are some girls harassing an old lady to score Bible Points.

My favourite 1966 EBC students -- my votes for "king and queen of the prom," so to speak -- are paino-playing Fern Densmore and plump squirrel David Hills. The latter's graduation poem is a good example of the beloved artform of BAD YEARBOOK POETRY:

From working in a paint factory he came,
So that he might better uphold God's name
By studying the Word with hope that he
One day, in the service of the Lord may be.

What makes this a bad poem? The ungainly swapping of sentence fragments, sacrificing style (and clarity) to the altar of Thee Almighty Rhyme.

Here's another good poem, for Mervin ("Merv") Richardson, notable for its vague attempt at being personal:

A goal, a goal in hockey
(Even when the road is rocky)
Leading music at Lincoln Heights
Keeps him busy various nights.

I think the yearbook staff got that one in just before the deadline.

To wrap up the 1966 year, here's my favourite picture of them all. I'm not sure if it's supposed to mean what I think it means but I sure hope so!

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Life's Problems" by Patience Eden

Poetess Patience Eden nails it in this May 17, 1930 poem in The New Yorker: "Life's Problems."

When I was twenty-three I could
Discern the evil from the good;
I quickly knew which way to turn,
Which path to take, which path to spurn;
Not only this--I could decide
What all my friends should do; I tried
To steer them competently through
Their troubles...and they asked me to!
Responsible as traffic lights
I sent them to their lefts...and rights.

But now that I am forty-odd
I hesitate advising God
About a case of turpitude,
It somehow seems a little crude:
And furthermore I have no views
On bigamy or jazz or booze:
Quite recently I was beset
By problems in a kitchenette--
I could not choose the proper site
For dish-towels to dry at night!

Amen, Eden! How to explain this temperament that comes on many with age? Is it hormonal? Is it from so many years of negotiating with people of all different kinds? Is it a desire for comfort and easy socialization after scuffling with the world? Is it the cynicism of seeing all your sacred cows get tipped over -- one by one -- by their critical inadequacies?

I think it's all of the above. I still have the knee-jerk desire to bludgeon others with my opinions, but I'm learning when it's appropriate to do so, and also -- I hope -- blunting the edges of my criticism a bit.

Unless I'm playing the ROLE of critic, of course.

PS: Who was Patience Eden? Apparently her real name was Martha Thomas Banning, but other than that I can't find any biographical information. She was certainly one of the New Yorker poetry stalwarts, writing under both names from the magazine's inception and into the early '40s.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Guestroom Books" by Newman Levy

"Guestroom Books" by Newman Levy (The New Yorker, April 12, 1930).

Beside my chaste and downy cot
There stands a goodly number
Of stately tomes of prose and pomes
To lull the guest to slumber.

The verse of T. S. Eliot,
A copy of "Ulysses,"
As though to say "No place you'll stay
So cultured is as this is."

The works (in French) of Baudelaire,
And Keats "Epipsychidion"
And next to it The Holy Writ
Purloined, I fear, from Gideon.

A goodly and narcotic list
Of literary glories,
While down below my host, I know,
Is reading Snappy Stories.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Spring Song" by Richard Peckham

Oh jeez, I can't wait.

The oily air is warm and sunny
And I am feeling fine but funny.
Break out the sulphur and molasses;
The boys and girls are making passes
On buses and beneath Childs' tables.
The pigeons on their copper gables
Bellow like amorous vacuum cleaners.
Our winter fare of rolls and weiners
No longer suits. Let's have some rhubarb.
The air today has got a new barb--
Not frost but blue and growling fire.
The veins that were as stiff as wire
Are gone as slow and soft as soup.
Leave off the coat and give a whoop.
A bowl of well-steeped calamus
Would make a dandy lunch for us.
Let's not go back to work today.
This weather takes the will away.
This is the time when girls begin
To fill their clothes as plums their skin.
O for a yard of grassy hummock
On which to lay the languid stomach.
O for a month to be just lazy,
Sung at by birds a trifle crazy.

(From the March 15, 1930 issue of The New Yorker. Richard Peckham was the pseudonym of Raymond Pekham Holden, who wrote a lot of poetry for the magazine during the '30s. I can't find a single biography online).

Newsreel Theatres

During late 1929, the Embassy Theatre in New York started a phenomenon: "The Newsreel Theatre." It was a massive hit, other theatres followed suit, and The New Yorker reporters -- though writing in their usual cynical way -- were obviously quite enchanted.

Whereas other theatres only played newsreels in between films, The Newsreel Theatre played them ALL DAY. They collected newsreels from all available sources and just kept playing them, morning and night, in ever-updated one-hour loops.

Radio had already been providing up-to-date news to listeners for several years, but this somehow struck a chord. Maybe it was the visual aspect, or the community feeling, or maybe it was the fact that it was the ONLY venue devoted entirely to news. The New Yorker, however, often mentions the simple joy of just dropping in at any time and never knowing what will come next: adventure stories, politics, opinion, debate, all put together without any logic whatsoever.

Interestingly, it wasn't long before smaller companies began shooting newsreels SPECIFICALLY for the theatres.

Anyway, in the December 28, 1929 issue of The New Yorker, here's a wonderful poem called "Recommendation" by Parke Cummings.

Shots of Mr. Hoover trouting,
Shots of weasels on an outing,
Speech by Czar of cruller-bakers,
Tricks employed by corset-makers,
Sounds of Bossy Gillis talking,
Sounds of albatrosses squawking,
Butterfly weighs sixty ounces,
Men in Denver take to flounces,
Crooning chants by Rudy Vallée,
Felines battle in an alley,
Clerk consumes, in South Dakota,
Twenty pies--his daily quota--
Kafir belles go in for blouses--
Here's to better newsreel houses.

If you're interested in learning more, Time Magazine wrote up The Newsreel Theatre here.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Work for the Censor"

Rabbits
Have horrid habits;
Shad
Are pretty bad;
Pigeons
Have no religions;
Bees
Expose their knees;
Terrapins
Parade their sins;
Moles
Have damaged souls;
Albatrosses
Are total losses;
Snakes
Are dreadful rakes;
Spiders
Are law-deriders;
Bears
Won't say their prayers.
I'm shocked to see that unabridged zoölogies
Are still permitted in our schools and colleges!

(By the always-wonderful Arthur Guiterman, from the October 26, 1929 issue of The New Yorker).

Wednesday Morning Scrutable Poetry: "Girl in a Tree"

Her legs were long
And scratched with thistle.
She had a deft,
Enchanting whistle.

Her hands were slim
But strong for lifting
Herself to trees
When winds were shifting.

And there she'd sit
And watch the birds,
And nibble twigs,
And juggle words.

And there she'd lean
And whistle clearly,
'Till she was God--
Or very nearly.

By Frances M. Frost, now largely forgotten.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Il Penseroso"

Ahh, beauty in the May 18, 1929 New Yorker.

Sad weird figures garbed in white,
With their headgears tall and fearful,
Faces drawn--druidic sight,
Seated dumb--not gay, not tearful.
How they scan unconscious mortals,
As they come and go again,
Crossing through forbidden portals.
Are they happy or in pain?
Do they plan the fate of nations,
Gathered round, this mystic seven--
Good or evil machinations?
Do they think of hell or heaven?
Do they ponder living? Dying?
Pestilence? The battle axe?
No, their thoughts are all on drying
Waves put in by Antoine, Saks.

"Antoine de Paris" -- originally Antek Cierplikowski -- was one of the more famous upscale hairstylists in 1920's New York. He claimed to have invented the shingle bob hairstyle, and therefore became the first of a long line of "celebrity stylists." Hairboutique.com has an interesting writeup about him here.

As for this poem it is credited only to "Bunny," but her real name was supposedly Eleanor W. Koehler. You may well ask "Who's that?" I haven't got a clue, but any bunny is a good bunny.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Ceres"

Here's "Ceres" by Harrison Dowd, from the April 20, 1929 issue of The New Yorker.

I have honestly never seen these "pigeon people," but they appear so often in fiction of all eras that I can only assume they're out there...probably in larger cities.

Little gray woman
Mad as a loon,
Feeding all morning,
All afternoon,

Grain to your pigeons
In your old blue cloak,
How long is it
Since your whole brain broke?

How long ago
Did you first go mad?
Was it drink, or a lover
That you never had?

What day did your mind
In a whir of soft words
Split and scatter
Like scared gray birds?

Harrison Dowd himself -- like many poets from The New Yorker -- has been largely forgotten, but he did write a book that's still remembered: "The Night Air," a "homosexual novel" from the 1950s that sounds pretty interesting. He was apparently a Broadway character actor from the late '20s to the mid '60s.

I guess poetry wasn't his thing.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Thoughts While Looking in the Window of a Shoe Store"

Another poem by Ruth Brown, this time from the March 9, 1929 issue of The New Yorker.

In blue shoes I am sure I'd be
A great deal more than merely me,
I'd be urbane and nonchalant--
Une femme du monde--une élégante.

With snakeskin shoes upon my feet
I might not always be discreet,
In fact it's likely I'd believe
Myself to be a bit like Eve.

In shoes with flippant crimson heels
I think I might learn how it feels,
While staying safely in Manhattan,
To go quite wholly, madly Latin.

But since I'm neither rich nor bold,
I think I'll have my brogues re-soled.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Glimpses of the Magnificent"

In the March 2, 1929 issue of The New Yorker, Don Muir Strouse provided some nice capsule sketches of the prominent band leaders in town. These tell you more about the people than long-winded reviews ever would.

TED LEWIS

Pan in a top hat
Shrieks defiance
To the world
On a laughing clarinet.

PAUL WHITEMAN

A corpulent
Overgrown cherub
Dangles a little stick
Foolishly
To the rhythm
Of the perfect jazz band.

VINCENT LOPEZ

Unction oozing
From an animated
Dress suit
That reeks
With smugness
And makes crackling sounds.

ROGER WOLFE KAHN

The Crown Prince
Rebels from
Tradition
And leads
The insurgents
Bravely.

THE WARINGS

Perennial sophomores
From Altoona
Cashing in grandly
On a couple
Of rah rahs.

PS: Like many of the people whose poetry appeared in the early New Yorker, Don Muir Strouse has been completely forgotten. These band leaders, however, are still widely considered to be some of the best.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Dilemma"

In keeping with the recent "cat" theme, here's "Dilemma" from the December 22, 1928 New Yorker. I actually think it's kind of lovely.

Kittens, of course, are embarrassing...
Yet, in the full o' the moon,
Who would not wander, a sinuous wraith,
Out of the door--away--
Threading the area's fragrant shades
To a fence where gallants croon,
Tiger, maltese, and tortoise,
Many a lovelorn lay?

There, where the pails gleam silver,
What rapture to pose and yawn,
Queening it over the envious swains,
Preening, alluring, heart-harassing;
Fanning to fury a duel-din
Death to the drowsy dawn!
Helen of Troy, in fur...
--But kittens, alas, are embarrassing!

This is by Harold Willard Gleason, best known for...well, nothing much that I can figure out.

He wrote some books.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Lines To My Next-Door Neighbor"

Here's a poem from the December 15, 1928 issue of The New Yorker, and it really resonates with me. It's called "Lines To My Next-Door Neighbor."

I don't mind your callers,
Since youth must have its flight;
But what I do object to
Is quite a different thing

Since New York walls are made of paper,
If you must talk
Will you please talk
Loud enough so I can hear
What you talk
About?

Oh, I agree! It's MADDENING to hear human voices muttering JUST BELOW a comprehensible volume. Part of me wants to press my ear against the wall, and my other part says "Jesus, Muffy, don't be so nosy!"

Why do I want to listen? Certainly not to hear anything juicy. I just want to find some justification for why I'm forced to hear the sound in the first place. A nonsensical-but-deliberate noise is far more annoying than a noise with a rationale, in the same way that it's easier to excuse a rambunctious birthday party than it is to excuse a "just because we felt like it" kegger.

PS: The above poem was written by the virtually anonymous "J.C." If he or she was unwilling to clarify their identity...well, so am I!

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Observe the Conventions"

Continuing to prove my amazing taste in scrutable poetry, here's one by Olive Ward from the December 1, 1928 issue of The New Yorker.

What's a girl to do
If the man she's mad about
Prove a bit untrue?
Shoot him for a gadabout?
Take the veil? or brew
Hemlock? Oh pooh-pooh,
Do as the Romans do:
Lug another lad about.

Yet another mysterious '20s poetess...I can't dig up any useful information about her.

Madly Revolving Neighbours

What is it about my apartment building, anyway? DOES IT SUCK SO BAD?

Nobody manages to live in the unit next to me for more than a few months at a time. Sometimes this is good -- as with the chain-smoking woman and her psychotic dog -- but now it turns out that I'm losing the first REALLY GOOD neighbour I've ever had there.

My definition of "really good" is "I barely know he's there." I haven't written about him because I don't him to get angry and stuff gobs of feces into the air vent. I also don't want to jinx a good thing...traditionally, as soon as I say a person is "quiet," that person decides to open a boozecan and take up the drums.

I just learned today -- through secondhand gossip -- that my mysterious neighbour is moving out soon. My first thought was that he got tired of hearing the Doctor Who theme across the wall, but chances are he viewed this apartment the way so many people do: as a springboard to a house. May his first home be a happy one.

Since he'll be leaving and I can no longer offend him with personal details, let me tell you a little bit about him:

* He's a fantastic trumpet player, but he only plays it in moderation. One day his teacher came over and they did a jazzy back-and-forth that was actually worth listening to. I'm glad he doesn't play it all the time, but it's nice to hear him play occasionally.

* He eats very early breakfasts. Each weekday morning at 4:30am I wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs drifting through the cracks in the walls. Do you know how hard it is to fall back to sleep when you're smelling such a thing?

* For some reason, a female visitor in a little red car would always come over and park in the middle of the parking lot. Like, she wouldn't park in an actual parking spot, she would just pull in halfway and leave the car as an obstacle for everybody else to get around. She was otherwise extremely nice, and to this day I'm unable to figure out why she did such a thing.

So no more mysterious neighbour. As usual I offer up my semi-monthly "Unit A Prayer," which goes something like this:

Please God, don't send me a loud person.
Make sure they're gentle and peaceful and odourless.
Definitely no pets.

Please God, give them quiet feet on the creaky stairway
and no loud parties in the parking lot,
and a sleeping schedule that's identical to mine.

If they MUST have a pet, make it a lizard or a turtle.

Please God, provide them with open minds
and a friendly, considerate attitude.
May their intercourse be fast,
and may I stay downwind of their stinky food.

If there's a baby I will die.

Amen.

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Dowager"

In keeping with our commitment to totally unambiguous poetry, here's "Dowager" by Ruth Brown.

They used to call her "Kitty" when
She frolicked in the nineties. Men
Still make her flutter helplessly;
Her kind of femininity
Is at its best behind a fan.
Although she's fat she never can
See any sense in dieting--
Her friends say, "Poor old lonely thing!
We must invite her here for dinner,"
And then forget, while she waits in her
Hotel apartment hopefully
With photographs for company.

I generally enjoy Brown's poetry in The New Yorker, but I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about her; she only contributed between 1928 and 1929, and I can't find any online references to her (since she is not the blues singer of the same name).

"Speakeasy"

Poetry never appeals to me in its most artistic and vague form, so instead I give you the first installment of "The Unambiguous Poetry Corner."

This one's by John Ogden Whedon, and it appeared in (you guessed it!) The New Yorker on November 10, 1928. It's called "Speakeasy."

Elbows on a sloppy bar,
Feet upon a rail,
Shutters drawn and chinks filled,
Cluttered tables, drinks spilled,
Pretzels in a broken jar,
Ice and sawdust in a pail.

Screeching radio and clinking
Glasses. Shouts, a song, a curse.
Drinkers--sulky, happy, pensive.
There a novice, apprehensive,
Ostentatious in his drinking.
There a poet scribbling verse.

At the door there comes a tapping;
General hush; the singers cease.
Heads befogged in dissipation
Turn in tense anticipation--
Then a grunt, and back to napping.
It's only the police.