Art Is Long, And Critics Are The

If Sometimes We Are Bogged Down In Lines Full Of "corybulous", "hypogeum", "plangent", "irrefragably", "glozening", "tellurian", "conclamant", Sometimes We Are Caught Up In The Soaring Rapture Of Something Unprecedented, Absolutely Individual.

Imagism Was A Reductio Ad Absurdum Of One Or Two Tendencies Of Romanticism, Such A Beautifully And Finally Absurd One That It Is Hard To Believe It Existed As Anything But A Logical Construction; And What Imagist Found It Possible To Go On Writing Imagist Poetry? A Number Of Poets Have Stopped Writing Entirely; Others, Like Recurring Decimals, Repeat The Novelties They Commeced With, Each Time Less Valuably Than Before. And There Are Surrealist Poetry, And Political Poetry, And All The Othe Refuges Of The Indigent.

Whether They Write Poems Or Don't Write Poems, Poets Are Best.

And The World Said, Child, You Will Not Be Missed. You Are Cheaper Than A Wrench, Your Back Is A Road; Your Death Is A Table In A Book. You Had Our Wit, Our Heart Was Sealed To You: Man Is The Judgment Of The World.

Nowadays When A Poet With One Privately Printed Book Can Have His Next Three Years Taken Care Of By A Guggenheim Fellowship, A Kenyon Review Fellowship, And The Prix De Rome, It Is Hard To Remember What Chances The Poet Took In That Small-town World, How Precariously Hand-to-mouth His Existence Was. And Yet In One Way The Old Days Were Better; [vachel] Lindsay After A While, By Luck And Skill, Got Far More Readers Than Any Poet Could Get Today.