from the Atlantic Monthly, 1922 Jazz Theodore Maynard The band began its music, and I saw A hundred people in the cabaret Stand up in couples meekly to obey The arbitrary and remorseless law Of custom. And I wondered what could draw Their weary wills to this fulfillment. Gay They were not. They embraced without dismay, Lovers who showed an awful lack of awe. Then, as I sat and drank my wine apart, I pondered on this new religion, which Lay heavily on the faces of the rich, Who, occupied with ritual, never smiled – Because I heard, within my quiet heart, Happiness laughing like a little child. Biographical Note: “Theodore Maynard, a poet new to the Atlantic, sends us his sonnet from California.” from the Atlantic Monthly, 1925 Mississippi Melodies Virginia Moore III.
Cotton Chorus Niggah standin’, niggah squattin’, Flirt yo’ fingahs in de cotton Boles what huddle thick; Tag along de April harrow What wedged wobbly, deep, an’ narrow – Pick, pick, pick! Drop no riffraff in de cotton, Nothin’s harp an’ nothin’ rotten Lak a leaf o’s tick; Swing it on yo’ giant should ah ‘Foh de racin’s un am old ah – Pick, pick, pick! All de cankahs in de cotton, Wo ” ms an’ weevils am fohgotten An’ fohgotten quick, When de bended backs an’ fingahs Ob a hund ” ud blackbird fingahs Pick, pick, pick! Gunny sacks ob cleanes’ cotton, Lak a goss ” mah cloud a-clottin’, Once was flow ah-sick – Pink an’ pale an’ vi ” let gloomin’, Color ob a ‘lat to ‘oom an – Pick, pick, pick! Augus’s un am pow ” ful hot an’ Set on arguin’ wid de cotton Lak a luni-tick But de cool ob night am comin’ An’ de dim my stars am hummin’ Pick, pick, pick! Biographical Note: “The primitive and natural melodies of Virginia Moore are rooted in the earth of the Mississippi plantation where Miss Moore and her family have lived for generations.” from The Atlantic Monthly, 1925 Conversation Balnaire by Archibald MacLeish I indicate the evening sea. I say, This endless silence edged with unending sound! I say, This colorless where colors sway and swim like lustre in a pearl, this drowned moonshine, this shallow of translucent air, this bubble that the winds break, the clouds change, this smooth, this vague, this sea! You merely stare. You turn your face to me. You say, it’s strange, unreal almost. I don’t know what they mean, these waves, this water. If I shut my eyes it’s gone-like that-as though I’d never seen the sea at all.
The Essay on Atlantic Monthly Abortion Review Human
Steven Schwartz, The Moral Question of Abortion. (Loyola University Press, 1990). Full text of entire book. Judith Jarvis Thomson, "Abortion," The Boston Review, Vol. XX, No. 3, (Summer 1995) Replies by Philip L. Quinn, Donald Regan, Douglas Laycock, Drusilla Cornell, Peter de Marne ffe, and a rejoinder by Judith Jarvis Thomson Elizabeth Harman, "The Potentiality Problem", forthcoming in ...
And I, But realize how many more have looked on it as we, lovers. Your eyes change. You say, The sea! from The Atlantic Monthly, 1925 Immortelle by Bliss Carman My glorious enchantress, She went in silken hose, With swaying hop and curving lip And little tilted nose, As full of fragrant fire As any English rose. Her voice across the morning, Like olden balladry Or magic notes from woodland throats, It laid a spell on me As wondrous as the west wind And haunting as the sea. She might have walked with Chaucer A-jesting all the way, Her figure trim a joy to him, Her beauty like the day, With that unfailing spirit Which nothing can dismay. Her heart was full of caring, Her eyes were touched with dream.
In happy birth, in noble worth, I thought that she did seem As fair as Kentish roses And rich as Devon cream. I loved her airy carriage, Her bearing clean and proud, When glad and fond she looked beyond The plaudits of the crowd, Or when in prayer or sorrow Her comely head was bowed. I loved her eerie piping Of measures without name. Wild as a faun at rosy dawn, Out of the crowd she came To breathe upon old altars A fresh untroubled flame.
I loved her lyric ardor, Her chosen words and dress, Her dryad’s face, her yielding grace, Her glowing waywardness, Her deep adoring passion No careless eye would guess, And all the while as lovely As early daffodils, When woodland Spring comes blossoming Among the western hills, And from her trilling garments A mystic glory spills. O sorceress of raptures Beyond the dream of art, be still our guide to walk beside And choose the better part – Thou lyric of enchantment! Thou flower of Nature’s heart! from The Atlantic Monthly, 1927 The Bestiary by Lillian White Spencer Unicorn In pale moon fields the unicorn, Crowned by his diamond-piercing horn, Is hunted, though with poor success. Man’s trespass he will not endure. Woman, to tame him, must be pure.
The Essay on Black People Race Gender White
Emily W. Gold frank Assignment 3-3 11/14/00 Annotations Wegner & Cra no, 1975 Subjects consisted of 144 students, equally divided with respect to race and gender, from a large Midwestern university. Experimenters consisted of 12 college students, also equally divided with respect to race and gender. Each experimenter tested 3 of each race-gender combination. Experimenters approached individual ...
Alas! This causes awkwardness. Sea Serpent Through hoary legend and old rhyme He swims Atlantic tides of time. Andromeda was once his prey, And rumor says to Jonah he Showed depths of hospitality, And that he sails the blue to-day. Scapegoat He was the ancient Hebrews’ friend That to the desert they would send With all their sins for company, While, good and dull, they stayed behind.
The emissary did not mind: “Why, these are pleasure trips,” said he. Salamander About the blacksmith’s red forge dance Elves whom King Francis First of France Bore on his shield. And, leaping higher, Around the family hearth they flit. But men grow bald if on them spit These glowing scarlet sprites of fire. Scylla Twelve-footed, with a puppy’s whine, On sea salts only did she dine (Homer himself has told us this).
Thrusting her six heads through the wave She snatched up sailors to her cave, And had for neighbor Charybdis.
Pegasus White-pinioned steed whose flight is far – To realms beyond the utmost star, Where is your glory soaring now Here lies a feather from your wing; There, in your hoof print, flowers spring; But men have chained you to a plough… [Spencer also writes stanzas on a gargoyle, the herd of Diomedes, porphyrions and centaurs. ] Griffin This lion-eagle’s flaming breast Guards in the sun his golden nest And orbs of fire strike thieves dead. So, to his treasure, men are blind – Still… one or two declare him kind; Poets can charm him, it is said. Phoenix High-ey ried on an Eden palm, His gold wings dripping sweetest balm, One sings with everlasting breath Whom Eve sought vainly to entice…
The Essay on Dream of the Rood & Christian poems
Dream of the Rood is considered to be one of the oldest Christian poems which belongs to the Anglo-Saxon literature. Its authorship is still unknown even today but the text reveals that it is a very old English poem that talks about the personification of a particular tree which was made into a cross where Jesus Christ was crucified. The presence of the cross in this poem and its description in ...
Now, nowhere save in paradise, Dwells Beauty free from taint of death. Biographical Note: “Hunting through mythology, astronomy and the classics, Lynn White Spencer has collected a menagerie the likes of which were never seen on sea or land – and we include Noah’s.” from the Atlantic Monthly, 1929 Black Songs by Nancy Byrd Turner [There are three “Black Songs” altogether; all are in dialect. This is a reprinting of the one that is a sonnet, entitled “Black Cat.” ] Don’t never cross a road what a black cat cross – ‘T ain’t nothin’ but sorrow, ‘t ain’t nothin’ but loss. Brindle cat, spotted cat, dem’s all right; Safety in a y aller cat, blessin’ in a white; But, de black cat ructions, wid a bristle in his tail, He fotchin’ for de Debbie, and he better not fail. De black cat travel wid his belly in de dus’; He gwine whar he gwine, and he gwine kase he mus’. Black cat, black cat – when he cross yo’ track, No matter where you gwine, Toa dippin’ or a dyin’, No matter whar you hurryin’, To a marryin’ or a buryin’ – You better turn back! Biographical Note: “Nancy Byrd Turner achieved deserved reputation by writing the one poem in celebration of Lindburgh’s flight to Paris which was worthy of the events, and of poetry.” [Note: the poem referred to in this note, entitled “The Ballad of Lucky Lindbergh,” was collected by Turner in Star in a Well (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1935), pp.
154-157. That volume also collects eight dialect poems, including “The Black Cat.” ].
