Tree with a Bird in it — Dies Illa: A Bird of a Masque by Percy Mackaye, Josephine Preston Peabody, and Isabel Fiske Conant
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE GRACKLE (who does not appear at all) THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP
THE SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY
CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY
CHORUS OF CORRESPONDENCE, KINDERGARTEN, GRAMMAR, HIGH-SCHOOL AND COLLEGE CLASSES IN VERSE-WRITING
CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN RUNNING POETRY MAGAZINES
CHORUS OF POETRY CRITICS
CHORUS OF ASSORTED CULTURE-HOUNDS
THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE FOR THE POETIC RENAISSANCE IN AMERICA
THE NON-POETRY WRITING PUBLIC (COMPOSED OF TWO CITIZENS WHO HAVE NEVER LEARNED TO READ OR WRITE)
SEMI-CHORUSES OF MAGAZINE EDITORS AND BOOK-PUBLISHERS
ATE, GODDESS OF DISCORD
THE MUSE
TIME: _Next year.
_ PLACE: _Everywhere.
_ SCENE: _A level stretch of monotony.
_ THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_Entering despairingly_) Alas--in vain!
Yet I have barred the way As best I might, that this great horror fall Not on the world.
_Returned with many thanks_ _And not because of lack of merit,_ I Have said to twenty million poets ...
nay ...
Profane it not, that word ...
to twenty million Persons who wasted stamps and typewriting And midnight oil, to add unto the world More Bunk....
In vain--in vain!
(_She sinks down sobbing.
_) (_From right and left of stage enter Semi-Choruses Magazine Editors and Book Publishers, tearing their hair rhythmically.
_) SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS
We have mailed their poems back To every man and woman-jack Who weigh the postman down From country and from town;
But all in vain, in vain, They mail them in again!
SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS
Though we've sent them flying, We are nearly dying, From the books of poetry Sent by people unto we;
In vain we keep them off our shelves, They go and publish them themselves!
SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIPS
All, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye, And I've toiled with you....
All in vain, in vain-- (_Enter, with a proud consciousness of duty well done, the Chorus of Correspondence, Kindergarten, Grammar, High-School and College Classes for Writing Verse.
They sing Joyously_) The Day has come that we adore, The Day we've all been working for, Now babies in their bassinets And military school cadets, And chambermaids in each hotel And folks in slums who cannot spell, Professors, butchers, clergymen, And every one, have grabbed a pen: The Day has come--tra la, tra lee-- _Everybody_ writes poetry!
(_They do a Symbolic Dance with Typewriters, during which enters the Chorus of Young Men who Run Poetry Magazines.
These put on horn-rimmed spectacles and chant earnestly as follows_) CHORUS OF YOUNG MEN WHO RUN POETRY MAGAZINES
We're very careful what we put in;
This magazine is of highest grade;
If it doesn't appeal to our personal taste There's no use sending it, we're afraid;
We don't like Shelley, we don't like Keats, We don't like poets who're tactlessly dead;
If you write like us there will be no fuss-- That's the best of verse, when the last word's said....
(_Bursting irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn spectacles to the ground_) Yale!
Yale!
Yale!
Our Poetry!
Fine Poetry!
Nobody Else's Poetry!
Raw!
Raw!
Raw!
Raw!
(_Enter, modestly, the Person Responsible for the Poetic Renaissance in America.
There are four of him--or her, as the case may be--Miss Monroe, Miss Rittenhouse, Mrs. Stork, Mr. Braithwaite.
The Person stands in a row and recites in unison:_) I've made Poetry What it is today;
Or ...
at least ...
That's what people say: Earnest-minded effort Never can be hid;
The Others think They did it-- But--I--Did!
SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP, EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS, (_faintly:_) You _did_?
(_They rush out.
_) PERSON RESPONSIBLE (_still modestly_) Well, so they say-- But I have to go away.
I'm due at a lecture I give at three today.
(_The Person goes out in single file, looking at its watch.
As it does so, there enters a pale and dishevelled girl in Greek robes.
It is the Muse.
_) MUSE
In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and crying As swine that in deep agony are dying, A voice of tom-cats wailing, A never failing Thud as of rolling logs: A chattering like frogs, And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous, Making a horrible fuss, Cries out upon my name.
Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame, So to be mocked and humbled by this use?
I--I, the Muse!
(_Enter Spirit of Modern Poetry, a lady with bobbed hair, clad lightly in horn glasses and a sex-complex.
_) SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY
You're behind the times; quite narrow, Don't you want Culture for the masses?
MUSE
No; I am Greek; we never did.
Besides, it _isn't_ culture.
CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY, (_trotting by two by two on their way to a lecture, pause.
_) Oh, how narrow!
Oh, how shocking!
She's no Muse!
She must be mocking!
MUSE (_sternly, having lost her temper by this time_) I am a goddess.
Trifle not with me.
ELDERLY LADIES (_with resolute tolerance_) She _looks_ like a pupil of Isadora Duncan, But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk in To believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture-- My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture!
MUSE (_lifting her arms angrily_) Ate, my sister!
ATE, (_behind the scenes_) I come!
(_Enter from one side, Band of Poets--very large--with lyres and wreaths put on over their regular clothes.
From the other side, a chorus of Poetry Critics.
At their end steals Ate, Goddess of Discord, disguised as a Critic by means of horn glasses and a Cane.
The Poets do not see her--or anything but themselves, indeed.
They sing obliviously_) My maiden aunt in Keokuk She writes free verse like anything;
My great-grandmother is in luck, She's sold her three-piece work on Spring;
My mother does Poetic Plays, My dad does rhymes while signing checks, And my flapper sister--we wouldn't have missed her-- She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex-- The world's as perfect as it can be, Everybody writes Poetry!
CHORUS OF CRITICS, (_chanting yet more loudly:_) The world's not _quite_ as perfect as it yet might be, Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry!
(_The Spirit of Discord now creeps softly out from among the Critics.
_) SPIRIT OF DISCORD
Rash poets, think what you would do-- There's nobody left you can read it to!
POETS (_aghast_) We never thought of that!
An audience, 'tis flat, Is our most pressing need, To listen to our screed;
(_Each turns to his neighbor_) Base scribbler, get thee hence Or be my audience!
Semi-chorus: We want to write ourselves!
We'll not!
Semi-chorus: But what _you_ write is merely rot!
Hush up and let _me_ read My great, eternal screed!
ATE (_stealthily_) Ha, ha!
(_Each Poet now draws a Fountain Pen with a bayonet attached, and kills the Poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the Poet on the other side.
They fall in neat windrows.
There are no Poets left.
Meanwhile the Non-Poetry-Writing Public, two in number, who have been shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three paces to the front, and speak:_) What's the use o' poetry, anyhow?
_I_ always say, 'if you wanta say anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.'
_I_ never wrote no poetry, and I get along fine in the hardware business.
CHORUS OF CRITICS AND CULTURE-HOUNDS, (_thrilled:_) Ah, a new Gospel!
Let us write Reviews About it!
THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_entering, and addressing the Editors and Publishers who follow her.
_) Now I shall pass from you.
My task comes to a close.
I wing my hallowed way To the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose.
EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS
Nay, our great helper, nay!
Leave us not yet, our only comforter!
We'll need thee still;
Folks who write poetry There's naught on earth can kill!
(_During this the_ CULTURE-HOUNDS, CRITICS, _etc.
, have clustered round the_ NON-POETRY-WRITING PUBLIC, _whispering, urging, and pushing.
It rises and scratches its head in a flattered way, and finally says:_) B'gosh, I do believe, Now that you speak of it, I could do just as good As any of those there fool dead fellers could!
(_The late Non-Poetry-Writing Public are both immediately invested with lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats.
_) SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS (to Spirit of Rejection Slip) You see?
Too late!
SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS
Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate?
(_They go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the Masque, except_ ATE, _who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, and the_ MUSE, _form up to do a dance symbolic of One Being Born Every Minute.
They sing:_) The Day has come that we adore, The Day we've all been working for;
The Day has come, tra la, tra lee!
_Everybody_ writes Poetry!
THE MUSE (_unnoticed in the background_) Farewell.
_Arthur Guiterman_ (He recites with appropriate gestures.
)
