Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 158, 1920-02-25

Excerpt

CLOTHES AND THE POET.

["The public will welcome an announcement that the standard clothing scheme may be revived on a voluntary basis."—The Times.]

I do not ask for silk attire,

For purple, no, nor puce;

The only wear that I require

Is something plain and loose,

A quiet set of reach-me-downs for serviceable use.

For these, which I must have because

The honour of the Press

Compels me, by unwritten laws,

To clothe my nakedness,

Four guineas is my limit—more or (preferably) less.

Let others go in Harris tweeds,

Men of the leisured sort;

Mine are the modest, homely needs

That with my state comport;

I am a simple labouring man whose work is all his sport.

I covet not the gear of those

Who neither toil nor spin;

I merely want some standard clo's

To drape my standard skin,

Wrought of material suitable for writing verses in.

Something that won't pick up the dust

When rhymes refuse to flow;

And roomy, lest the seams be bust

Should the afflatus blow—

Say five-and-forty round the ribs and rather more below.

For poets they should stock a brand

To serve each type's behest—

Pastoral, epic, lyric—and

An outer size of chest

For those whose puffy job it is to build the arduous jest.

O.S.

(An imaginary conversation.)

[In his lecture at the Royal Institution, to which Mr. Punch recently referred, Mr. Alfred Noyes said that "our art and literature were increasingly Bolshevik, and if they looked at the columns of any newspaper they would see the unusual spectacle of the political editor desperately fighting that which the art and literary portions of the paper upheld."]

Scene.—A Club-room near Fleet Street. The Political Editor and the Literary Editor of "The Daily Crisis" are discovered seated in adjoining armchairs.

Political Editor. Excuse me, but haven't I seen you occasionally in The Crisis office?

Literary Editor. Possibly. I look after its literary pages, you know.

P.E. Really? I run the political columns. Did you read my showing-up this morning of the Bolshevik peril in the House of Lords?

L.E. I'm afraid I never read the political articles. Did you notice my two-column boom of young Applecart's latest book of poems?

P.E. No time to read the literary columns, and modern poetry's as good as Chinese to me. Who's Applecart?

L.E. My dear Sir, is it possible that you are unfamiliar with the author of I Will Destroy? He's the hope of the future as far as English poetry is concerned.

P.E. (cheerfully). Never heard of him. What's he done?

L.E. (impressively). He has overthrown all the rules, not only of art, but of morality. He has created a new Way of Life.

P.E. Can't see that that's anything to shout about. What's his platform, anyway?

L.E. Platform? To anyone who has tho slightest acquaintance with Applecart the very idea of a platform is fantastic. He doesn't stand; he soars.

P.E. Well, what are his views, then? Pretty tall, I suppose, if he's such a high flier.

L.E. You may well say so. In the first place he discards all the old artistic formulæ....