The 40s: The Story of a Decade (103 page)

In this glass palace are flowers in golden baskets;

in that grim brownstone mansion are silver caskets;

the caskets watch and wait, and the baskets wait,

for a certain day, and hour, and a certain gate.

Wonderfully glow the colors in that bright palace!

Superb the flora, in pyx, and vase, and chalice!

The glass is steamed with a stifling tuberose breath;

and lilies, too, of the valley of the shadow of death.

The caskets are satin-lined, with silver handles,

and the janitor sings, “They’ll soon be lighting candles”;

he sweeps the sidewalk, and as he sweeps he sings

in praise of a hearse with completely noiseless springs.

Hush—the conspiracy works! It has crossed the street!

Someday, and it’s not far off, these lovers will meet!

Casket and basket at last set forth together

for the joyful journey, no matter how bleak the weather;

in a beautiful beetle-black hearse with noiseless tread,

basket and casket together will get to bed,

and start on a Pullman journey to a certain gate,

punctually, at a certain hour, on a certain date.

—Conrad Aiken
March 28, 1942

Have Gentlemen perhaps forgotten this?—

We write the histories.

Do Gentlemen who snigger at the poets,

Who speak the word professor with
guffaws—

Do Gentlemen expect their fame to flourish

When we, not they, distribute the applause?

Or do they trust their hope of long remembrance

To those they name with such respectful
care—

To those who write the tittle in the papers,

To those who tell the tattle on the air?

Do Gentlemen expect the generation

That counts the losers out when tolls the bell

To take some gossip-caster’s estimation,

Some junior voice of fame with fish to sell?

Do Gentlemen believe time’s hard-boiled jury,

Judging the sober truth, will trust again

The words some copperhead who owned a paper

Ordered one Friday from the hired men?

Have Gentlemen forgotten Mr. Lincoln?

A poet wrote that story, not a newspaper,

Not the New Yorker of the nameless name

Who spat with hatred like some others later

And left, as they will, in his hate his shame.

History’s not written in the kind of ink

The richest man of most ambitious mind

Who hates a president enough to print

A daily paper can afford or find.

Gentlemen have power now and know it,

But even the greatest and most famous kings

Feared and with reason to offend the poets

Whose songs are marble

                         and whose marble sings.

—Archibald MacLeish
September 11, 1943

A hundred minnows, little-finger length,

Own the slim pond. In sets they make

Maneuver: all one way

Change-minded, yet of one mind where clear water

Clouds with their speed an instant;

All one speed, one purpose, as they veer

And suddenly close circle; and some
leap—

There! at an unseen fly,

There! at nothing at all.

Brown minnows, darkening daily

Since the thin time, the spring,

Since nothingness gave birth to such small bones,

Beat the soft water, fill

The wet world; as one,

Occupy movement, owning all August,

Proud minnows.

—Mark Van Doren
August 11, 1945