an American poet in Illinois, as a French poet in
Paris, as a German poet exiled in London, as a Rus-
sian poet in Leningrad.
How can poets ignore the movement of their time
when that very movement may destroy them? It
may have been possible in the old 'days for poets
to remain aloof. Today, nations are so highly organ-
ized that no man, artist or worker, can avoid being
deeply affected even at a change of government. In
these days of universal conscription, the passing of
an armament bill at Washington or Westminster i's
Our business, because it may wholly determine our
life, or end it. And economics-it is one of the pur-
poses of my book to show that they are like the rain,
the poet must drink both, and be restless until he
finds their source. How can we humanly avoid writ,).
ing poems that condemn some governments, when
those same governments beat, exile and condemn
their own poets? Must we not fight against that
fascist force, lest it come to our land, and kill or
exile us? When a world is madly arming, when its
military appropriations are more than its appropria-
tions for relief, when it spends more for death than
for life, must we not feel and write indignation and
even fear?
Poets have come down out of the ivory tower. It
may be for no other reason than that we are hungry.
But here we are-mingling with with all men and
women. Our poems, even when they complain or call
a society to question, or cry struggle, are not bad
temper or whining, but the hard and honest expres-
sion of a belief that the world's agony and conflict
are ours, that it is either our death or that of chaotic
and crumbling society, that we can have, not so
much a new life but any life at all, only in a new
order.
In Europe they think this, and they turn to you,
saying-America,
can you show us the way? Can
you send us nothing more than the GuU Stream and
the West Wind?
The Sleepers
Heavy-liddedheroes of the subways,the late cafeterias,
The sun-up streetcars, the sleepydoorwaysand stoops-
Star-boardersof the brake-rods,docks,and worn park lawns,
Round-shoulderedveterans of the double-barreledsubways,
Shot tired to work, and fired sleepyhome back to sleep-
Sleepers,sleepers: this is the ninth inning, the last act.
Get up. Take a deeplong breath. This is the end of the line,
This is the jumping-offplace,here is where the sidewalkends,
Here is the depot the ashpilethe roundhousethe terminus.
Get up. Give us the Answer.We want to hear. Let us know.
JAMES NEUGASS
PARTISAN
REVIEW
May Days
SAUL
LEVITT
"AH, NOW watch this," he said, and she smiled,
watching him. She sank down on the grass watching
while he threw the stone, and he threw it straight
at the cracked breast of the nymph over the fountain
in Pelham Bay Park.
"Beating women," said Helen, smoothing the blue
polka-dot dress.
"Sure, beat them and slaughter them," answered
the dark-haired young fellow, sitting down next to
her, and he hummed the Comintern song and
thoughtfully twisted and twisted her hair. It had a
straw toughness under his hand.
Pelham Bay Park was green and quiet in May. A
small boy ran yelling along the path past the foun-
tain; and over the fountain hung the stone nymphs
discolored by wind and weather, with one nymph
turned Amazon, one-breasted, the other breast
cracked. Wind through the trees in the small stretch
of woods.
"Father Divine's group," said Harry. "Those
women singing, it was impressive. Dressed in white
and singing. I can't remember the songs but they
were swell. ... " He grinned reminiscently, remem-
bering the old man's opera songs. "I've learned to
like that kind of music but not any other kind ....
Our songs are nice, too," he amended.
"Do you remember when I ran off, Harry?" said
Helen. "That was because I saw some of the girls
I worked with in the millinery store. It was fun
meeting them on May Day, I never expected to find
them
there ....
Stop twisting my hair that way."
He kept twisting it absently and affectionately.
"And going past Twenty-first Street," he said.
"I've worked there, and Eighteenth, too. I could
look down and see the store, Schenk's place, where
I had to do everything and wheel that handtruck
out on Seventh Avenue. That job on Eighteenth
Street, though, that was the damnedest job. It gave
me the queerest kind of feeling, going down Seventh
past landmarks like that, and fellows pressing
against windows and looking out. One truck-driver
getting stuck on Eighteenth, I don't think you saw
him, Helen, he was stuck there waiting for the
crowd and got down, sore as a bitch, and then sort
of calmed down, watching .... You could see he was
wondering. "
She jabbed him, he let go of her hair and grabbed
her and slid his hands along her back.
"Idiot
I"
she said, standing up and straightening
her dress, her cheeks mantling a little.
He sat on the ground, the white shirt muddy
along the rolled-up sleeves. It was warm enough
9
