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The depth effect is so undeniable that some minds are struck by it as the chief power in the impressions from the screen. Vachel Lindsay, the poet, feels the plastic character of the persons in the foreground so fully that he interprets those plays with much individual action as a kind of sculpture in motion.
You mustn't make me lose my train; I've got a date with Vachel Lindsay and Edgar Lee Masters in New York to-night. Vachel's an amusing bird. I must get him over to England and get him started. I've written to Edmund Gosse about him, and I'm going to write again. What a pity Irvin Cobb doesn't write poetry! He's a great writer. What vivacity, what a rich vocabulary!"
Nicholas Vachel Lindsay Vachel rimes with Rachel was born at Springfield, Illinois which rimes with boy on the tenth of November, 1879. His pen name omits the Nicholas. For three years he was a student at Hiram College in Ohio, and for five years an art student, first at Chicago, and then at New York. This brings us to the year 1905.
But whether these games are played by laughing choruses of youth or only by the firelight in the fancy of a solitary reader, the validity of Vachel Lindsay's claim to the title of Poet may be settled at once by witnessing the transformation of a filthy rumhole into a sunlit forest.
Every "amplificolor imperii" every widener of the bounds of the empire of poetry, like Vachel Lindsay with his experiments in chanted verse, Robert Frost with his subtle renderings of the cadences of actual speech, Miss Amy Lowell with her doctrine of "curves" and "returns" and polyphony runs the risk of being regarded for a while as a technician and nothing more.
L in New York I had an introduction to her from Jan wanted to give me a first edition of Shelley, but I wouldn't let her." "How do you fellows get away with it?" we said again humbly. "Well, old man," he said, "I must be going. Mustn't keep Vachel waiting. Is this where I train? What a ripping station! Some day I must write a poem about all this. What a pity you have so few poets ..."
Read it aloud a dozen times, and you, too will hear roaring, epic music, and you will see the mighty, golden river cutting through the forest. I do not know how many towns I have visited where I have heard "What do you think of Vachel Lindsay? He was here last month and recited his verses. Most of his audience were puzzled." Yet they remembered him.
But the blunders of an original man are sometimes more fruitful than the correctness of a copyist. Furthermore, blunders sometimes make for wisdom and truth. Let us not forget Vachel Lindsay's poem on Columbus: Would that we had the fortunes of Columbus, Sailing his caravels a trackless way, He found a Universe he sought Cathay.
Above the town a tiny bird, A shining speck at sleepy dawn, Forgets the ant-hill so absurd, This self-important Buffalo. Descending twenty miles away He bathes his wings at break of day Niagara, Niagara. True poet that he is, Vachel Lindsay loves to show the contrast between transient noises that tear the atmosphere to shreds and the eternal beauty of unpretentious melody.
There was a time when the great charm of New York lay in the fact that it didn't want to be saved. Who is it that the lions in front of the Public Library remind us of? We have so often pondered. Let's see: the long slanting brow, the head thrown back, the haughty and yet genial abstraction to be sure, it's Vachel Lindsay!
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