Life, 1922-09-21 · page 6 of 36
Life — September 21, 1922 — page 6: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
The illustration depicts a woman and a cherub or cupid figure at a writing desk, likely representing the creative process of writing poetry. The accompanying article "Whispers to Wives: On the Question of Home" discusses domestic arrangements between husbands and wives—specifically how wives might influence home decoration and management. The "Blue Prints" poem on the right appears to be satirical commentary on contemporary poetry trends, mocking overly complex, rule-breaking modern verse that eschews traditional "metre and grammar." The poem advocates for clarity, melody, and rhythm while ridiculing the avant-garde "Elect" poets who prize cacophony and structural experimentation. The satire targets intellectual pretension in modern literary circles circa early 20th century, when modernist poetry was challenging Victorian conventions.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Whispers to Wives On the Question of Home ENTIMENTALISTS without number have said it was the Wife's Home; the ruddy window; the happy hearth, from which, if the architect has employed a good chim- ney-expert, the smoke ascends. The doorstep, over which Walter's hon- est watch-dog lets in the tramps and keeps the friends at bay. The ve- randa Sidney won't have fitted with mosquito nettings because it would mean he admitted the existence of mosquitoes; which he won’t and of which there are myriads, as the fam- ily blotches attest. Home; the place where Robert will keep all his grandmother’s bead and shell ornaments, and domestic- gothic furniture, exactly as they were in her day, no matter what Mrs. Robert says; where Peter, in his de- termination to preserve the unity of his priceless Louis XIV period, has banished all appearance of previous human character and occupation; where, over the lovely peacock-blue paint, so carefully chosen by Mrs. Nathaniel for the library, Nathan- iel’s poison-green has been hastily superimposed. Where,—but why go on? Except for a few cupboards, here and there, what have wives had their own way about? Almost noth- ing. Even when they have been driven to plan one or two trivial, though necessary, alterations, can they con- sult their husbands? Never. They are forced to arrange with the build- er to construct the new bathroom, or to enlarge the kitchen quarters, in secrecy. They are prepared, trem- bling, to bear the brunt of the Mas- ter’s rage when he discovers these additions to his domicile, and to smile admiringly when he shows them off to strangers as some little improve- ments he has just put in. They expect to struggle desper- ately to acquire the things they want while he is still looking upon curios as “junk”; and to be swept away by the flood of objects he will acquire after some other woman has taken him to auctions and taught him to call them “Antique Sales.” But the only way a wife can really make Home hers, is by playing that it’s his. G.D. The road to happiness seems just wide enough for single persons to travel. Golfing adds to a man’s physical assets. It also increases his lie abili- ties. It’s a wise cork that knows its own “pop.” Blue Prints Cou let us model a marvelous poem, Sombre or purple of hue, Close to our age as the wood to the phloém, Madly, flamboyantly new. Full of cacophonies, crudeness and clamor Such as delight the Elect; Free of all trammels of metre and grammar— Form is a fatal defect. Let it be mordant, discordant, satiric; Only the loathsome is strong; Hullabaloo, and we'll call it a lyric; Shriek, and we'll call it a song. Schooled by the craft of your shrewd predecessors, Revel in argot and slang; Erudite critics and vaudeville pro- fessors Praise the colloquial tang. Clearness, remember, is always ab- surd; Scorn as the ultimate crime Beauty of thought, beauty of word, Melody, rhythm and rhyme. Ears that are tuned to the croak of the raven Hear not the thrush in the glen; Still shall the soul, as the ship to its haven, Turn to the Poets again— Masters of tragedy, comedy, passion Ancient but new as the spring; Singers, who, careless of foible or fashion, Wrangle not, rage not, but sing— Giving new eyes for the world and its splendor, Shields to the world and its darts; Lovers of loveliness, truthful but tender, Yielding the depths of their hearts. Makers! who cherish in fame and derision Courage that dares and endures, Knowing the transient but holding the vision, Guard well the gift that is yours: Utterance, vibrant with something half-heard Old as the wing-beat of Time, Fervor of thought, magic of word, Melody, rhythm and rhyme. A. G. comicbooks.com