The American writer Stephen Crane is best known for his Civil War novel The Red Badge of Courage. Crane himself, who was a contemporary of Mark Twain and Emily Dickinson, said that he prefered his poetry to his famous novel, calling his verse "the more serious effort." I have to agree. Written in a curt, prosaic style that was quite radical at the time, his poems have always appealed to me. Crane published two volumes of poetry in his lifetime, The Black Riders (1895) and War is Kind (1899). Some of his poems had previously appeared in magazines of the day. At any rate, he has been a favorite of mine since I was a schoolboy. While many of my tastes have changed--I no longer, for instance, have a penchant for Hostess Ding Dongs--my delight in the poems of Stephen Crane has never dissipated. Below are a few examples.

 

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter--bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

 

Yes, I have a thousand tongues,
And nine and ninety-nine lie.
Though I strive to use the one,
It will make no melody at my will,
But is dead in my mouth.

 

Once there came a man
Who said:
"Range me all men of the world in rows."
And instantly
There was terrific clamor among the people
Against being ranged in rows.
There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.
It endured for ages;
And blood was shed
By those who would not stand in rows,
And by those who pined to stand in rows.
Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.
And those who stayed in bloody scuffle
Knew not the great simplicity.

 

I stood upon a high place,
And saw, below, many devils
Running, leaping,
And carousing in sin.
One looked up, grinning,
And said: "Comrade! Brother!"

 

If there is a witness to my little life,
To my tiny throes and struggles,
He sees a fool;
And it is not fine for gods to menace fools.

 

A learned man came to me once.
He said: "I know the way,--come."
And I was overjoyed at this.
Together we hastened.
Soon, too soon, were we
Where my eyes were useless,
And I knew not the ways of my feet.
I clung to the hand of my friend;
But at last he cried: "I am lost."

 

Many workmen
Built a huge ball of masonry
Upon a mountain-top.
Then they went to the valley below,
And turned to behold their work.
"It is grand," they said;
They loved the thing.

Of a sudden, it moved:
It came upon them swiftly;
It crushed them all to blood.
But some had opportunity to squeal.

 

I was in the darkness;
I could not see my words
Nor the wishes of my heart.
Then suddenly there was a great light--

"Let me into the darkness again."

 

"Think as I think," said a man,
"Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad."

And after I had thought of it,
I said: "I will, then, be a toad."

 

Many red devils ran from my heart
And out upon the page.
They were so tiny
The pen could mash them.
And many struggled in the ink.
It was strange
To write in this red muck
Of things from my heart.