Carolyn Wells

It was an Artless Poster Girl pinned up against my wall, She was tremendous ugly, she was exceeding tall; I was gazing at her idly, and I think I must have slept, For that poster maiden lifted up her poster voice, and wept. She said between her poster sobs, ‘I think it’s rather rough To be jeered and fleered and flouted, and I’ve stood it long enough; I’m tired of being quoted as a Fright and Fad and Freak, And I take this opportunity my poster mind to speak. ‘Although my hair is carmine and my nose is edged with blue, Although my style is splashy and my shade effects are few, Although I’m out of drawing and my back hair is a show, Yet I have n’t half the whimseys of the maidens that you know. ‘I never keep you waiting while I prink before the glass, I never talk such twaddle as that little Dawson lass, I never paint on china, nor erotic novels write, And I never have recited “Curfew must not ring tonight”. ‘I don’t rave over Ibsen, I never, never flirt, I never wear a shirt waist with a disconnected skirt; I never speak in public on “The Suffrage”, or “The Race”, I never talk while playing whist, or trump my partner’s ace.’ I said: ‘O artless Poster Girl, you’re in the right of it, You are a joy forever, though a thing of beauty, nit!’ And from her madder eyebrows to her utmost purple swirl, Against all captious critics I’ll defend the Poster Girl.

(A Pantoum) Of making many books there is no end, Though myriads have to deep oblivion gone; Each day new manuscripts are being penned, And still the ceaseless tide of ink flows on. Though myriads have to deep oblivion gone, New volumes daily issue from the press; And still the ceaseless tide of ink flows on— The prospect is disheartening, I confess. New volumes daily issue from the press; My pile of unread books I view aghast. The prospect is disheartening, I confess; Why will these modern authors write so fast? My pile of unread books I view aghast— Of course I must keep fairly up to date— Why will these modern authors write so fast? They seem to get ahead of me of late. Of course I must keep fairly up to date; The books of special merit I must read; They seem to get ahead of me of late, Although I skim them very fast indeed. The books of special merit I must read; And then the magazines come round again; Although I skim them very fast indeed, I can’t get through with more than eight or ten. And then the magazines come round again! How can we stem this tide of printer’s ink? I can’t get through with more than eight or ten— It is appalling when I stop to think. How can we stem this tide of printer’s ink? Of making many books there is no end. It is appalling when I stop to think Each day new manuscripts are being penned!

Two shall be born the whole world wide apart, And speak in different tongues, and pay their debts In different kinds of coin; and give no heed Each to the other’s being. And know not That each might suit the other to a T, If they were but correctly introduced. And these, unconsciously, shall bend their steps, Escaping Spaniards and defying war, Unerringly toward the same trysting-place, Albeit they know it not. Until at last They enter the same door, and suddenly They meet. And ere they’ve seen each other’s face They fall into each other’s arms, upon The Broadway cable car – and this is Fate!