mystical notion of a creative process which departs--of neces-
sity, as they put it--from the objective world. That the sub-
jective product is so childish appears to bother these people
not at all, and that is quite understandable when you con-
sider that standards as well as art can derive only from reality.

To go on with this synthesis that poetry allows us, in a
"little magazine" called Interim, ⁸ published at the University
of Washington, we find in a poem written by Stymean Karlen,
the following:

Time is dead,
Sponsor the baptism of death to me,
Death to the small feet
Never knowing one step with me,
Death to you
Hanging from your own lance
Speared by self love.

And in the same magazine, by C. A. Powell:

The tempest drove him into such despair
That even hatred could not succor love,
Nor the adultress, passion, find a sacred
Lair, nor leaven tranquilize unrest.
The tissue underwent a subtle form
Articulately mesh, the burning issue
Caught in storm of mind dissolving flesh.

And also from Interim by the better-known Kenneth
Patchen:

Put the rest away, O put the rest away,
Naked girls are waiting in the tumbled hay--
And dead leaves fall to the ground.
How many lives do you expect to squander?

-17-