1910s

The Prisoner

If you have not a bird inside you,
      You have no reason to sing.
But if a pent bird chide you,
      A beak and a bleeding wing,
      Then you have reason to sing.

If merely you are clever
      With thoughts and rhymes and words,
Then always your poems sever
      The veins of our singing-birds,
      With blades of glinting words.

Yet if a Song, without ending,
      Inside you choke for breath,
And a beak, devouring, rending,
      Tear through your lungs for breath,
      Sing—or you bleed to death.

—Louis Golding (1895–1958), “The Prisoner,” Sorrow of War, 1919

Quiet desert

“The desert was quiet. The coyotes were not howling yet. I was my own howling coyote. Outwardly a comfortable-looking man in an arm-chair, smoking a pipe, I was inside a half-starved little coyote, out there on the dark desert, howling to the stars.”

—J. B. Priestley (1894–1984), Midnight on the Desert: A Chapter of Autobiography, 1917

March Night

I shook off the house like a hooded cape,
And came out, free, into the March-blown street…
At a lash of the gale, at a sight of the cloud-tattered skies,
As a coat discarded,
I shook off civilization
And became wild,
And my naked soul raced the clouds,
And the flavor of the Earth was fresh and primitive…

—James Oppenheim (1882–1932), “March Night,” War and Laughter, 1916

I Vowed that I Would Be a Tree

I vowed that I would be a tree.
      I went up to an oak and said,
“What shall I do that I might be
A beech, an oak, or any tree,
      With branches leafing from my head?”

There was a sound of sap that ran,
      There was a wind of leaves that spoke.
“So you would cease to be a man,
And be a green tree, if you can,
      A pine, a beech, an oak?”

I answered, “I am tired of men,
      As tired as they of me.
I fain would not return again
To the perplexity of men,
      But straightway be a tree.”

There was a sound of winds that went
      To summon every oldest tree,
To hold their austere Parliament
About the thing had craved to be
      Elect of their calm company.

There was a sound of bursting tide,
      There was a wash of clanging foam,
A crumbling shore, a bursting tide.
There came a thunder that outcried,
      “Go, wretched mortal, get thee home!

“Who art thou that would be a tree,
      Least of the weeds that shoot and pass?
Bide till a Wisdom come, and see
Before a mortal be a tree,
      He first must be a blade of grass!”

—Louis Golding (1895–1958), “I Vowed that I Would Be a Tree,” Sorrow of War, 1919

No Kings quotes

*  *  *

How happy we ought to be that we have no kings in America!

—J. Smytthe, Jr, 1853

*  *  *

      It was the birthday of the Neapolitan King. According to custom, the various vessels in the harbor of Naples were decked in their gayest colors, while the men-of-war fired salutes at sunrise, noon, and sunset. However, this year there was an exception — the vessel of Commodore Morgan, U.S.N., which had recently arrived to the harbor.
      The King sent for the Commodore. “Commodore Morgan, I wish to know if your nation desired that you show to me the disrespect which I observed?”
      “May I ask your Majesty,” said the Commodore, “how I have been wanting in respect towards your Majesty?”
      “It is my birthday, and, of all the vessels in port, yours alone did not deign to fire salutes.”
      “Ah, sir!” replied Morgan, “pardon my republican manners. We have no kings in America, and it is not the custom to fire salutes upon our President’s birthday.”

—The Anecdote of Commodore Morgan, 1853

*  *  *

America has no king, that is it has no officer to whom wealth and from whom corruption flow. It has no hereditary oligarchy, that is it acknowledges no order of men privileged to cheat and insult the rest of the members of the State.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1820

*  *  *

America has no king, whose whim could be made into a law.

—Jay William Hudson, 1922

*  *  *

The extraordinary notion that the President has exclusive control over the use of the army has been in part produced by a vague impression of resemblance between his constitutional prerogative and that of sovereigns under constitutional governments. This impression is begotten partly of pride, partly of fear, and greatly of ignorance. There are some people who take such pride in everything American that they must needs consider their own chief magistrate as mightier than a king. It is not an uncommon thing to hear one of these foolish persons boast that their President has more power than the Queen of England, nay, that he is the greatest magistrate in the world. A false analogy here ministers to pride. Because the President is chief magistrate it is inferred that he is like other chief magistrates, and as these are in general kings, it does not require a great stretch of the imagination to fancy that he also is a sort of king. But an American President is not a king, nor anything like a king, any more than he is like the Emperor of Russia, the Sultan of Turkey, or the Mikado of Japan. The chief magistracy is not of necessity a kingly office. The Governors of our States are chief magistrates also, but they are not little kings.

—David Dudley Field, 1877

*  *  *

I have a short answer to all this. America has no king!

—Dublin University Magazine, 1834

*  *  *

The King who comes to his office by virtue of birth, and not of personal qualifications, reigns but does not govern. The republican magistrate does not reign; but it is implied in his position that, within the limits of authority which the law gives him, he should govern. This is implied in the very notion of an elected magistrate. If he is not chosen on account of his capacity for government, why should he be chosen at all?

—The Saturday Review, 1877

*  *  *

It Should be considered, that there are in America, no Kings, Princes, or Nobles: no Popes, Cardinals, Patriarchs, Archbishops, Bishops, or other ecclesiastical Dignitaries. All publick offices and Employments are bestowed, by the free Choice of the People.

—John Adams, 1780

*  *  *

The U.S. Constitution was designed to prevent and control berserk actions by a President and by the Executive Branch of government. Presidents are not kings; they have no Divine Right; and when they commit actions that are immoral, or in violation of the Constitution, they must be stopped, or this country will cease to function as a free Constitutional democracy.

—Pete Hamill, 1972

*  *  *

Every great movement on behalf of humanity leads to organized action. The modern world is learning the enormous value of intelligent and free cooperation; for it is a triumph of the democratic spirit. The people today resolve to do things for themselves. In order to do them, they must combine their energies and their wits, utilize the peculiar power of each individual, and march side by side to the accomplishment of results. Party is simply cooperation. It is not servitude, if the rank and file have brains; for so-called leaders are only servants, if they do but execute the will, and carry out the thought of the people. Presidents are not kings, though entrusted with far more power than most kings possess. There is even no honor in their election, except on the admission that it is an honor to be permitted to serve. The moment a leader sets up to be master instead of servant, let him be promptly dismissed.

—Francis Ellingwood Abbot, 1870

*  *  *

Here is an attempt to throw something of the mystery of kingship round one who is not a King and who cannot really act as a King. A President chosen for four years cannot really play a King’s part. There is nothing sacred about him. He must submit to praise and blame.

—The Saturday Review, 1877

*  *  *

The American system is strictly republican. The relations between President and Congress, whatever may be their advantages and disadvantages, follow naturally from the decision of the founders of the Constitution that the executive power should be vested in a single man and not in a council, and that that single man should be, not a king, but a magistrate: elective, terminable, and responsible.

—Edward A. Freeman, 1879

*  *  *

      We told him we lived in America beneath the flag for which our fathers fought; that we lived in the United States, and we had a right and had a ground to fight on; and we asked the governor to abolish the Baldwin guards. That was the chief thing I was after because I knew when we cleaned them out other things would come with it.
      I called the committee, and I said, “Here, take this document into the governor’s office and present it to him. Now, don’t get on your knees; you don’t need to get on your knees; we have no kings in America; stand on both feet, with your heads erect.”

—Mother Jones, 1912

*  *  *

In America, our president will not only be without the influencing advantages of the British king, but they will be in the possession of the people at large, to strengthen their hands in the event of a contest with him. In short, danger from ecclesiastical tyranny, that long standing and still remaining curse of the people — that sacrilegious engine of royal power in some countries — can be feared by no man in the United States.

—Tench Coxe, 1788

*  *  *

The position of the President of the United States one peculiarly well fitted for learning the truth in regard to a political question! Why, sir, palaces are not proverbial for the amount of truth that is uttered in the ears of the king. Indeed, it is probably one of the most repulsive features that surround a man having the kingly office, that from the day of his birth to the day of his death he never hears the honest, simple truth spoken. The President of the United States, it is true, is not a king; but some of the incidents attaching to kings attach to him, and one of those incidents is that he is less likely than almost any other man in the nation to hear the truth spoken. Who are the men that surround him, and what are their purposes and objects? To speak the truth? Oh no, sir. They are men having other purposes and other objects than to tell the truth. They have an eye to fat contracts, to gifts, and emoluments. They do not go there to offend the ear of majesty by speaking the truth, unless it should be pleasant to the ear of majesty to hear it. About the courts of kings, and, I fear, about presidential mansions, there are many who may, without impropriety, be styled toads, who live upon the vapor of the palace. They may have the precious jewel of truth in their heads, but they are specially cautious not to have it on their tongues.

—Lafayette S. Foster, 1858

*  *  *

NOTE:  Some of these quotations have been edited for clarity and brevity. For the full excerpts and attributions, plus several more “no kings” quotes, please see www.quotegarden.com/no-kings.html

The Poet, II

My body was once a beautiful house of marble,
Kissed to pale rose by the passionate heat of the sun,
Wherein through cunning channels flowed forever
Health-giving crimson blood in steady tides.

My eyes were then quick to see and to welcome beauty,
My lips smiled often with gratified desire,
My hands shook not, but were fit for caress or grapple,
My arms rose and my body moved in strength.

Then not a single line of any poem
Had my hands raped from my brain, but untouched and pure
They abode in the land of distant visions where no man
Heard my voice calling for them at eventide.

My blood lies in great black lakes now, sluggish and frozen,
Or fumes in like some boiling, stinging, poison brew
Till it suddenly stops in a lassitude unspoken,
Or bursts through my pores and covers me with red dew:

My eyes are bleared now and dull with sleepless midnights,
My lips are shrunken purses—their gold is spent,
My hands unsteadily clutch and paw and tremble,
My arms are as strings of macaroni bent.

And as for my chest, ’tis like a leaky air-box
Fixed to some cheap melodeon out of tune,
The bellows creak, the loose and brown keys rattle,
And the music that comes is like a dog’s sick moan.

But in my brain there seethes an adulterous hotchpotch
Of poems clean and disgusting, mad and sage;
And pain, like a dry fire, keeps them ever a-boiling
Till they splash over and blacken some wasted page.

Yes, I am a poet now to be mocked and applauded,
A turnspit that turns and must never taste the meat:
Behold how great I am, but I wait for a greater,
Even Death, who will silence the march of these crippled feet.

—John Gould Fletcher (1886–1950), “The Poet, II,” Fire and Wine, 1913

Weekly feels

Saturday:

Sunday:

Monday:

Tuesday:

Wednesday:

Thursday:

Friday:

Images in the public domain, modified t.g.
• Saturday — Zandrie by Marian Edwards Richards, 1909, illustration by Harriet Roosevelt Richards, published by The Century Co., contributed by New York Public Library, digitized by Google Books, books.google.com
• Sunday — Happy Days by Oliver Herford, 1917, illustrated by John Cecil Clay, published by Mitchell Kennerley, Internet Archive, contributed by University of California Libraries, digitizing sponsor Microsoft, archive.org
• Monday — Wellcome Collection. ‘A young woman of Vienna who died of cholera, depicted four hours before death.’ Coloured stipple engraving, c.1831. wellcomecollection.org
• Tuesday — Happy Days by Oliver Herford, 1917, illustrated by John Cecil Clay, published by Mitchell Kennerley, Internet Archive, contributed by University of California Libraries, digitizing sponsor Microsoft, archive.org
• Wednesday — I got this from an old book years ago but haven’t yet been able to find my notes with the source; oops.
• Thursday — Woman in Sacred Song, compiled and edited by Eva Munson Smith, 1888 edition, published by Arthur E. Whitney, digitized by Google Books, books.google.com
• Friday — Wellcome Collection. ‘Skeletons dancing.’ Etching by R. Stamper after Christopher Sharp. 1700s. wellcomecollection.org

XXXI

My stiff-spread arms
Break into sudden gesture;
My feet seize upon the rhythm;
My hands drag it upwards:
Thus I create the dance.

I drink of the red bowl of the sunlight:
I swim through seas of rain:
I dig my toes into earth:
I taste the smack of the wind:
I am myself:
I live.

The temples of the gods are forgotten or in ruins:
Professors are still arguing about the past and the future:
I am sick of reading marginal notes on life,
I am weary of following false banners:
I desire nothing more intensely or completely than this present;
There is nothing about me you are more likely to notice than my being:
Let me therefore rejoice silently,
A golden butterfly glancing against an unflecked wall.

—John Gould Fletcher (1886–1950), “XXXI,” Irradiations, 1915

Out!

Come, abashed Self! admit one thing:
You have been indoors too much of late…
You should have been out wrestling with the sun,
Or running races with the rolling Earth…
Where’s the old smell of you, when, nostrils dilated,
You were drenched with sea-salt and soil-odor?
Where’s the lusty tang of your voice, cleansed by strong winds?
Your sun-burnt cheek?
And the animal magic of your eyes?
Out of the house with you…
Into the water! Into the sky!
Over the hills!

—James Oppenheim, “Out!,” War and Laughter, 1916