Modern poetry is the sick man of the arts. Precious, arid, obscure, it sometimes seems too feeble and withdrawn to be nursed back to life. Indeed, modern poetry has played the game of ten little Indians with its readers for so long that in recent years neither London nor New York could claim a magazine devoted to first-class poetry. Now each may stake half a claim to a new bimonthly: Poetry London-New York. Price: 75ยข a copy. Stamped on the sedately styled cover of the first issue is a red-and-black lyrebird drawn by Mobilist Alexander Calder as a symbol of the...
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