Word: poet
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...idyll did not last: Trotsky was touchy, Rivera proud. Not long ago Diego Rivera wrote a letter to his (and Trotsky's) good friend, the French surrealist poet, André Bréton, gave it to one of Trotsky's secretaries to type. Léon Trotsky chanced to see a copy of the letter on the secretary's desk, and before he could stop himself, he had read enough to get very angry at Rivera's un-revolutionary and disloyal words. Trotsky made some remarks about Rivera. Rivera found the remarks "unacceptable." Trotsky dispatched...
Most of the critics, whether they liked the play or not, ostentatiously confessed ignorance of what it meant. A long, amorphous one-acter, it tells of an unsuccessful poet and his little son who live, not always even from hand-to-mouth, in a California town. Upon them stumbles an aged Shakespearean ham actor (Art Smith), a runaway from the Old Folks' Home, whose playing on a trumpet delights his hosts andthe townsfolk. The old actor finally dies spouting King Lear, and the poet and his son are evicted from their little house, take bravely to the road...
Death Revealed. Ludwig Fulda, 77, famed German dramatist, novelist, poet, translator; in Berlin last month. Before the World War Fulda lectured in the U. S. as an exponent of German culture. Recently Nazis forced him to change his name to Ludwig Israel Fulda. Because he was a Jew, the Aryan press did not even report his death...
Directed by Documentarian John Taylor, with Poet W. H. Auden contributing to its commentary, The Londoners contains no boosts for the gas company but devotes all its footage to London, before and after L. C. C. days. Its staging of Dickens' day is more stagey than Hollywood's, but in its prying around modern London it uncovers much straight, unsugared stuff. It explores sagging flats, unkempt streets, records the pallor and pinch of slumdwellers' faces. The commentary: "Democracy means faith in the ordinary man and woman, in the decency of average human nature. Here then in London...
England. Twenty years ago a genial Englishman named John Collings Squire, parodist, poet and expert cricketer, launched The London Mercury. Its main aim was to publish poetry, especially the work of his friends, Robert Bridges, Robert Graves, Siegfried Sassoon. Well-printed, heavy, smooth, The Mercury was appreciated by poets because Editor Squire, if badgered awhile, paid real money for poems. The Mercury's eminence grew with well-phrased reviews, contributions by Hardy, Conrad, Shaw, Chesterton, essays on town planning, transport, education. But its circulation stayed around 4,000, disappointing Editor Squire, who once gave his credo...