The name and address of the author must be fixed to the manuscript in a sealed envelope.
It should be borne in mind that free verse is wanted—verse having beauty of rhythm, not merely prose separated into lines.
There will be three judges, the appointing of whom has been left to the editor of The Little Review. (Their names will be given in the next issue, as we are hurrying this announcement to press without having had time to consult anyone.)
There will be two prizes of $25 each. They are offered not as a first and second prize, but for “the two best short poems in free verse form.”
As there will probably be a large number of poems to read, we suggest that contributors adhere closely to the conditions of the contest.
A. Neil Lyons
(John Lane Company, New York)
A roomy garret with a wee dirty window in the sloping roof. Some trunks with old fine clothes and older musty books—books of hymns and sermons, most of them were. Broken limp chairs. A fire that would not “draw.” Bits of worn carpets on the floor. A smelly oil lamp on one of the trunks. Such was the place of my solitary confinement, for rebellion, at least once a week. I admit to having even deliberately whistled and danced a highland fling on dreary Sundays in order to provoke my God-fearing, Sabbath-respecting elders to send me to the garret! How could they, unsuspecting, unimaginative Olympians, know that it was one of the places where I had real joy?
In the smallest trunk there were back numbers of Punch. Pencils and paper were there also. When the steps sounded no more on the stairs, and I had stopped my stage crying, I would take out my drawing materials and an issue of Punch and start to copy the easiest drawings I could find.
Among the artists there was none that I liked better than Phil May. His sense of the comic and his economy of line appealed to me and my lack of ability to draw. His Cockney folk gave me more pleasure than any of the staid humans I knew. He....