The father of the modern short story, an activist, and a lesser-known American poet share a birthday. Today’s poem from the birthday poet.
The date is August 5th, Monday, and today I’m coming to you from Mattapoisett, MA.
Today is the birthday of Guy de Maupassant, French author. Maupassant is considered the father of the modern short story. During his lifetime he published over 200 short stories, seven novels, and a poetry collection.
Born in 1850 in France, Maupassant was no stranger to family drama. When he was 11, his mother was finally able to separate from an abusive husband. Maupassant, his mother, and his brother moved away to a small town, settling comfortably into a villa. Maupassant’s mother was an avid reader and provided a solid educational foundation from which Maupassant would grow.
In his 20s Maupassant had the good fortune to have Gustave Flaubert, author of Madame Bovary, as a mentor. Through Flaubert, Maupassant successfully entered the literary world, becoming a bestselling author and an in-demand contributor to literary magazines and periodicals.
Maupassant joined a group of intellectuals and artists – one of whom was Alexandre Dumas who protested the Eiffel Tower. In proper melodramatic fashion, Maupassant made it a point to frequent the café below the Eiffel Tower. He noted that sitting under the Tower was the best place to not see it.
Today is the birthday of Gertrude Rush, African American lawyer and activist.
In Des Moines, IA, Gertrude married James B. Rush in 1907. After marrying, Gertrude Rush attended Des Moines College while simultaneously participating in a LaSalle University of Chicago correspondence program. She received both her bachelor’s degree and law degree in 1914.
Four years later, James died unexpectedly, and Gertrude took over his law practice. She also filled in for her late husband in his activist roles in the Des Moines Community. When she was denied entry to the American Bar Association, she and three other black lawyers started their own, known as the Negro Bar Association, later known as the National Bar Association.
Today is the birthday of Peter Viereck, American poet, political philosopher, and professor.
Peter was born in 1916 in New York City. Peter’s own father was a poet and journalist, but questionable politics would lead to Viereck, Sr. four year stint in federal prison. Peter’s views were less radical.
He gained notoriety first for an article he wrote in the Atlantic Monthly titled “But—I’m a Conservative!” At the time Viereck was finishing up a PhD in European History at Harvard.
This launched Viereck’s 20-ish year long career as a journalist as a political philosopher. He was a conservative in name but exercised a more moderate view, particularly in the second half of his career. He had a strong moral compass and supported New Deal policies while denouncing the fear-mongering rhetoric of conservative provocateurs such as George McCarthy of the McCarthy Era. By the 1960s, conservative media would reject his contributions as too moderate, while his previous association with conservatives barred him from journaling for liberal media outlets.
Aside from politics, Viereck is remembered today for his poetry. He won the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry in 1949 for his debut collection Terror and Decorum and published consistently afterwards. Viereck embraced the traditional in his poems and believed the only “proper topics” for poems were love and death.
Again, Again!
Peter Viereck
Who here’s afraid to gawk at lilacs?
Who won’t stand up and praise the moon?
Who doubts that skies still ache for skylarks,
And waves are lace upon the dune?
But flowering grave-dust, flowerlike snow dust,
But tinkling dew, but fun of hay,
But soothing buzz and scent of sawdust,
Have all been seen, been said—we say.
BANALITY, our saint, our silly,
The sun’s your adverb, named “Again”;
You wake us willy-nilly
And westward wait to tuck us in.
We, nurse, are flouted when we flout you,
Even to shock you is cliche.
O inescapable dowdy!
O gold uniqueness everyday!
Who’s new enough, most now, most youngest?
Enough to eye you most again?
Who’ll love the rose that love wore longest,
Yet say it fresher than brief rain?
I’ll see. I’ll say. I’ll find the word.
All earth must lilt then willy-nilly,
And vibrate one rich triple chord
Of August, wine, and waterlily.