The Daily Worker Newspaper, October 30, 1926, Page 10

Farm Poetry Expressing Working Class Solidarity By JOHN B. CHAPPLE, HERE are several kinds of farm poetry. One kind is the nauseating stuff written by sentt- mentalists along this line: “With face all aglow and busy hand “Preparing the meal for the husband’s band.” If there are any farmers’ wives who faces are all aglow, you will note it is the faces of the wives of|- capitalist farmers who hire “hands” to do the work. The surplus profits ground out the hide of the city worker afe now being invested in big-scale, capitalist farming; ,The big farmer has his bank connectfons, is financed in the purchase of all kinds of expensive ma- chinery, has better facilities provided him to get into markets, with the result that the proletarian farmer— the man with his wife and family on 160 ‘acres of land or so—ig being driven off the farm, lashed by hunger; is overhead in debt and unable to meet taxes; is work: ing his wife and children in the fields in a ‘desperate final effort to follow the capitalist advice to work and get rich. The second stage in farm poetry is that of realism— realism without a remedy. ‘ Markham in his “Man with the Hoe” refers to the farmer “stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox.” He goes on: There is no shape more teryible than this— more tongued with censure of the world’s blind greed.” He “even wonders what will happen to the masters when this “dumb Terror” shall join in bringing about the revolution. The cynical outlook of many interpreters of the farmer’s position in society is typified by Carrie Eddie Sheffler. Touched by both compassion and amusement, she quotes a farmer in “Down on the Farm” as say- ing: “Work all summer till winter is nigh, Then figure up the books an’ heave a big sigh: Worked all year, didn’t make a thing; Got less cash now than | had last spring. Now some folks say there ain’t no hell— But they never farmed so they can’t tell. When spring_rolls round | take another chance, . While the fringe grows longer on my old pants. Give my s’penders a hitch, my belt another jerk; , Then,, by heck, I’m ready for a full year’s work.” ( iper next step in farm poetry expressing the farmer is reached when the farmer refuses to give his sus- penders another hitch and earn more for those exploit- ing him. The stage of stolid toil is past; the farmer is becoming aroused, and the poetry of this intermedi- ate stage expresses the changed point of view: ‘Phere- is awakening vigor in this, written by a farmer fighting a losing battle to exist under the pres- ent system. “Everybody on the back Gives him (the farmer) a resounding whack, ‘Cheer up, boy | know what’s wrong,’ Everybody sings that song. Banker, broker, butcher, baker, Politician, auto maker, But look out it’ll come the day, When the fog will roll away And Dig-tnto It, by heck! Take his grievance by the neck, THEN WITH UPTURNED SLEEVES WILL HACK THROUGH THE CROWD THAT HOLDS HIM BACK.” THE AMERICAN JUNGLE (Continued from page 3) of the floor, their peculiar trouble was that they fell into vats; and when they were fish- ed/out, there was never enough of them left to be worth exhibiting — sometimes they would be overlooked for days, till all but the bones of them had gone out to the world as Durham's Pure Leaf Lard!” The Jungle is one of the few American novels of meaning to the proletariat. It grew out of the clash of social classes in the early twentieth century. A journalistic tawdriness of style, an unpiquant obviousness of method, and a facti- tious finale. suffice to undermine and cheapen the power of its appeal’ As a social document, however, itis almost without parallel in our liter- ature. Its fearless candor tends in part to re deem its crude and scabrous etyle. ‘dn conclusion, The Jungle is expressive of con- temporary civilization, It is an indictment of Capitalism. It exposes the nature of a society that has converted possession into a virtue and cooperation into a vice. AWOKE fully an hour be- fore my enustomary time. Something was the matter, ; something’ was wrong — I knew not what. The silence! No wonder I had been per- turbed. The hum of the great lve city was strangely Silent; In the ten succeeding minutes not @ car passed. I heard no jar and rattle of wagon-wheels, nor stamp of iron-shod hoofs straining up the steep cobblestones, Pressing the push-button beside my bed, I strove to hear the sound of the bell. It rang all right, for a few minutes later Brown en- tered with the tray and morning paper, “The creamery did not deliver this morning,” he explained; “nor did the bakery.” e , “Nothing was delivered this morning, sir.” Brown started to explain apologetically; but I interrupted him. “The paper?” sir, and it is the last time, too.” I read on hastily, skimming much and remembering much of the labor troubles in the past. For a genera- tion*the general strike had been the dream of organ- ized labor, which dream had arisen originally in the mind of Debs, one of the great.leaders of thirty years before. I recollected that in my young college-settle ment days I had even written an article on the sub ject for one of the magazines and that I had entitled it “The Dream of Debs.” And I must confess that | had treated the idea very carefully and academically as a dream and nothing more. Time and the world nt SSS Here is the farmer approaching the stage of mili- tancy, but not yet intelligent, not yet knowing exactly what is wrong, and not knowing in what direction to attack. Many of the flareups from time to time on the part of farm organizations are of this nature. Temporary political pressure at most. is all tit results. HEmotion is dissipated because of stupid tactics, ‘ “Yes, The final stage comes, with the realization of the farmer's true position. in society—his. position as an ‘exploited worker, a brother of the factory worker. When the farmer realizes that the power that makes his wife and children slave im the potato field or at picking berries is the same power that bends the. child of the city worker over the factory bench, direction is given to his resentment and he enters as trained sol- dier into the army of toilers which will build the worker state. Not all farmers are friendly toward Communism yet; it has been painted in living colors and handed them in the traitorous “farm” papers along with a lot of other capitalist poison, . But- the wheels of changing society awaken in the farmer, without any schooling whatever in Communis! theory, a feeling of solidarity with the city worker. The farm-labor movement is a half step in this direc- tion. Here is a poem, sweated and blistered out of a farmer sinking into poverty on a North Wisconsin farm, thai his vigor, and a distinct sense of direction, “Push upwatd, upward out of shadow’s Preach, You burdened masses, tear the victor’s breach, In human greed’s forbidding, frowning wall: Hark to an age-old, never-ceasing call. Push upward, toilers of the world, in noble strife: There’s room for alf on the sunny heights of life! j “The call still rings that centuries ago Ms Re-echoed thru the valley of the low; The call that Spartacus obeying died. That sent the peasants ’gainst the mailed knight; The call that shook the thrones of tyrant kings, The call for justice clarion-like still rings, “Much you have gained in contests bravely fought; But sweat and blood and tears will be for naught, Your labor will be Sisyhean toil— Rolled to the top, the huge stone will recoil— If you not storm the stronghold of King Greed, For, while this monster lives, you’re slaves indeed. “And. in the valley, where the shadows creep, You will in bondage serve and weep and sleep, To be awakened to a crimson glare. And flaring banners and the trumpet’s blare; Again. to wade in brother’s blood knee deep, So that King Greed may richer harvest reap. “The Brotherhood of men will ever be A dream beautiful you'll never see Enacted in the sober light of day if you not break the ghastly orgre’s sway; 80, tollers of the wrold, push on In noble strife, There’s room for all on the sunny helghts of life!” SL SE MIN! Sy 385 THE DREAM OF DEBS “ had rolled on, Gompers was gone, the American Fede ration of Labor was gone, and gone was) Debs with all his wild revolutionary ideas; but the dream had per sisted, and here it was at last realized in fact, I threw the paper down and proceeded to dress,_ Ht would certainly be interesting to be out in the streets of San Francisco when not a wheel was turning and the whole city was taking an enforced vacation, ARMMED was the butler, When he entered I could see he was laboring under controlled excitement. He came at_once. to the point, “What shill I do sir? There will be heeded provis- ions, and the delivery drivers are on strike. And the electricity is shut off—I guess they’re on strike, too.” “Tell Harrison to bring the machine around to i club for me—not later than eleven.” Harmmed shook his head gravely. “Mr. Herrimeat has struck along with the Chauffeurs’ Union, “You don’t happen to belong to a Butler’s Union, do you, Harmmed? ‘ ‘ a “No sir,” was'the answer. “And even if I did Pd not desert. my..employer in a crisis like this. No eir, I would—” , RO co \ Drawing by Jerger. — . ‘ “All right, thank you,” I said. “Now you get ready to accompany me., I'll run the machine myself, and we'll lay in a stock of provisions to stand a siege.” It was a beautiful first of May, even as May days go. The sky was cloudless, there was no wind, and the air was warm—almost balmy. Many autos were out, but the owners were driving. them themselves. The streets were crowded but quiet. The working class, dressed in ite Sunday best, was out taking the afr and observing the effects of the strike. It was all so un- usual, and withal so peaceful, that I fownd myself — enjoying it. The annougeement of organized labor tn the morn ing papers that it was prepared to stay out a month or three months was laughed at, And yet that very from the first day we might have guessed as much fact that the working class took practically ne the great rush to buy provisions, Of course