Draft - I'm currently working on this page but have included progress to accompany the poems

Poem  -   Mae Marsh, A Motion Picture Acress  :  Scenario -   A Doll's "Arabian Nights"
 

I'm currently preparing a more detailed account of Vachel Lindsay's poetry and views of the young heroines of the early silent era. In the meantime here is his poem in honour of Mae Marsh. It comments on both Mae and the industry. I will later include my analysis of what he was saying. Lindsay also wrote a scenario, complete with musical accompaniment, in which he imagined playing opposite Mae. He sent this to her, no doubt together with (the usual) other infatuated content, and later published it.

The great American poet of the first two decades of the 20th Century, Vachel Lindsay, became infatuated with the movies, like the rest of the American public at the time. He wrote poems in honour of his personal favourites, and sent his female favourites (Mae Marsh, Blanche Sweet and Mary Pickford, among others) private letters of devotion espousing his affection, often intense in content.

During the early years of the century actors were the property of the film studios, working uncredited in productions. If they did receive any form of recognition it was as the property of the individual studios, i.e. Florence Turner as "The Vitagraph Girl", and Florence Lawrence as "The Biograph Girl". Around 1910 studios began to promote their 'property' as individuals, encouraging public interest, even worship. Soon enough the usually dull lives of the masses were filled with stories and images of these sirens. Promoted initially by their studios, the press soon took a hold of the situation with a multitude of articles and magazines directed at the movie going public. Fan worship and star-gazing had arrived.

Lindsay believed that public opinion was cast, incapable of accepting that these young women possessed a persona other than the fragile virginal nymphs they were often portrayed as. That the "gloating mob" and their ravenous attention would eventually destroy the subjects of his fantasies concerned him greatly. "Despite Raw Lights And Gloating Mobs/She Is Not Seared: A Picture Still:" he wrote of Mae Marsh.

Though he admired Griffith immensely, Lindsay objected privately to the director about (as he saw it) his use of Mae Marsh in The Birth of a Nation as a sexual attraction, almost paedophilic in portrayal. Not that Lindsay himself personally objected, rather he saw it as pandering to an audience who had no control over their lustful desires - Miss Marsh may have been twenty years old at the time, but she neither looked it nor acted it in Griffith's masterpiece. Mr. Griffith was, however, otherwise appreciative of the poets praises and later invited him to be his guest at a private screening of Intolerance.

Lindsay had his supporters. Molly Haskell considered Griffith's use of girl actresses as "nympholeptic," fulfilling the tradition of leering perversity encouraged by the camera eye's intrusive peeking into private spaces of adolescent female sexuality. Marjorie Rosen similarly comments on Griffith's "nymphophilia," citing his insistence that Mae Marsh appear with limbs exposed in The Sands of Dee, and that another actress forego panties to enhance her sex appeal. Strong stuff indeed.

Some may say that Lindsay viewed these actresses as his own virtual property. "I am the one poet who has a right to claim for his muses Blanche Sweet, Mary Pickford and Mae Marsh", he had written in Art of the Moving Picture. He glorified in their screen persona, it fuelled his mind and filled it with exotic fantasies in which he played his part opposite the young heroine of his dreams - see his scenario. when one of his fantasy goddesses reached a more womanly age he discarded her, focusing his attention on the latest studio offering to fill his fantasy - more of this later.

That he lusted after these young women is undeniable, though he seems to qualify this to himself with the belief that it wasn't the base lust of the mob. He lusted, but it was a dignified lust. He appreciated beauty, culture, and refinement, he was known in, and knew of society. what did the mob know of these things. A respected figure, he was entitled to his lustful desires, his belief that one day he would capture the young flesh goddess of his dreams.

Possibly he felt himself able to distinguish between admiration, love and lust, and able to control his feelings of each. In this respect he was wrong. He deluged Mae Marsh with so many letters that it caused her some anxiety and concern, even becoming fearful of receiving 'normal' fan mail, which was usually screened first by Miss Loos. He repeatedly requested a meeting with her, so often that eventually she agreed - he was after all a respected figure in society and it could do no harm, and may even put an end to his incessant letters. With Anita Loos in-tow as chaperone the meeting took place at Miss Loos's apartment. Miss Marsh had expected an "intellectual gink", worthy of poetical stature, a Byron, perhaps. What appeared, in Miss Loos's words was a "red-headed ventriloquist dummy....", completely unconventional in dress and manner. The meeting was a total disaster, almost comical; Lindsay unable to comprehend the farcical scene his romantic gestures of love and devotion was causing. His attempts to convince Miss Marsh to return with him to his home in Springfield were, not surprisingly, unsuccessful. If he had intended to control his desire, his love, his lust of Miss Marsh, he had failed miserably, and in the company of Miss Loos.

To be continued.......

Citations, links to follow upon completion

The Arts Are Old, Old As The Stones
From Which Man Carved The Sphinx Austere.
Deep Are The Days The Old Arts Bring:
Ten Thousand Years Of Yesteryear.

She Is Madonna In An Art
As Wild And Young As Her Sweet Eyes:
A Frail Dew Flower From This Hot Lamp
That Is Today's Divine Surprise.

Despite Raw Lights And Gloating Mobs
She Is Not Seared: A Picture Still:
Rare Silk The Fine Director's Hand
May Weave For Magic If He Will.

When Ancient Films Have Crumbled Like
Papyrus Rolls Of Egypt's Day,
Let The Dust Speak: "Her Pride Was High,
All But The Artist Hid Away:

"Kin To The Myriad Artist Clan
Since Time Began, Whose Work Is Dear."
The Deep New Ages Come With Her,
Tomorrow's Years Of Yesteryear.

Vachel Lindsay 1917
 

(a rhymed scenario for Mae Marsh, when she acts in the new many-colored films.)
* This refrain to be elaborately articulated and the instrumental music then made to match it precisely

I Dreamed The Play Was Real.
I Walked Into The Screen.
Like Alice Through The Looking-glass,
I Found A Curious Scene.
The Black Stones Took On Flame.
The Shadows Shone With Eyes.
The Colors Poured And Changed
In A Hell's Debauch Of Dyes,
In A Street With Incense Thick,
In A Court Of Witch-bazaars,
With Flambeaux By The Stalls
Whose Sputter Hid The Stars.
Camels Stalked In Line.
Courtezans Tripped By
Dressed In Silks And Gems,
Copper Diadems,
All The Wealth They Had.

*Oh Quivering Lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

You Were A Guarded Girl
In A Palanquin Of Gold.
I Was Buying Figs:
All My Hands Could Hold.
You Slipped A Note To Me.
Your Eyes Made Me Your Slave.
"Twelve Paces Back," You Wrote.
No Other Word Gave.
The Delicate Dove House Swayed
Close-veiled, A Snare Most Sweet.
"Joy," Said The Silver Bells
On The Palanquin-bearers' Feet.
Then By A Mosque, A Dervish
Yelled And Whirled Like Mad.

Oh Quivering Lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

I Reached A Dim, Still Court.
I Saw You There Afar,
Beckoning From The Roof,
Veiled, A Cloud-wrapped Star.
And Your Black Slave Said: "Proud Boy,
Do You Dare Everything
With Your Young Arm And Bright Steel?
Then Climb. You Are Her King."
And I Heard A Hiss Of Knives
In The Doorway Dark And Bad.

Oh Quivering Lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

The Stairway Climbed And Climbed.
It Spoke. It Shouted Lies.
I Reached A Tar-black Room,
A Panther's Belly Gloom,
Filled With Howls And Sighs.
I Found The Roof. Twelve Kings
Rose Up To Stab Me There.
But I Sent Them To Their Graves.
My Singing Shook The Air.
My Scimitar Seemed More
Than Any Steel Could Be,
A Whirling Wheel, A Pack
Of Death-hounds Guarding Me.

And Then You Came Like May.
You Bound My Torn Breast Well
With Your Discarded Veil.
And Flowery Silence Fell.
While Mohammed Spread His Wings
In The Stars, You Bent Me Back,
With A Quick Kiss Touched My Mouth,
And My Heart Was On The Rack.
Oh Dreadful, Deathless Love!
Oh Kiss Of Islam Fire.
And Your Flashing Hands Were More
Than All A Thief's Desire.

Oh Quivering Lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

I Woke By Twelve Dead Curs
On Bloody, Stony Ground.
And The Gray Watch Muttered, "Shame,"
As He Tottered On His Round.

You Had Written On My Sword:--
"Goodby, O Iron Arm.
I Love You Much Too Well
To Do You Further Harm.
And As My Pledge And Sign
You Are In Crimson Clad."

Oh Quivering Lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

The Rocs Scream In The Air.
The Ghouls My Pathway Clear.
For I Have Drunk The Soul
Of The Dazzling Maid They Fear.
The Long Handclasp You Gave
Still Shakes Upon My Hands.
O, Daughter Of A Jinn,
I Plot In Islam Lands,
Haunting Purple Streets,
Hissing, Snarling, Bold,

A Robbed Never Jailed,
A Beggar Never Cold.
I Shall Be Sultan Yet
In This Old Crimson Clad.

Oh Quivering Lights,
Arabian Nights!
Bagdad,
Bagdad!

Vachel Lindsay 1919

 back