VITAL SIGNSrnLITERATURErnThe Golden Goose:rnA Recollectionrnby Robert BeumrnIn the bright, warm autumn of 1947rnthat followed a chilly summer, severalrnhundred bewildered IT-year-olds foundrnthe Ohio State University campus inrnColumbus swarming with an alien andrnformidable species: veterans. The war,rnthough well over, was still more a realityrnthan a memory. The Great Depressionrnwas over too, having disappeared insensiblyrnin the war years. But the Affluent Societyrnhad not yet made its self-congratulatoryrnappearance. There remained arncreative poverty, the thrift that spursrnimagination and makes it possible to rejoicernin building something out of nothing;rnand there remained what affluencernhad set its sights on destroying: a certainrnsettledness, a measure of the old quietness,rnin people and in the streets, that hadrnlinked the generations. Sheer “makingrndo” made sense, even to the young. Sorndid discipline, prudence, scholarship,rngood looks, good clothes, and even, to arncertain extent, modesty and chasteness.rnIn 1947, service and good manners werernstill almost routine. Literacy, includingrncultural literacy, was an expectation withrna moral force behind it. Everyone read, ifrnonly Street and Smith pulps, and wordsrnseen, heard, formed with the fingers, andrnunhurriedly turned over in the mind didrnwhat can be done for sensibility in nornother way.rnThe scene had something to do withrnthe hatching oiThe Golden Goose, a littlernpress and little magazine that publishedrnestablished and unestablished writersrnfrom 1949 through 1954. The history ofrnthe Goose has never been written.rnRichard Wirtz Emerson, the man bestrnqualified to write it, died in chaotic circumstances,rnand what papers he keptrnmay well have disappeared along withrnhim. Frederick Eckman, co-founder ofrnthe enterprise, died in 1996, leaving onlyrnscattered notes on his years with thernGoose. But his death seems to have revitalizedrnthe long-standing awareness thatrnwe published some of the earliest work ofrnwriters who would go on to make theirrnmark (Robert Greeley, Kenneth Rexorth,rnGharles Edward Eaton, and Eckmanrnhimself were among them) and thatrnour proselytizing for William GarlosrnWilliams was not without effect.rnBut that renewed awareness can say littlernor nothing about what we were andrnhow we worked. It seems almost impossiblernfor anyone born later than 1950 tornrealize how much could be done on arnshoestring in the earlier half of this century.rnThe Goose was able to fly prettyrnhigh and a long way without governmentrnor foundation grants or universit)’ connections,rneven without personal fortune.rnIt seems equally unimaginable today thatrna seminal and productive venture in writingrnand publishing could be personal,rnjudgmental, anti-democratic, irregular,rnand free of committees. But such wernwere, and worse: In a fashion thoroughlyrnantique, we put friendship and loyalty tornone another ahead of success in the venturernitself In fact, that venture was onlyrnone aspect of an exuberant camaraderiernand a youthfiil commitment to spontaneity.rnIn the present world of packaged livingrnthat substitutes careerism, specialization,rnand self-conscious ideology forrnpersonal identity, such an insouciancernmay be equally unpicturable.rnIn any event, the late 40’s were thernright years for poetry and its printing.rnThe potential audience remained: Poetryrn— as distinct from poetized ideology—rnlingered on in the school curricula, luringrnthose who were capable of beingrnlured and wiio might not have knownrnthey were imless there had been assignmentsrnand homework on Keats, Tennyson,rnBryant, and Poe. There were incidentalrnbut not inconsiderable postwarrnfelicities: High-quality paper had returnedrnto the marketplace—we dug uprnTiconderoga laid text like buried treasurern—and labor costs, though they wererngoing up, were still well below the stratosphere.rnThe really big things were thernDepression and the war. The Depressionrnhad sobered the country, deepenedrnit a little. The war, following immediately,rnextended that sobered consciousness.rnThe tragic sense developed and was notrnerased at once by victory and peace.rnPoverty and loss —from late 1929rnthrough 1941; then several years of sacrifice,rndisruption of lives, carnage; it wasrnanother, and very long, interruption ofrnAmerica’s pursuit of the happiness of materialism;rnand when heroic and tragic valuesrnbecome meaningful, the poetic lifernwithin us revives and flourishes as well.rnOne unmistakable sign of the nationalrnlapse into spiritual life was the immensernpopularity and prestige of serious musicrnduring the war and for several years afterward.rnIn a relatively dull and uncouthrnprairie town like Golumbus there werernmore Bach concerts than one could possiblyrnattend; Schumann was almost asrnwell known as John Philip Sousa; evenrnBrahms, that backward-looking, brokenheartedrnidealist, commanded an audiencerninconceivable today.rnAnother unmistakable sign appearedrnto me one October afternoon. I had wanderedrninto one of the North High Streetrnshops across from the main gate of therncampus, gone directly up a short flight ofrnstairs, and had something to eat—thernfast-food palaces were not yet pandemic,rnand to eat you sometimes not only had torngo inside but also handle a short stairway.rnOn the way out, I noticed what any observantrnperson would have noticed onrnthe way in: a huge wooden rack overflowingrnwith the latest issues of arty and generallyrnexotic little magazines. There werernnames like Imagi, Cronos, and Tiger’srnEye, and all of them featured poetrv’. Irndared to leaf through a few but was toorndazzled, and probably too pressed forrntime as well, to read much. I had beenrnwriting poetry —that is, trying to writernit—since my early teens, and I was suddenlyrnaware that there was a much biggerrnmarket than 1 had supposed. How recenriyrnthat market had expanded, or whyrnit had expanded, I had no idea. I onlyrnknew that, at that moment, my urge tornwrite and to publish expanded a hundredfold.rnI wanted my name in that rack.rnThat very autumn, though I didn’trnknow it, Richard Wirtz Emerson wasrnediting his first magazine, Cronos, rightrnacross the street, with assistance fromrnFred Eckman. Many years later, Fredrndescribed Dick’s editorial debut:rna month or so after I arrived atrnOSU in the fall of 1946,1 saw arnbulletin-board notice somewherernor other that there would be an organizafionrnmeefing of a “writersrnworkshop” in the (old) OhiornUnion. The usual motley crew as-rn40/CHRONICLESrnrnrn