His first acceptance came from Miss Harriet Monroe, who prints five of his poems in the August issue of _Poetry_. "My creed," says Mr. Bodenheim "(if I can be said to have one), is this: Most of the things which men call beautiful are ugly to me, and some of the things they call ugly are beautiful. Men and deeds are subjects for prose, not poetry. I am not concerned with life, but with that which lies behind life. I am an intense admirer of Ezra Pound's," he always adds; "I worship him." _Sade Iverson, Unknown_ We wish the mysterious poet who sent us _The Milliner_--which we liked profoundly and printed in our last issue--would come in to see us. The poem arrived one day in April with a modest little note: "Something about your magazine--perhaps the essential actuality of it--has moved me to make 'the simple confession' which I enclose. Print it if it is good enough; throw it in the waste basket if it is not." But though we have tried various investigations we have not been able to find out who this remarkable Sade Iverson is. She was the first person to send us a congratulatory letter about THE LITTLE REVIEW. In it she warned us that restraint is better than expression; but _The Milliner_ will stand as a stronger refutation of that advice than anything we can say. We want very much to know Sade Iverson. After reading her poem Mr. Bodenheim wrote the following: _To Sade Iverson_ I wonder if you scooped out your entire melted soul With shaking hands, and spilled it into this Slim-necked but bulging-bodied flagon-- So slim-necked that my sticking lips Must fight for wonderful drops. "_Blast_" The typical gamin, the street-urchin with his tongue in his cheek, crying in an infinitely wise childish treble that the world is an exciting place after all, and that even if you are so burned out that you can't taste your gin straight any more you can still put pepper in it,--this street-urchin has at last invaded the quarterlies. We have known him already in the dailies, the weeklies, the monthlies, the bound volume; but up to now the quarterlies have seemed dignified and safe. But the last bulwark of conservatism has fallen; the march of progress is unchecked! _Blast_ is the name of the new magazine, published in London by John Lane. Let us take it as it comes. The cover--after you have seen the cover you know all--is of a peculiar brilliancy, something between magenta and lavender, about the color of an acute sick-headache. Running slantingly across both the front and the back is the single word BLAST in solid black-faced type three inches high. That is all, but it is enough. Inside there is much food for thought. At least one feels sure there must be much food for thought, if only one could come near enough to understanding it to think about it.