National Affairs: A Room with a View

“After all, you’ve got to have some outlet,” said Jacob Hauser, voicing the cry of many a man smothered in a big city. Mr. Hauser is a poet. Like many another poet, he is—or was—unpublished.

Eighteen months ago, he bought a second-hand Mimeograph machine, set it up in his three-room apartment on New York’s grimy Second Avenue, and began putting out a monthly publication called Solo. Containing about seven pages of Hauser’s poetry, it is sent free to writers and critics culled from Who’s Who.

Hauser is somewhat irritated by those who think “there’s something funny about my wanting to give something away.” Says he: “The best things in life are free. I’m a poor philanthropist.” Sample poem:

Ah, I grow lonely in muck company!

Surrounded by people, I think of quiet lanes,

I hear my voice, and think I hear the wind

Buffing desolate walls in far-off places.

When I go home tonight, I shall write poetry.

When I feel this way, I always write poetry.