If you are familiar with the face or name of Henry R. Martinson, it is likely because of the classic documentary film of 1978, Northern Lights, about the early days of the Nonpartisan League in North Dakota. In which, the aged Martinson plays himself, his words and persona framing the narrative.
A kinsman of Henry, David Martinson, was my literary guide to North Dakota when I arrived here in 1992. A fine poet and a lover of the land, Dave was catholic in his affections, and so he introduced me to poets and lovers of a wide spectrum. Only this week, however, have I immersed myself in the Henry R. Martinson Papers held by the NDSU Institute for Regional Studies, which caused me to think more deeply about his place in the life and letters of North Dakota, and maybe about the place of all of us here.
Born and raised and educated down-state in Minnesota, Henry came to Divide County, North Dakota, in 1906, with a couple of buddies determined to take a crack at homesteading. Henry did not prosper as a pioneer farmer, but in 1909 he got title to a half-section by cash entry before moving into the boom town of Minot. The Bureau of Land Management says his claim was in S6 T160N R98W. I mention this because I want to situate him squarely on the land. The 1910 census lists him as a painter and a roomer in Minot.
There he entered two worlds: the world of left-wing politics, and the world of letters. He became active in the Socialist Party, and became editor of the socialist newspaper, The Iconoclast. The paper espoused a sometimes-bitter class antagonism. A poem published in its columns declares,
There was never a dollar of all but marks a worker dead.
We have given our best, to give you rest, You lie on crimson wool.
My God, that’s right out of the Book of Acts, you know, that verse about the Field of Blood.
After the arrival of the Industrial Workers of the World and the Free Speech Fight, socialism went underground in North Dakota. Henry took to the road in a Model T, organizing for the Nonpartisan League. When the league, too, faded from political power, Henry, after knocking about a bit, landed the position of deputy commissioner of the state department of labor and agriculture, where he served 1937-1965. All this time, an avowed and dedicated socialist. On retirement from his state job, he wrote a memoir of the socialist heyday in the state. It was published in the state historical journal, North Dakota History, but I read it in typescript at the institute. The title typed at the top: “Comes the Revolution.”
We may wonder how such a radical remained respectable enough to hold place for so long. I find the answer in his poetry. Given his tough experience homesteading, Martinson might have been embittered, but he was not. His Badlands poems are full of awe and edification. With his wife Melba he wrote, “A North Dakota Song,” which concludes,
When our fields of flax are blooming bluer than our inland sea,
Welcome to our prairie garden—Share our hospitality.
For love of the land is a visceral thing, owned by no ideology. Oh, and another thing to learn from Henry Martinson. He ran for the state legislature twice, first in 1936, then again in—1972, at age 90. Poetry, and love of the land, can keep you going.
