J. LIDDELL KELLY, POET.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 162, 10 July 1926, Page 30

J. LIDDELL KELLY, POET.

AN APPRECIATION. A HUMAN Ain> HUMOROUS WRITER. (By ERNEST L. EYRE.) A little old grey man in dungarees, Dusily planting bulbs in his Mount Alberi garden—such was my last glimpse of til; late J. Liddell Kelly, poet and journalist Some considerable time has elapsed since his death, but no worthy tribute has yet been paid to the manifold liter ary abilities of this gifted man. This is not, however, a cause for wonderment, as Maorilanders are notoriously indifferent to art. Rather with my dead friend's work am I concerned than with his life. Suffice to gay that Liddell Kelly was born neat Airdrie, Scotland, over sevwity-eix years ago. His father was an orator and a poet of some local renown. Kellj acquired by self-study an excellent knowledge of the classics and several modern languages, and when he left his native land for our shores, in the early 'eighties, he left behind him a considerable literary reputation. To detail his extraordinary journal istic activities under the Southern Cross would till a book, therefore I must hasten to a survey of his work. To him there was a glory in the rain' bow, a charm in the song of the thrush, a poet's indetinable longing for unattainable things in the crimson glow of tlu dying sunset. Although his prose was clever, often brilliant, his ultimate fame will rest eta the surer foundations of his poetic creations. His heart was in his poetry. He told mc once that, in common witL most poest, he derived more satisfactiot from a completed poem than from ah; prose article or sketch. I have in my possession only one o\ Kelly's publications, "Heather and Fern," a bound edition of his collected poems, dated 1002. Extracts from this favourably-reviewed book may interest readers of the "Star," where many of tho Verses originally appeared. His touch was delicate, but sure, a: witness the following, which display* pure poetic imagery. At earliest dawning of an April morn I wandered 'mid the sprinkling rain, mc viewed A raiDbow's arcli the ly-estern skies adort With many a bright and varied tin! Imbued, While in the eastern heaven, with strcngtl renewed Bright Phoebus rose, find from hie goldei locks (With heavy vapours of the nls'iit be . dewed t Silook drops of pearl on fields and blcatlrif I flocks, J While bright the sunbeams glanced 01 : waters, woods and rociiS. My old friend's poem "The Soldieir, , , originally published in the - Sydnej "Bulletin," so appealed to Mr. ArchibaU (the then editor) that he averred i should be republished annually. I The piece is too long for full quota j tion here. It fairly blazee with Uyronii j fire, fury and satire, and, in my opinion i is the greatest diatribe ever penuec ; against the professional soldier of tin I Hindenburg type. I quote at random. What is the Soldier in War? A licensee ! butcher of men, .' A Cain, not branded and banished, bu "' '■ petted, flattered;' rewarded; A Robber, a Haider, a Liar, a. Spy, and I Lurking Assassin ; A complete Lexicon of foul and blasplaemoui language; I An Anarchist, knowing no law, but bis oatt ! to obey his- leader — : (The Ten Commandments and statute law I being for his benefit; suspended). ; Had he visions of German atrocitiei ; in Belgium when he penned those pro ; phetic lines? j The poet's sense of humour was pro found. He was particularly adept ai j vernacular verse. Let us sample "St. : Patrick's Day in Auckland": I Och : the cilibrashun, and the dimonstrasUua ' And the jollification, so free and gay, I will always remimber, be 1 lame or limber, Though I'm spared to live till mc dying day I How, the weather scorning, last Friday morning Myself adom'ng in mc best array, I broke taytotal, and tilled mc bottle, , To help mc to hould St. Patrick's Day I J The platypus, that weird Australian I creature, amused him. Oh, platypus, blest platypus, I Furred like an Aretle-d*-elllng Ituss I Or Thomas eat. with feet so flat, I How are you monotreraatous? Haw have you merotolastic eggs, You reptile, stuck on four gnod legs? Maoriland's glorious and unrivalled scenery fired Liddell Kelly's imagination: ■Where the cataract shakes the -woods, and wakes The echoes of rock and glen— In the cool dark of a punga glade The Moa has made his den. His musings on Auckland—in Albert Park in 1883 —will particularly interest Aucklandera. Though city and sea, and ships Lay hid In the rolling mist •By the morning breezes driven, The church spires, raised to Heaven, By the sun's tirst beams were kissed. The poet penned many beautiful lovesongs. I select a few lines. 'Tie good to hear mid-Victorian sentiment in these prosaic days. In summer the streamlet merrily skips " And dances over the stones Singing sweetly the while, but from Maggie's lips Flow softer and dearer tenes. . . . JHe also, as Henry Lawson, the Australian poet, used to ■fcay, had his dreams. Once, in the days of. Long Ago. In the pleasant land of Xirgendstro, When I was young and Love ib -prime, Life swung along like an easy rhyme. . . Kelly's oft-quoted Maori and Scotch "dialect" poems, are well known. The poems "The Taniwha" and "Tarawera, or The Curse of Tuhoto," contain eerie verses, such as:— Tarawcra's triple mountain Bellowing, belching balls of flre. Streams of lava, showers of ashes. Smoke from Nature's funeral pyre! Few imported writers have studied the Maoris' characteristics to the extent of my friend, whose versatility in this, 6f any, theme was amazing. Even sport, in his declining years, became the subject of lines from his unwearying pen. His description of the death of Tuhotu,". the Maori Tohunga, is impressive. Tenderly -we nursed Tuhotu. But bis soul seemed far away: Earth no lonjrer seemed to claim him; grew he, d«y by day, TUJ his spirit burst Us prison. And. with features glorified, tt-..u di s. t: f° m ? " r,nd vision. With a Christian's faith, he died. The Eastern mythologies and religions m one time possessed a strange fascination for him, whose soul was "born of Ugh* and shade, and whose fancies ranged unchecked over field and wood,* | - • .

The last verse of "Nirvana" is strikingly beautiful. rhen shall we taste true bliss— Neither to think nor to speak. Neither to know nor to seek, Conscious of only this— That all which Time once marred is mended. That Nature and we in one are blended. That Hate is conquered and Strife is ended ; That nevermore Is there worst or beat— Only most perfect rest. He was not untouched by the trend of' modern democracy. Behold,, through the ages, since e"er the ■world besan. The bondage and the fetters that man has made for man. There is a lilting loveliness in "The j Stream and the Lily": i I dreamt it dream so fall-: I dreamt of a lily white That floated away (like my Uream) On the breast of a quiet stream In the balmy evening air Under the clear moonlight. Sweet Lily: The stream upheld the lily— The lily adorueU th* stream. Above all, the late poet was a thinker, not a mere weaver of meaningless musical words. He was distinctly oi a reflective disposition, with little of the cynic in him. A deep reverence for the unknown glorified his soul. He was no fatalist. Life is not futile, short anil vain to those Who love and labour, bear the trumpet call Of duty, and go forth to fight with all The brood of Hate .... The glories of the South Sea Islands inspired some of his best descriptive work. Of all the Islands, east or west. One cbarmins spot I love Ihe best — A land of loveliness and rest Is beauteous Uai-utciign. ... He cherished fond memories of his birthplace. Airdric, Airdrl'e! Fairest of fairylands It seems, That old town far «*a.v, Seen in the light of oiy goldeti dreaiis, . Whether by night or day. . . . "Heather ahd Fern" contains so many poems of exquisite beauty that I could quote for hours, but must refrain. 1 am content to place, with a trembling hand, on the grave of this brilliant man of letters and encourager of minor poets, my wreath of remembrance, gratitude and regard. And, as Liddell Kelly would have desired, I will end on 'the high note with his haunting poem, pregnant with fire, "Immortality." At twenty-flvc I oast my horoscope And saw a. future with all guud things rife— A, firm assurance of eternal life In Worlds beyond, and in this world the Of deathless fame. But now my sun «loth elope To set tin?, and the toil of sordid s;rlfe. The care of food and raiment, child and wife. Have dimmed and narrowed all my spirit's scope. Eternal life—a river gulpbed in sands L'hdyiijß fame—a rainbow lost in clouds! What hope of immortality remains But this: "Some soul that loves and understands Shall saro thee from the dartfiess that ehfchrof'tls." 4nd this: •Tuy blood shall course In other's veins?" .It is the poignant yearning cry for Fame that has rung pathetically down tlie ages, and which hka broken so uiHtiy rtoble hearts.