TOM BRACKEN

Evening Post, Volume CXXVIII, Issue 13, 15 July 1939, Page 20

TOM BRACKEN

POET OR POETASTER?

Mr. Pat Lawlor writes: —

Because a bust of Tom Bracken has been sent to the Wellington Public Library, a "Post" contributor signing himself A.M. has seen fit to fly into a mighty rage. In effect A.M. cries to the poor defenceless piece of stone: "Begone, Tom Bracken! You shall not enter, the portals of this abode of great literature. You are not a poet, you are merely a poetaster for you have no 'inner magic'; you are 'the apol<leosis of the obvious.'" Supposing the impossible happened —that our Wellington Librarian, stung to quick remorse by the mighty fulminations of A.M., tossed the effigy of Bracken into the street, would any harm be done to Bracken's memory? No. The memory of Tom Bracken is more than a cold piece of stone; it is already enthroned as a warm, living monument of words in the hearts of thousands of New Zealand people. j The proof? It is to be found in the j fact that for many years past the public have bought thousands of copies j of his poems, while, the works of many of the super-intellectuals and of those who brew their etymological complexities in free verse have been gathering dust on the shelves of the bookseller. You are too late, A.M.—too late by half a century. In 1890 the late Sir Robert Stout predicted: "When the history of our literature is written Tom Bracken's poems will not be forgotten." Yes, too late, A.M., lor in the same year Sir George Grey welcomed Tom Bracken as "a pioneer poet with claims on our gratitude and regard." Both these gentlemen were statesmen, but they were also writers and discerning critics. They were men of broad vision and, while admitting inequalities in Bracken's verse, they realised that much of it was good and that most of it had a wide appeal to the masses. NOT A GREAT POET. This is just where A.M. fails. Because Bracken lapsed occasionally into weak lines, and in a lesser degree our greatest poets have done the same. A.M. pushes these imperfections forward and cries out petulantly that Bracken was not a poet. I claim that Bracken was a poet, though, admittedly, he was not by any manner of means a great poet. I think of Bracken in the words of Horace: "Tis long disputed, whether poets claim From art, or nature, their best right to fame; But art, if not enricH'd by nature's vein, Aud a rude genius of uncultur'd strain, Are useless both ; but when in friendship joined, A mutual succour iv each other find. With these words in mind I would ask your readers (just as A.M. did in an opposite manner) to peruse "Musings in Maoriland."v This book is one of the largest volumes of verse ever produced by a New Zealand poel and for this very reason was "bulked out" with many of Bracken's youthful indiscretions. How many other poets have made the same sad mistake? Because of this is the poor verse to blot out the good? Let the reader look at Bracken's "Pax Vobiscum," "Annihilation," "De Profundis," "The Vilest Fiend of All," some of his sonnets, his "Not Understood," and a dozen or more others and he must agree that Bracken, if not a poet of the intellectuals, was a poet of the people and a pioneer poet. Tom Bracken was a. simple, homely poet, and through him the simple, homely folk who, thank God, still predominate, found utterance. Domett was a greater poet, out he was millions of miles away from the big heart of the people. Who but a mercenary collector of first editions would buy Domett today? Yet Tom Bracken has been a modern literary marvel —a best seller in poetry. We know the reason. Tom Bracken's affection for his fellowman and for his adopted country was deep and sincere. His heart was big, his soul had simple word-music, and the people listened to him and loved him and they still love him. But not only for this reason will they welcome this bust of him in the Wellington Public Library. Bracken was more than a poet; he was a colourful, romantic figure, a pioneer, a miner, journalist, a member of Parliament (did he not thrill the Legislature once by singing in Parliament a melody of Tom Moore's?). Tom Bracken was a bighearted, big-souled Irish gentleman, and —a thousand pardons, A.M.—Tom Bracken was a poet. I Mind you, I do not claim that the writer of our National Anthem is our national poet. His poetry is not big enough for this, but the fact remains that in spite of the literary Rosicrucians of the A.M. brand, Tom Bracken will always remain as one of our best-loved pioneer poets. FROM HENRY LAWSON. A.M. concluded his article on Bracken by making a few comments on Australian poets. To ease any hurt I may have inflicted on his reputation as a critic I will pay A.M. "the compliment" of imitation, which they would have us believe is the sincerest form of flattery. I will, do so by referring to Henry Lawson, whose literary reputation when he died a few years ago was assailed by a few critics of the A.M. type. But Henry Lawson had already replied to them, and he might have been writing also for Tom Bracken when he penned these lines: You were quick to pick on a faulty line That I strove to put my soul in; Your eyes were keen for a clash of mine In the place of a semi-colon — And blind to the test. And is it for such As you 1 must brook restriction? "I was taught too little"? I learnt too much To use for a pedant's diction. 1 leave you alone in your cultured halls To devil and croak and cavil: Till your voice goes further than college walls, Keep out of the tracks we travel. The lesser shade of Tom Bracken answers: "Yes, Henry, the illuminati attacked me in like manner. I too wrote my reply t© them in these words: Not understobd. We gather false impressions. And hug them closer .as the years go by, Till virtues often seem to us transgressionsAnd thus men rise and fall, and live and die. Not understood Not understood. Poor souls with stunted vision Oft measure giant? by their ..arrow gaujje Tho poisoned shafts of falsehood and derision Are oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age. Not understood. Not understood. The secret springs of action Which lie beneath the surface and tho show Are disregarded, with self-satisfaction We judge our neighbours, iind they often mo Not understood Oh, God! That men ivoulo .cc ;i Tittle learei Or judge less harshly where they cannot see; Oh, God! That men'would draw a little nearer To one another, they'd be nearer Thee, And 'indefslood "And Henry." Tom Bracken might add, "although these words have been recited in the four corners of the world, apparently they have not found an echo in the hearts of our critics." The film rights of ,F. L. Green's novel, "On the Night of the Fire," were sold within a fortnight of the publication. Production is to begin almost immediately, and the filming of the great dock fire, which is an important part of the story, is likely to be one of the most ambitious scenes' yet attempted in an English studio. !