"ROBIN HYDE'S" VERSE

Evening Post, Volume CXXVIII, Issue 49, 26 August 1939, Page 11

"ROBIN HYDE'S" VERSE

HIGH POETRY

(By Johannes Andersen.)

I should like to say a few words in appreciation of "Robin Hyde" (Iris Wilkinson), who died in London a day or two since. "Robin Hyde" had genius, and shows it most, I think, in her book of verse, "Persephone in Winter."

I am not taken by her prose as a whole; a good deal of it may be brilliant, much of it is forcible, and it has been sufficiently in demand for publishers to be glad to secure it. I think, however, that it is in her verse she will live; a great deal of it is high poetry—true literature. It stands the test of reading and re-reading, and deep pondering. In her earlier booklet, "The Conquerors," first burned the gleam we all follow; that gleam burns steady and true iri "Persephone in Winter."

She. was in London when I read that book, and I wrote expressing my great admiration for the work in it, for the inspiration that gave soul to the work. "Persephone" took a place beside the "Golden Treasury" as a book I could always'turn to. She knew I did not care for her prose; but she now knew 1 did care for her verse. She wrote in reply to my letter:

"Yes, I did know or guess you didn't altogether 'approve' of me—very few people do; some of the best literary friends I had at 23 won't even read review copies of my books now, and if there were any New Zealand reviews of 'Persephone in Winter' I never saw them. I don't altogether approve of myself, either—how can one approve of a. writer who claims a love of verse foremost, but who also writes novels, short stories, and a journalistic hotchpotch? The novels and short stories . mightn't be bad if I could write them as I want to do. But the journalistic stuff, unless for an occasional thing written with especial purpose, I hate — and fear. But I have never had much .option. .... I think that 'for the likes of us' poems begin in the heart and are apt to end there, as few people care for them or even read them. . ;'. ." Well, hers will be read: there is little doubt of that. I would especially draw attention to poems like "Meeting . in Sarros," "In a Silent House," "Joseph's Lilies," "Astolat," "In the Lane," "They Consider the Crucifixion," "The Apple-Girl." Might I quote a stanza from "Singing"? Someone comes singing through the delft-blue evening, Song all opal-foam and star-tide-spray; Song like the sob in the sea's throat rising Where the dark waves glimmer in the bay. Perhaps it is a sailor, a swarthy Span* ish sailor, He and his yellow parrakeet a-hunt-ing dreams together, Moon-scent of roses in a dusk Devon lane, And a bonnet for his gay flamingo feather. And this, from "In a Silent House": Thus her house spoke, as I in door half-opened Stood listening to the room a long time shut. And I, as long time homeless, took my way Softly by corridors, and shed off clothes Like chrysalids, with what had most oppressed me, The victories of evil. Where green vines Bent searching in, I laid me down. The rain Beat on drums muffled, but the fierce cicadas Burned, flame unquenched, and their whole flame was singing. But deeper voice of roof-tree quieted me, Arboreal, and yet human. Lying so, I watched the light finger perfected books, And, turning cheek to childhood, fell asleep. And, to conclude, "The writing on the Rock": Let it be; say no more. She had desire to be loved Too jealously, and pressed upon God her face Wet, wet, importunate, through the long hair. What she learned there Of blind gold images, with eyes unmoved, Of the taste of dust upon* the temple floor And the tiny twang of the arrow ending the chase It is not for us to care. These things are writ on the brow Taken back from Time. But now, However still God be, As quiet is she.