LOVE POETRY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVI, Issue 20402, 2 November 1929, Page 1 (Supplement)

LOVE POETRY.

SOME MODERN TENDENCIES.

BX EIC'HAXID JAAIE3.

" The passion of love," say 3 Mr. Robert Lynd, ' sets as few of the younger poet 3 ou fire as the passion of polities." Rather a sad state of affaii-3 this, if true, for a volume of verse which contains no love poetry is aa sorry a thing as a child's story book bereft of pictures. Now it is true, I suppose, that proportionately less poetry inspired by love is being written to-day than in the time of Shakespeare. But it would' certainly seem that it is of a higher general standard. Dispute that if you will, but you must at least admit that of recent years love poetry has developed into several new forms—forms which would cause' much mighty discussion at tho " Mermaid" if those " souls of poets dead and gone" could once more gather at its hearth. The modern poet, perhaps, is not as deft as were his forbears at the turning of a sonnet in praise of his lady's eyes, but one may sing of love in many measures. That he has not lost the art of fashioning love lyrics oue may easily see by glancing at any good collection of modern verse. And many of these lyrics aro much in the manner of Jouson and his friends. The shorter poems of the present Laureate are rich in examples. There are many of them which would fit very neatly into an Elizabethan songbook. W. If. Davies, too, is another spirit akin to the Elizabethans. He is not so busy in his walks abroad that he has no time to sing a tender love song when the spirit moves him. The "Phyllis" who inspires him is a Phyllis of the countryside, friendly as he is with the beasts of the field, and caring for little but, the immediate pleasures of living:

fi.ceet stay-at-home, sweet well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent: Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gcntlo motion with the deep. No, these tilings are hot for her. But it matters little, for he loves her " for ii heart that's kind"—not for the knowledge in her mind. " Love and Idleness." In these days of industry, when even a poet must turn to other things than poetry for bis livelihood, it ia natural enough that he conjures up for himself a picture in which the workaday world is loft far behind; in which work, in fact, is superseded by indolence. This spirit shows itself in not a little of modern love poetry, as witness Ezra Pound, who forsakes his pedestrian-free verse to give expression to it: Sing wc for love and idleness. Nought else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land There is nought else in living. And I would rather have my sweet. Though rose leaves die of grieving. Than do high, deeds in Hungary To pa3s all men's believing. A happy thought, which appeals to all of us. Call it Utopian if you will, but love and poetry laugh at economics. They much prefer the philosophy of Robert Bridges : Wheu June is come, then ail the day I'll ait with my love in the scented hay: And watch the sunshot palaces high That the white clouds bujiii in the breezy sky. Yes, a golden view of life—hut an uncommonly pkasanfc one. Baalism in Poetry.

Thomas Hardy—the greatest of the passing generation of poets—was very far from being ail adherent to this hedonistic philosophy. He was the central figure in a movement which is doing much to present another view of love—a view that, is realistic rather than romantic. Not that Hardy disbelieved that love was commonly enough the romantic thing sung by iiis predecessors, but that his dramatic sense—even stronger with him than tho lyrical—made Jinn deal in his poems with those ironic and tragic situations which love and life very often produce. He could—as in " Beenv Cliff"—make of love an intensely wonderful thing, though even there it is transient: but for the most part he concerned himself with those " satires of circumstance" which, under this and other titles, bulk so largely in his collected works. We may not like them—they are an acquired taste—but we must admit their claim to consideration, if only as part, of the movement they helped to usher in. Rupert Brooks is another member of t his realistic school. His first volume contained a number of poems, which the critics, somewhat, thoughtlessly, styled " unpleasant." Of these the most, famous was " A Channel Passage," in which he decriLed how, in the midst of the agonies of seasickness, he was sustained by memories of his love. It, is crudely done, and cannot compare with his sonnet, " Lust," which, in spite of its title, is a remarkably beautiful piece of work. When these and other kindred poems were written, however. Brooke was a young man who had scarcely found himself, and ifc is doubtful whether he wouid have continued t" write in this vein had he lived. Bat, at the time he was very much ill earnest. " I'm unrepentant about tho ' unpleasant' poems." he wrote. " I don't claim great merit for the ' Channel Passage.' but the point of it was (or should have been!) serious. . < The emotions of a seasick lover seem fo me, at least, as poignant as those of the hero who has brain fever." All unusual, but at least an interesting, point of view. There are many other writers who have dealt, with the physical, rather than the spiritual, side of love, mostly in very charming verse. One of these is_a woman, Anna Wickham, who, in pre-war days, contributed a number of striking little poems to Mr. Harold Monro's excellent quarterly, " Poetry and Drama"—one of the many good things the war destroyed. Idealism. Wo are left now with a tendency in love poetry which may claim to bo peculiarly of the present age. There are poets who, like Humbert Wolfe, spend much of their time in inquiring into the ultimate nature of love. From this it is uofc j, far step to the poetry whose message is one of idealism—poetry which urges love' 3 uplifting and ennobling. This is a form of poetry verv far removed from the happy philosophy of E/.ra Pound. Its exponents sing not of love as a pastime, hut of love as an art—an art which may be £reat or trifling as the artist wills. Such is the spirit which inspires Herbert Trench: Come, let 113 make lore deathlesu. Thou and f. , , Seeing that our footing on tao earth is brief— Seeing tljat her multitudes s-reep out to die. Slocking at all that pnsses our belief. For standard of our love not theirs we take; If we no hence to-day, Fill the high cup that is »o soon, to break With richer wine, than they! Here we have a gesture of rebellion against the uninspiring standards of our age—a gesture which bodes well for poetry, for the great, poet, is essentially a rebel. Somewhat similar ia tho note sourded by Robert Bridges: T will not let thee go. Have wo not chid the changeful moon. Now rising late, and now Because «lie set too soon ? And shall I let thee go ? It is all to the good, this spirit of revolt, aud ia doing much to make the love poetry of the future a, richer and a nobler thing than waa ever known in the past..