LITERATURE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 18050, 25 September 1920, Page 2

LITERATURE.

A RECORD OF RECENT POETRY.t

I'OB THE MOST PART BRITISH.

By Constant Reader It is becoming more and more difficult to lioep in touch with the movement in modern poetry and to maintain even a nodding acquaintance with the best verse , ■ V lc ~younger poets. The movement plainly discernible- before tho war, roeeivod, contrary to all expectation, a wonderful impetus during the period of actual hostilities; since the peace the floodgates have been opened until the torrent has become well nigh overwhelming. Verse of one sort or another, good, bad, and indifferent, remarkable or mediocre, traditional or reactionary, conventional, or bizarre greets the eye in the pages of almost every periodical : and magazine, to say nothing of the ever-increasinn- number of journals that devote their attention entirely to poetry. As to books of verse, publisher vies with publisher in including them in their lists until the slim volumes at abnormallv high prices multiply to an extent that makes study and comparison difficult if not impossible. And if one refuges in collections and anthologies, the selection is certain not to satisfy by reason either of selection or omission. The student of poetry, in such a pass, ,is likely to welcome " A Bibliography of Modern Poetry" which "With Notes on Some Contemporary Polls M has been " compiled and edited by ' Recorder' " forming number 12 of volume two of "The Chapbook "—plated June, 1920—a monthly miscellany issued by "The Poetry Bookshop" of Theobald's Row, London. This Bibliography claims to be " as far as possible a complete record of books of poetry published from January, 1912, to the end of May, 1920." " No anthologies are included and only such dramas as are written l in verse." With this Bibliography in hand and taking it as guide, I proceed to a cursory examination of a number of now volumes of verse, the first being "Country Sentiment," by Robert Graves. Under the heading " Graves, Robert." I find the following comment by " Recorder " :— Graves, Robert: A product of the war. Light verse of the nursery rhyme variety. Occasionally thero is a genuine old ballad feeling that makes insignificant work attractive. The three books already published show him still, in the chrysalis stage. "Over the Brazier" (1915), "Fairies and Fusilecrs". (19&T), " Country Sentiment" (1920. Mr Robert Graves is -ttto least conspicuous member of that trio of war poets which also includes Mr Robert Nicholls and Mr Siegfried Sassoon. Ho was reported died of wounds on August 6, 1916, raid afterwards reported wounded, his rank bemg , captain in the Royal Wefeh_ Fusiliers. His second book of verse, "Fairies and Fusiliers," consequently suffers by reason of its vivid reflection of war experiences, from which the poet nover entirely escapes. His latest volume, "Country Sentiment," reveals a fresh start, although the war echoes stall linger round the section of the verses headed "Retrospect." Mr Graves is such a creature of moods, his fancy is so variable and his touch so light that it is difficult to select a singlo poem in the collection which quite doea him justice. On the whole, however, " Neglectful Edward"—ono of several efforts in dialogue for whooh Mr Graves evidently has a fancy—delights roe most: Edwabd. Nancy. Edward, back from the Indian Sea, What hove you brought for Nancy? Edward. "A rope of pearls and 1 a gold earring, And a bird of the East that will not singi A carven tooth, a box with a key ',' v Nancy. "God bo praised, you are back," says she. "Have you nothing more fox your Nancy?" Edward. "Long as I sailed tho Indian Sea I gathered all for yoar fancy. Toys and silk and jewels I bring, And a bird of tho East that will not sing , . What more can you want, dear girl, from me?" Nancy. "God be praised you are back," said she. "Have you nothing better for Nancy?" Edward. "Safe and homo from the Indian Sea, And nothing to take youx fancy?" Nancy. "You can keep youx pearls and your gold earring, And your bird of the East that will not sing. , But, Ned,' have you nothing more for me Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she, "Have you nothing better for Nancy?"- ■ Mr Gilbert Thomas is one of the younger poeta whose first published book, "Birds of Passage," issued) in May, 1912, was followed by "The Wayside Altar," issued in 1913; "The Further Goal," in 1915, ana Towards the Dawn," in 1919. Ip "Poems 1912-1919," Mr Thomas has collected out of his previous books, with the addition of some more recent pieces, "all of his poetical work which the writer (in the light of his present judgment) wishes to retain." A new and cheaper edition of " Birds of Passage" was published in September, 1916, eliciting a oomment from Mr John Masefield that it " shows a command of verse really remarkable in so young a man." Generally speaking, Mr Thomas has, by his verse, won favourable recognition, and his literary reputation has been enhanced by the publication of a couple of little books of essays. Mr Thomas's type of mind and trend of thought may be gauged from the fact that he. is a regular contaibutar to "The Venturer" , and To-day," add also that his latest book of verse is published by "Tho Suvarthmore Press." Out of the notable contents of a helpful and inspiring book I select some of' i&e stanzas of "Voices":— Voices. I In the silence of the night I hear their voices— Tho voices of the dead, Of tho men who, in the glory of the springtime, Wont out their conch to spread In a land where all the sky is black with ruin, And the earth all soaked in red. In the silence of tho night I hear their voices: "We were happy, wo were young, And golden did the future lie before us, Whose eongs were yet unsung; Ay, golden were tho measures of the musio To which our hiearts were strung. "Wo loved tho sun's clear light upon tho raplands, We loved the singing efaeam; Wo loved the flashing xainbow walls that fashioned Our palacee of dieem, And we revelled in the good warm cup erf friendship, "With laughter all agleam. "Bat, more than theee, we loved the fame of England— England, whose every bxea-Si Was freedom, the fair England that tradition So proudly honouretih.; singing songs, f or our hearts' W© -went, thro' hefl, to death. "O, England, cannot tbxm hear us, feel us round thee Hovering day and night; Or clouded by the smoke and dust of battle, Ixtows dim and short tLy sig&t- ' And hae the Goal qmte faded from thy For which thoa bad , at- Bβ fight ? "O, -England, guard thine ancient faith, and rreooomi 0, hear us who have died! What if thy heart, when now «b*. trorid moat needs it, Should fail thro' Inst or pride? • ' Our bodies we have buo&en. Shall our spirits Also be crucified?" Quite another note is swmded by Mr following note is made in tho Bibiio. graphy :— •" ""*^ Young, Francis Brett: Veiaes bv a popular novelist, which show hdm to be a nmn of oulture end intellect. His sabjects are mainly "poetical." His treatment and expression are generally so derivative tfiat to ttiel reado.' ftsTaTOcS nottwns; more than. Ebceroisee in the Best Jroetioal buy 10. rogypSsrpgg*" m ' "«*■ (5) "Memories of ChiMliood and Other Poems." By John Preeraan. London: Selwyn an d Snt.

I should hardly class Mr Young as a "popular" novelist. Of his stories I have road but two, "Tho Orescent Moon," which with its African atmosphere and general creepiness fascitatod me, and "The Young Physician," which despite its undoubted cleverness bored me. As a eritio, Mr Young has done good work in his book on "Robert Bridges," and in "Marching on Tanga" he has shown skill "s a chronicler of one of tho lesser campaigns in the Groafc War. Of Mr Brett's verso 1 like "Lottormore" the best, but it is more or less well known through inclusion in anthologies. "The Old House" is vivid, but rather long for quotation therefore I have selected "The Dhows" :' South of GuaTdafai witih a dark tide flowing We hailed two skips with tattered co-nvaa bont to tho moneoon, ■ Hung betwixt the outer eea and pale auxf showing "WTiere dead cities of Lybia lay bleaching in the moon. "Oh, whether be ye Bailing with torn soils broken?" "We sail, we sail for Sheba, at Suliinan's be&est, With carven silver phalli for the ebony maids of Ophir From brown-skinned baharies of Arabic the Blest." "Oh, whether be ye ea-iling, with your dark flog flying ?" "We eai], wath creaking cedar, towards the Koxthem Star. The hohnsman singeth wearily, and in our hold ana lying A hundred slaves in shackles from the marte of Zanzibar." "Oh, whether be ye soiling . . . ?" rt ' . „ "Alas, we eail no longer: Uur hulls are wrack, our sails are d-ast, as any man might know. And why should you torment us? Your iron keels are stronger ' Than ghostly ehips that sailed from Tyre a thousand years ago." In Mr D. H. Lawrence is to be discerned a poet of quite another character, unconventional and bizarre to the point of brutality. The Bibliography contains this entry: — Lawrence, D. H.: Exotic poet of the modern intellectual school of criticism. Contrary to the usual custom, he seldom allows his head to control his heart In most love adventures he has to tell his readers Aα. and for this reason, the most innocuous and harmless objects become portentous and terrible agents of sexual excitement, vido "The Snapdragon " /10-fe'Vf P T Oems and Othei-s (1913). Amores ™)' , T Loolc! Wo have come through (1917). New Poems (1911). As novelist Mr Lawrence is best known by that story—largely autobiographical— "Sons and Lovers," and also as the author of that prohibited book "The > Rainbow." Ho dedicates his "New Poem:!" to Amy Lowell, thereby distinctly linking himself up with the Imagist school of poets. In his own sphere Mr Lawrence is inimitable, as witness Tarantella." :— Snd as he sits on the white sea-stone And tho suave sea chuckles, and! turns to the moon, And the moon significant smiles at the cliffs and the boulders. He sits liko a shade by tho flood alone While I dance a tarantella on the rocks, and the croon Of my mockery mocks at him over the wavee , bright shoulders. What can I do but dance alone, Dance to the sliding sea and the moon, . Pot the moon on my heart and the air on my limbs and the' foam on my feet ? For eurcly this earnest man has none Of tho night in his soul, aaid none of the tune Of the waters within him; only the world's old wisdom to bleat. I wish a wild eea-fellow would come down. the glittering ehingle, A soulless nectoar, with winking seas in hie eyes And falling waves in his arms, and the lost soul's kiee On his lips: I long to be soulleas, I tingle lo touch the sea in th© last surprise Of fiery coldness, to be gone in a lost soul's bhss. After Mr Lawrence's eacotio muse the verses of Mr John Freeman sound quite conventional. The Bibliography has this entry: — . Freeman, John: It is easier to say of John Freeman that his style is good than to read two poems for the pleasure that style may give. There is no doubt the volume of content is disproportionate to, which is to say, in excess of, the bulk of emotional value. "Idylls of Arcadia" (1901), "Twenty Poems" (1909), "Fifty Poems" (1911 and 1916), "Stone Trees" (1916),' "Presage of Victory" (1916), "Memories of Childhood" (1918), 'Poems New and Old" (1920). . Mr Freeman is a sound critic, as well as a good as witness his book, "The Moderns"; and while much of his verse verges on the commonplace, every now and then ho strikes an unusual note, as for instance in "Bring Your Beauty": Being Toxra Beatttz. Bring your beauty, bring your laughter, bring even your fears, Bring the grief that is, the joy that was in other years, Bring again the happiness, Bring love, bring tears. There was laughter once, there were grave happy eyes, Talk of firm earth, old eaTth-sweeping mysteries; There were great silences tender cleai dark skies. Now is silence, now is loneliness complete; all is done. The thrush sings at dawn, too sweet, up creeps tho sun; But all is silent, silent, for all that woe is done. Yet bring beauty and bring laughter, and bring even tears, And cast them down; strew youx happiness and fears, Then leave them to the 65arkness of thought and years. n Pews in that darkness die; they have no spring. Grief in. that darkness is a. bird that wants wing. O love, love, youx brightness, your beauty bring. Last on the list of new poetry books comes Mr aMous Huxley's "Leda." "Turning once more to the Bibliography, I find this entry:— Huxley, Aldous. This verse is exceedingly olever, and moreover gives indication that Mr Huxley has the intellect and power of metrical expression that is so often lacking in most of tho verse production of today. The young man of the past wore rose-ooloured spectacles. Mr Bxah-fs are liver coloured. "The Burning Wheel" (1916), "The Defeat of Youth" (1918), "Leda" (1920). Mr Huxley is among- the contributors to that annual of ultra-modern poetry "Wheels," indeed several of the pieces inducted in. "Leda" have, already appeared in one or other of the ftrar volumes of that Anthology. Mr Efadey is also responsible for a -mnrabex of the biographical sketches in the last volume of Ward's "English Poets. "Leda,' the? poem which, gives title to Mx Huxlcy/a last book, is an ambitious effort- it gives a new and striking version of the storv of Leda and .the swan, and is probably the finest thing the poet has yet committed to paper. It reads aloud to advantage, which after aE is the.supreme test. "A Sunset" is a good example of the poets shorter pieces:— A Sotstet. Over against the triumph and the close— Amber, and green and rose^ — Of this short day, The pale ghost of the- moon grows Kving^bright Onco more, as the last light Ebbs slowly away. Barkening the fringes of these western glories The black phanteemagtnaee Of cloud iKiwmoo "WiSh noiseless footing—rogue-aaj TtUainoua shapes, . ■Wrapped in their rugged fosfea -capes OS some. grotesque romance. Bnt overhead Wrere, l&e a pool betwsea iferfe rocks, the eky is gieen And clear end deep, breast**** 117 * ti ' md > °nrvin6 Flushed by the fiery west, In gfed-like sleep .... And in. my mind opens a traddem door Ibat lets me see one© more A Httle icom With night beyond the iraidow, chill- and damp, ■ ■ i .. - And one green, lighted' lamp Tempering the doom. While here wr&in, close to-ae, teaching me (Bv=en the memory s Of my desire barT liko k , "). you sit with-scattered And all your body bare Before the fire IS la stffl d OhCmii WiUl K>Sy flamo •• • But Hero on tho lonely hill, I walk alonoj Silvery green is the moon's lamp overhead Tho cloud sleeps warm and red And jjxi are gau&t