A WANGANUI POETESS

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 72, Issue 291, 7 December 1929, Page 10

A WANGANUI POETESS

“THE DESOLATE STAR” BY ROBIN HYDE. (Reviewed by Hugh C. Jenkins). The publication of this little collection of verse means much to Wanganui. Wanganui is pleasantly situated in surroundings which inspire poesy, ami yet compared with Christchurch, even though that comparison be relative, the output of poetry from Wanganui is small indeed. Why this should be I know no*, but there it is. But the fact does make the publication of the “Desolate Star’’ ?. matter of importance to us in this River City, for Robin Hyde lives, moves and has her being amongst us. Who would think that the letters signed “Margot.” which appear daily in the “Chronicle,” so full of feminity, of ' flippancy of persiflage, should be written by one who is stirred to poetry by Ha Dinar's woods? The one savours of the city, the other of the quiet wooding near to Nature. In these lines which I have been reading with pleasure is “Margot’s’’ other self, her truer self. I think, and so we turn to Robin Hyde. Poetry is the personal expression of an experience, ami this is particularly true of the present collection of j oems. Therefore, judgement on them is personal. The poem that will strike one, because of a prior experience which the lines re-awaken. leaves another reader untouched. This is not the fault of the writer or of the reader. It means only that they don’t make contact. Now the title piece of this book ‘The Desolate Star’ doesn‘t touch me. 1 therefore pass on 1 being not qualified to apprise its worth, and I must confess that for me ‘The Farmer’s Wife*’ stands out strong. 1. think it would stand well in any company. Here it is: She stands a moment in the sun, Athwart her harsh land’s red and green Hands of a serf, and warrior eyes Of some flame sceptred Irish Queen. One moment still, a little sob Shakes parted lips and straining breast, As if she heard the feet of those Who tread her own forsaken guest. As if she did not care that life Had snatched the jewels from her hair. But grieved’ that menial needs and base Were they which left her palace bare. Then with a strange and iron hand. Destiny reaches forth and grips The ruined cities in her eyes The bitter beauty of hen- lips. The feeling expressed here is intense. the language is graphic. You see the woman of foiled ambitions drinking her cup of bitterness. Bur Robin Hyde is not a dramatist. She is a pantheist. Never a thicket hedge on rhe roadside but. speaks to her/ Thus she writes of “English Trees,” doubtless inspired by those that stately stand in Hagley Park in Christchurch: Never the scent of hawthorns, fragrant after rain. Shall make them dream again Bueh dreams as English iover understood Of quiet homesteads in an English land, The little high-walled garden that encloses, Lawns white with dew, a crimson snare of roses, The deep-grassed fields, where cows with serious eyes, Watch the blue dance of Deven butterflies. Not only is this graphic but it is also faithful. The rain scented hawthorne. is compelling. “Lawns white with dew” bespeaks true observation. How easy to have written ‘‘wet with dew” and who but a true observer would have dared the last two lines, “Where cows with serious eyes Watch the blue dance of Devon butterflies.” “Mists in the City” is a delightful pen picture of Wellington on a misty evening: “The mists came drifting down the street With silken wings, with silent feet; And suddenly, on Lambton Quay, There fell a veil of ecstasy. The passers-by, the weary folk. Put on a blue enchanted cloak; Their hurried wax's grew grave and wise. The dreams were naked in their eyes.’ It is a picture which Whistler would have wanted to paint and he would have re-captured the mood he was in when he painted “Waterloo Bridge by Night.” Another poem entitled “Seekers ’ appeals to me. The theme is poetic and again it is dramatic. But the construction is also good, moving forward limpidlv to the last line. But I’ll give it all and you shall judge the poem and my own taste in one: If orn-e a dreamer, in some ancient town Found him a love with breast and tresses brown, And in her low voice heard what all men seek— Courage, ami steadfast heart, and kindness —speak; Or if a warrior, on his last ‘lark field. Stood bv his wounded comrade, shield to shield.

And. wiping blood, from bearded lips, took cheer. To see that staunch young face unflinching near; And if, far down the dim ancestral line. Lover and soldier stand, kindred of Lord, let the splendour of such memA rainbow, bridge the peri.-hed day and these. And let that brown, slim woman, love and wife Whose soft l.reast held the life that gave me life, Stray sometimes from her devp-dewed golden la mis. With comfort of cool Hps and quiet , hands. Move <lown the woods of dream, the purple hill. To tell me earth shall bear such lillies still. Let that lost warrior, young and shin- 1 ing-eyed. Stand bv me, l< nd me strength to fling aside The poor strained shield of doubt, the cynic’s dress. Choosing his own clenj faith in friendliness. Let those who sought, and found the haven nigh Be comrade to this seeker that is I. But the poems in this collection are many faceted. I have taken those which appeal to me. but amr’ er might : !

■an entirely different selection and he I ju>t as right. I have suspicion that my (selection is not a fair sample. But you | reader, may settle the matter for yourself by buying :>;■> book and making ’ • •nr own • n.