WORDS COLOUR AND A THOUGHT OR TWO

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 121, 12 August 1927, Page 12

WORDS COLOUR AND A THOUGHT OR TWO

Last week we published an article “Words, Colour and a Thought or Two/ 1 and concluded by ashing our readers 1 opinions on words and colour. Here is the first reply, by Mrs. A. Gladys Kernot, whose verses have won for her popularity in her own country and abroad. — Ed. THE SUN. r pHE first time I visited America I found myself, when searching through an endless line of swaying carriages for the dining-car, suddenly confronted by one bearing the name “Myopia/* Being at that time unacquainted with the fact that the nomenclature of the American Pullman is a thing of fantastic and pleasant inconsequence, I began to wonder if something had not gone wrong with my

own vision. I have never yet discovered what is the guiding principle of the naming of these immensely comfortable vehicles of transport, but they seem to be chosen with regard to euphony rather than appropriateness. And indeed Myopia is a beautiful word which does not in the least suggest optical eccentricity, but which makes one think of vastness and blueness —the Kentucky prairie, perhaps, where the bluegrass ripples like a distant sea. It took more than a word to move me nowadays, but when I was a child my whole life was coloured by sounds and phrases. I remember once, on the eve of a wretched school examination, sit-

ting at my father’s desk to look at some notes. Lying on the blotting-pad was a large envelope on which was written, “The Gentle Annie Terrace.” I knew—alas!—afterwards that this was some of the mining scrip in which the poor dear so often and so unsuccessfully indulged. But Gentle Annie remained with me all through the following day, with obliterating and disastrous results.. As a family we were all curiously subjugated and soothed by quotations containing the word, “gentle.” To Mary Queen, the praise he ; given; She sent the gentle sleep front heaven That fell upon my soul. That sort of thing. I don’t know why this was so, for we were ourselves full of Irish unrestfulness. Walter De La Mare would to be one of those people who can write with consummate ease and fluency, and no doubt he can but as a matter of

fact he also employs an elaborate technique, and works out his prose as if it were a design, choosing his words with a meticulous regard for their artistic values. This modelling of literary mosaics Is a little dangerous, for though it may ensure a certain perfection of what we call style it is sometimes destructive to sincerity. After all, English is not a language of very delicate nuances. Oscar Wilde polished his verse until it almost gave out sparks and this perhaps tinged its sentiment with a faint spuriousness of flavour. Take the last lines of the very lovely “Requiescat,” for Instance:—■ Speak softly, she can hear Lyre nor sonnet; All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it. When one remembers that the poem was written about the poet’s sister who died when she was a little child, one cannot help feeling that the poor man was more occupied with words than with grief. How different is the work of that other Irishman, Francis Ledwidge—killed in the war, alas. With no academic knowledge with, in fact, only a peasant’s education, he picked the flowers of poesy from the sweet hedgerows of the land he loved. In no language is there anything more fragrant than the trifle in which these lines occur:— A bove me smolces the little town With its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown And its octagon spire toned smoothly down v As the holy minds within. And wondrous, impudently sweet, Half of him passion, half conceit, The blackbird calls adown the street Like the piper of Hamelin. Some words have an individual charm some are only significant when allied to others. What is the magic of Ernest Dowson’s lines: 1 have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion. and why do these, from his poem “Bedlam,” give one a peculiar bleached feeling: Better than mortal flowers \the moonkissed roses seem Why is there such quiet but overwhelming finality in Savage Landor’s “I have warmed both hands at the fire of life; it sinks, and I am ready to depart”? The word “sin” no longer seems to mean anything very damnable, but "cruel” sounds forever like the thing it is. “Lofty” runs us right up its front elevation and leaves us there, feeling very superior. “Sad” grows sadder with the years. “Yellow” is lavish, and “golden” is glamoured and rich and mellow. How fond Flecker was of the word and of its atmosphere. Once in London I saw his play ‘Hassan,” and though stained with tragedy, it remained a golden play. “Dusty” is a sad. uncared-for word. It is invaluable in literature, but is rarely used. “Ah, what dusty answer gets the soul when hot for certainties in this our life.” Words are certainly very intriguing —but they are only words. What is it Richard Le Gallienne says? Jewels and precious stones And horses white as milk — These are the gifts of kings: But the gifts that the poet brings Are nothing but words. A. GLADYS KERNOT. Auckland.