JUSTICE FOR GENTLEMEN

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 429, 10 August 1928, Page 14

JUSTICE FOR GENTLEMEN

<Written for THE SUN) r pHE unjust criticism that is said'to have killed Keats is, unfortunately, still potent to wound our young poets. The poet is a sensitive plant whose gift and cross it is to feel poignantly, and such an one is always particularly susceptible to the attacks of others. One does not, indeed, expect justice from every critic, but one does expect it from poets, and so 1, for one, was deeply disappointed to read in a recent number of The Sun an unjust criticism of the work of Frederick Boden, the critic being a young New Zealand verse-maker, A. it. D. Fairburn.

Mr. Fairburn, in an essay on “Plagiarism,” discussed Housman’s alleged borrowing from R.L.S. and then went on to say that Stevenson has “been suitably avenged with a sort of poetic justice by a young Englishman who published a book the other day called 'Pithead Poems.’ “This gentleman,” continued Mr. Fairburn, “is a coalminer of Merrie England—hence the title. I am ignor-

ant as to his prowess in his chosen profession of coalmining, but in the field of poesy his talents appear to lie rather in the direction of gold-dig-ging. His verses are terribly, terribly reminiscent of ‘A Shropshire Lad,’ so much so, in fact, that in spite of the really good things in his book, his stocks have slumped badly. Some critic, who is probably biting his tongue now, dug the young man up out of his coalmine and hailed him as a ‘discovery.’ Unfortunately, in addition to being discovered, he has been found out.”

Still more unfortunately, Mr. Fairburn has been found out, too. The fact is that the first person to point out the mine-lad's indebtedness to the Shropshire Lad was the mine-lad himself, Frederick Boden. When the “Pithead Poems” were published last year they bore a preface by Sir Arthur Quiller-Coueh, who says: “It will be obvious to any reader that Mr. Boden has . . . gone to school to Mr. A. E. Housman.” The critic who dug the young man up out of his coalmine was Mr. Guy N. Pocock, who states, in the same edition, that one or wo of the earlier poems showed unmistakably The influence of poets whose work Mr. Boden had been studying. Could frankness go further

I have the honour of being personally acquainted with Frederick Boden and it was through him that I became acquainted with the poems of Housman. Boden's songs, except in three instances, cannot be said to owe a very great deal to Housman. Mr. Fairburn says “X am ignorant as to his prowess in his chosen profession of coalmining,” as though he were ignorant of nought else about the matter. To begin with, coalmining was not Boden’s “chosen profession.” It was the tragedy of dire necessity that set the gifted lad such unlovely surroundings, and his triumph over his environment should, one would think, seem to a poet as fine a thing as the birth of crocuses in frost. Nothing becomes Mr. Fairburn so little as these sneers at the humble setting from -which the young miner sang. "This gentleman,” says he. What would he think if I wrote a critique referring to him as “this gentleman,” and he a miner? The epithet is on a level with “coloured gentleman,” or “charlady.” To a man who sets up in the criticising business, poets should be poets, I think, not gentlemen or otherwise.

However, to get on to the charge of plagiarism, it will perhaps interest Mr. Fairburn to learn that Boden’s style is far more natural than Housman’s. The simp. Saxon speech, the plain, homely idiom, the trick of making blunt words ring like gold is a deliberately adopted method in the olde poet. With Boden it is the everyday currency of English working folk. Housman, in ordinary conversation, does not use such words as “lass,” “clack,” “bade,” “my mate” (for friend), it is obvious, but Boden does. Housman was writing in a superbly polished, carefully Saxonised and simplified language; Boden has written as he speaks. His songs are as natural as the whistling of a thrush. Mr. Fairburn says that owing to the poems being reminiscent of “A Shropshire Lad,” Boden’s stocks have slumped badly. They would slump badly if all his critics were of this type. As a matter of fact the minerpoet has won golden opinions from those who are capable of judging a poet on his merits. He is but twentyfour. Those who appreciate genius will hope that his first beautiful book may help to release him from the sickening drudgery of his present work so that he may yet reach greater heights and depths. “Many a time,” he says, “l come home from work and go straight to bed exhausted and lie there till it is time for work . . . oftener than not I'm too tired to write poetry.” His genius has bloomed like a flower on a dust-heap. What might it not become if given a chance in a garden? Margaret macpherson. Kaitaia.