OF N.Z. POETS

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 583, 8 February 1929, Page 14

OF N.Z. POETS

SOME NOTES AND COMMENTS NO 10 A FINAL GROUP rpHROUGH quotation, giving the younger New Zealand poets an opportunity to speak for themselves, the series of articles now concluding has furnished a reasonably convincing answer to the lack-faith utterances of critics who have refused to discern strength, promise and beauty in the literary efforts of their compatriots. No plea is being made for unreasoning admiration: all that is wanted is fair recognition and encouragement of the writers who are helping to found our national literature. Some have succeeded in their work and others have failed; but nevertheless there are symptoms of creative energy, and •with that energy manifest, accomplishment is not far behind. So far as poetry is concerned there is. as yet, no sign of a national tendency, each writer being content to give expression to the emotions felt personally. There is not a definite school of writing, and the general results of the labour suffer through the * diversity of the effort. Effort, for the present, is enough, and from it will eventually evolve a literature belonging to New Zealand alone. The endeavours of the individual pbets have been mentioned in the separate articles; but there are others who have made interesting contributions although their work is scarcely ample enough to warrant single mention. They are taking their part in an interesting movement, and some of them have written beautiful things. Mrs. Winifred Tennant Mi s. Tennant, a writer of tranquil temj erament and unquestionable lvric sens 3, has written quietly for several years. There is freshness in all her poet -y, and the gentle beauty of her nature is reflected in all that she writ ss. Her singing is modest; never high pitched, and always charged with frag - ant simplicity. “An Old Lady” is an excellent portrait ; yet apart from that there is a quietness and perfect fitness of expression that makes it linger in the memory:— There are no shudows in her face, Though winter snows are on her hair; Jn lavender and rare old lace Her youth is laid. serenely fair; And ’ have seen, when night comes down, Ths brooding gaze of children turn To tnose deep eyes of tranquil brown , Where, still, the lamps of knowledge burn — As though a glance might find revealed ' The wisdom that her heart has sealed. ; There is fanciful philosophising in j • Embers,” which is included in the i •‘Treasury of New Zealand Verse”: Little men with red caps delving in the embers, Looking for the lost flame nobody remembers : Looking for the Yule log, looking for the laughter. Fearful of the grey ash soon to follow after. Youth is like the Yule log, middle life the embers. Age but the ashes of a cycle of Decembers. Youth is like the Yule log, lit with merry laughter ; Careless of the grey ash soon to follow after. Tick, tock, tick, tock, still the hours arc flying, Twenty brave pixie men, twenty shovels plying . . Youth is like the Yule log, but middle age remembers Little men with red caps delving in the embers. Mr. Cecil Drury Mr. Drury, a Canterbury poet, has been comparatively silent for a time, but last year he published a brochure of verse which had some excellent qualities. He is sensitive and has strong imagination combined with

power to use colour boldly. The music of verse charms him, and there are times when this aesthetic sensuality is almost cloying. However, ‘•Goblins” shows his work at its best: They are nearing, they are nearing, lAttle yellow-coated goblins With deep eyes of gold. And in nooks and crannies, They are peering, peering . Tittle crooked goblins with eyes so old. They are coming, they are coming, Singing soft, singing low, A song without Change, And never in the world Wo# heard such humming Of little crooked goblins with eyes so strange. They are here, they are here. And their song is stealing my life's breath, Softly, softly. And in my heart fear Of little crooked goblins with eyes of Death. Apart from these there are others whose work is hidden away in the flies of newspapers, condemned to the obscurity which that form of publication inevitably brings. Names come to mind; names of writers who have penned pleasant things. Among them Alice A. Kenny, Alison Grant and Mrs. Helena Henderson and Mrs. Ishbel i Veitch. All these have at some time written for The Sun, which of ail New

Zealand papers has been most consistent in its encouragement of our own poets. The second edition of the “New Zealand Treasury,” published in 1926, does not give an adequate idea of what is being done by the younger New Zealand writers who, to a certain extent, have broken away from the first tradition. There is need for an anthology illustrative of their work alone. The material is available, and the cost of publication is the only difficulty to be overcome. Perhaps some literary philanthropist will aid this last assault against those who say that the young New Zealanders have accomplished nothing of worth in poetry. lAN DONNELLY.