A NEW ZEALAND ANTHOLOGY

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 737, 9 August 1929, Page 14

A NEW ZEALAND ANTHOLOGY

An Open Letter To Mr. Quentin Pope*

«Jear Mr. Pope,— We have had so many shocks in the i»ast, you must forgive me if I shudder to think what may be the result ££ yet another pathology ot Hew

Zealand Verse, more especially after the late lamented abortive effort of Messrs. Alexander and Currie, which has much the same appearance and worth in the world as the sacred dirt itself wherein our forefathers lie at rest. And what a memorial of those noble names is that muddy book! It has been my ambition to wash this dirt from our eyes and to hew down the jungle by which, hitherto, our spirits were hid from the light, and to cure our verse of that physical love for the soil which no doubt a man in his shirt-sleeves must feel with his hands on an axe; the same love as a boy enjoys for adventure and war. Nothing is alien to poetry

quite, yet this is at the opposite end to its source. For the pioneer turns “poet” to imagine what a wonderful, smiling land he shall hew from the bush, and the child has dreams of what a glorious hero he means to be, which indeed may come true, and is natural and noble in either case. Nevertheless the source of poetry has nothing to do with whatever may come to pass; nor with noble and glorious dreams, nor ideals nor theories of any kind, but from experience alone, both past and present, it proceeds, and makes shining matter of this, beside which the gold of dreams is but simple gilt. Thus poetry is miraculous, since it turns what was bitter into what is sweet; and this is done by the aid and presence of God alone; but ideals and dreams are sweet from being contrived and concocted, like candies are, which sometimes make a man sick. And so, on account of this, you will (or you should) see in my book a gradual drawing away (not always maintained) from the usual sources and scenes of Colonial verse, toward that region around the heart where the greatest poets have been before. And if there is something of imitation in what I have done and said, as of one who leaves off one coat to put on another, there is the beginnings at least of Truth to be found in this: to copy no more what was found to be false but to copy Her. I shall certainly improve my own powers by what I intend, and already have done, but whether I shall improve New Zealand verse as a whole depends exactly on such occasions as this new Anthology you have in hand. Wherefore I am somewhat surprised that the two poems of mine you have chosen stand well to the front of my book, while my later works, which were good news to New Zealand, I thought, have found no favour at all. But there is a saying about prophets and their own countries which I must struggle to bear in mind. However, you are welcome to publish both “Words” and “Polynesia.” in the Anthology you propose; but bear in mind that your book cannot “be representative of New Zealand verse for the past ten years” when, in my case, it is not fairly representative of me. Your obedient servant. WALTER D’ARCY CRESSWELL. London, June 14, 1929. *llr. Quentin Pope, of Wellington, has been busy this year collecting material for an Anthology of New Zealand Verse. Mr. W. D’Arcy Cresswell is a New Zealander, who has spent much of his time in England and Europe. He has written many amusing and graceful contributions for the Press. Wells Gardner and Darton, Ltd., of London, published his “Poems, 1921-1927.”—Ed. The Sun. A LITERARY ALPHABET AMERICAN COMPETITION “ THE SATURDAY REVIEW OF LITERATURE ” offered a prize to young freshmen of the American Universities for an amusing and instructing Literary Alphabet. It has been awarded to John A. L. Odde, of Boston, Mass., for th£ following: A is for Austen, whose life of tranquillity Showed plenty of sense, hut much less sensibility. B is for Boswell. A sage he could edit And still get away with the bulk of the credit. C for Cervantes, who scooped S bonanza Burlesquing the knights in his extravaganza.

D is for Dickens. Romantic ideal To the dickens he sent for the sake of the real. E is for Emerson. No one can boast Such diffusion of culture —too high-brow for most. F is for Frost who can give us the thrills Of the little old town tucked away in the hills. G is for Goethe, who can get his real start When his writing is banned in the booksellers’ mart. H is for Holmes, irresistible seer, Practitioner, poet, purveyor of cheer. I is for Irving, whose happier mood Is expressed in a way that would tickle a prude. J is for Juvenal, easily miffed. Who said it like Mencken, and meant it like Swift. K is for Kipling, in wrath so intense Selling out an edition at tiventyodd cents. L is for Lewis. This man and his wife Seem to get a great kick for the foibles of life. M is for Melville, whose deep allegorical tale Was too much for a public that swallowed the whale. N is for Newton (A. E. the front part) By whose grace book-collecting became a fine art. O is for Oppenheim, high-speed producer. To say he’s a stylist would hardly be true, sir. P is for Pope, renowned expert on ‘fools,’ Who hit from the shoulder and made his own rules. Q for Quintilian, the Roman patrician. High-toned reviewer, old-school rhetorician. R is for Ruskin. Some critics may scoff ; But all geniuses have to be just a bit off. S is for Shakespeare, dramatist ace, Who left Time itself far behind in the race. T for Thoreau, ivho beneath a grim cloak Of natural bearishness could crack a joke. U is for Undset, txvice Nobel prise winner. What we poor little fish wouldn’t give to have been her' V is for Voltaire. His great contribution Was setting the fires of the French Revolution. W is for Whitman, who scouted the charms Of a regular rhythm, and just ‘yawped,’ like the Psalms. X is for Xenophon (meaning ‘strange sound’), Still true to his name, where ‘prep’ students abound. Y is for Yonge who devoted to missions The profits of all her best paying editions. Z stands for the man who, when asked, ‘Where the gang icill, Will you go along?’ wrote ‘lf you will. I Zangioill.’ Joins' A. L. Odiie.