Modernist Poetry

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 773, 20 September 1929, Page 14

Modernist Poetry

Richard Aldington RICHARD ALDINGTON was one of the literary personalities I met in the first place in AValter Lowenfels’ drawing-room. And how pleasant it was to hear his cool English accent amid the American drawling. He looked boyish and as it were innocent among all the shrewd Americans; but that everlasting boyishness of the poet covers a wisdom deep as the smart cynicism of the Yankees is shallow’. There is a certain courageous happiness about the English which one notices only after mixing with other peoples who lack it .... lowenfels, after telling us how “hard” he was, span an illustrative story nbout a girl who asked a young man in a whisper for some street directions. He said “Con’t you speak louder than that? Try to shout.” When he was sure she couldn’t he snatched her handbag and ran. *T do love Walter’s parable style,” laughed Aldington .... 1 had been complaining that the smart literary set at Paris were too clever for in 4 *. Their whole conversation is epiv ammatic and obscure. “Don’t let that r.rry you,” offered Aldington, “It’s only superficial. Most of the people ith smart opinions on Galsworthy ; nd Wolfe have never read either of them. They merely repeat what happens to be the go at the time.” Then we got on to the British Empire. He feared the Empire would collapse. America was stronger than us now. But if it did collapse the whole world would quickly regret it. The Empire would perhaps continue as the paid policeman of America. The Americans weren’t capable of handling the world themselves. “I think the best thing would be for tbe United States to break up,” I said (I always did wish the Southern States had succeeded iD seeding). “Yes, it would be the very thing,” said be. And I fell to wondering why the Empire should fall v hile it continues to breed people like Richard Aldington. No other country could do it .... As Humbert Wolfe once paid to me, at dinner at Paris, nothing makes one love England so much as the time one spends abroad. The great American publisher, I’riede, thinks that Richard Aldington has the greatest future of all living English poets. He was one of the Jour “imagists” published before the war by the Poetry Bookshop and was I'ien considered a very modern poet owing to his disuse of rhyme. At the same time he is not the of modern poet as is Lowenfels. ns can bo seen from this clear and tender (“At Mitylene”): f> Artemis, Will j - on not leave the dark fastness And set your stceX-svhite foot upon the foam, Ard come across the rustling sand Setting it adrift with the wind of your raiment. For th**se women have laid out a purple cloth. And they have bnilrTN* you nn altar Or white shells for the honey. TTiev have taken the *.ea grass for garland; And cleansed their lips with the sea. O Artemis, <*ird*e th* gold about you. Set the silvpr upon yeur hair And remember us—w‘f, who have grown wrarv even of music. \\>, who would scream behind the wild dogs of Scythia. The poet gave me a copy of his collected poems, the finest book I possess, ■with its heavy paper and grey cloth Ikinding, signed “To Count Geoffrey de Montalk, from Richard Aldington,” expressly so that T might write this column and make these extracts for The Sun. Aldington. I think, has written his poems in great sincerity. One is appalled by his waarpoemf/: The bridge has three curved spans, 3h made of weathered stones. And rests upon two diamond pointed piers— Is picturesque. (f nave not lost all touch and taste for life. See beauty Just ns keenly, reltsh things.) The water here is black and specked with white; I nder that tree the shallows grow to brown, light amber where the sunlight struggles through— , _ And yet what colour Is it if you watch the reeds . Or if you only see the trees reflection? Tint on the surface rest the lib’ leaves • .Some curled up inwards, though, like boats) And yellow heads thrust up on tine green throats. Two—three—a dozen—watch now, demoiselle flios Flicker and flutter and dip and rest Their beryl-green or blue, dark Prussian blue, frail wrings. On spits and threads of water-plant. Notice all carefully, be precise, welcome the world. l»o I miss these things? Overlook beauty? Not even the shadow of a bird Passing across that white reflected cloud. And yet there’s always something else — The way one corpse held its stiff yellow Angers And pointed, pointed to the huge dark hole «. ouged between car and jaw right to the skull. J>id I startle you? What was the matter? .lust a joke they told me yesterday. P.eally, really. not for Indies cars, l'orgive me; I’ll not laugh so suddenly ugain. T should not give so terrible a poem, but that it cofbes surely from the good faith of a most anguished heart. Nearer the truth it is than those sweet songs of Rupert Brooke, who by some miracle was drawn into dreamy backv aters of the great European brawl. Rupert Brooke was taken in by the ‘ Scrap of Paper” propaganda, but Richard Aldington’s heart almost broke at the dirtiness of mankind. .steal out with me Over the moss and the daffodils. Tome to the temple. Rung with sprays from untrimmed hedges. 1 bring you a token l'rom the golden-haired revellers, Prom the mad procession. T'lute’girls shall pipe to us— Their beautiful fingers!— They are yellow-throated birds. They send perfumes from dawn-scented garments, Rending above us. lifnd your hair with white poplar, 1 et your lips be sweet Wild roses of Paestum. In poets' hearts and songs faith usually has the last -word: a faith more Greek than Christian but none the less true .... GEOFFREY DE MONTALK, Hotel St. Louis. Faria 25/5/89.