A New Zealand Poet's Testament

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 839, 6 December 1929, Page 14

A New Zealand Poet's Testament

“The Desolate Star”

NKYV ZEALAND’S struggling writers are repeatedly making earnest

efforts to convince an apathetic and somewhat sceptical public that work of genuine literary worth is now being produced in the Dominion. The artist never has an easy way to go, and the difficulties of wayfaring are increased when there are so few signposts on the road. As yet, New Zealand has no background of tradition worth the consideration of the artist of today, and the result is that every writer is left to purely personal devices. Gilbert Murray has said that the poet must love tradition; but for the New Zealander there is no home tradition to accept or love. In a sense, every New Zealander who now sets pen to paper is a pioneer. It is the writers

of the present time who are making the tradition that later writers will have to follow', and for that reason alone an especially sacred charge lies in their keeping. Although the difficulties are great. New Zealand has accomplished much

fhat in worthy of more than the slight public attention so grudgingly given, and it is in verse that our contemporary writers have so far excelled. The great New Zealand novel remains to be written; but already there is much poetry that will live a long time. Perhaps it will be recognised only by the few, but better that than complete oblivion. There have been two interesting poetic events of recent years: the first was the publication of a slim pamphlet of verse by Eileen Duggan, and the second comes now with “The Desolate Star,’* a selection from the poetry of Robin Hyde. The Sun first had the pleasure of introducing her verse to the public, and it now has especial pleasure in welcoming the work which* had refuge in this and other pages. Robin Hyde has made a worthy pioneering contribution to New Zealand’s young literature, and her writing has quality enough to make it stand without need of modesty in most literary companies. Here is a writer who has imagination, and the power to weave her words with subtle beauty. She is mistress of a verbal music of her own, and she can build fine phrases. She is facile, but there is no monotony in this facility, and each one of her poems has an unmistakable personal impress. She has seen the world about her, and she can describe it; she has felt the universal pain that stretches the heart of all sensitive artists, and she tells of that. If there is one lack, it is perhaps that of good lively faith in

anything. To her the world is mostly sad. and that sombre belief is shared almost generally by all young artists; but there comes a time when some faith, however vague, is built up, and with its establishment, a writer works best. A positive quality is substituted for a negative, and its value is greater. Vivid imagination, lively imagery, vers© mastery, and a wealth of philosophic content are the qualities that mark the poetry of Robin Hyde, and so richly endowed with the requisites of the poet’s craft, there is no limit to be set to the possibilities of her future achievements. Somewhat conventional, but unmistakably marked as her own, “Hanmer Woods** gives us a glimpse of what she has done: Autumn will walk there, with a breath stardust, _ . . With burnt brown fronds of bracken In her hair; Autumn will come with the frost of briar berries, _ __ Ami clean blue mornings, and smokehazed hair. Autumn will run like a boy among the birch trees, . .... Bittersweet of berries that the birds love on her lips, . With the first frosts crunching in the wetleaved woodways. And the last leaf crimson on the maple tips. More vigorous, more substantial, and more revealing, the final portion of “Dream World’’ show's the writer at her best: Whether my thought sang Splendour down from Heaven, , „ .. Or lured the shaggy terrors out of Hell, 1 shall walk firm, by stony road or even. And know that on the summits all is well. Oh Love. I ahall not fear the storm of faces. The swords of the chimaeric army ranged. J*or I have seen, surmounting desolate places, A Ttadiance, that bore your smile unchanged. Her© in “Quietude** there is perfect •xpression of a simple idea: Mo passions storm or sadden in her eyes; No follies Jingle bells along her street; And every griel. grown decorous and wise, Must go his ways with patient lips and feet. A little smoke from dead-leaf memories Shall curl, blue-grey; and I will dwell beside A wood where blackbirds call, where the old trees Harbour no dreams save those grown quiet-eyed. There Is much more that might be <tu*ted, but the full testament of beauty is to be found in the pages at the book itself, and all those who hare care for New Zealand literature in particular, and poetry in general, should possess themselves of it. This book is freighted with the beauty coming from a truly poetic I mind. Already Robin Hyde’s accom- j pjishment is great, but in her volume j there Is ample promise of much more notable performonce still. Robin Hyde and Eileen Duggan may b 9 founders of this Dominion's first great literary tradition.