AS THE POET SAYS

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 960, 1 May 1930, Page 8

AS THE POET SAYS

There i* r <r */»cc?*7'7fio>» about i/ r MacDonald's choir* of the uetr Poet Laureate. The names of Sir TVilHm* Watson, Ku fl yard, Kipling, John LnnJktcater, Alfred Xoges and John Ma 'HeH arc mentioned.—Xeics Item. T HAVE, I think, scanned this list A pretty thoroughly, nut, with the possible exception of Rudyard Kip. ling, which might be a nom-de-plume, I can see no feminine name included. I raise this point because, with the modern recognition of sex-equality, I can suggest no reason save jealousy for the unwarrantable exclusion front the list of the name of my aunt. Miss Martha Finchley, whose c harming verses have for many years been the most uplifting feature of the Waikikamookau Dorcas Society and Mothers* Guild. I may say now that there was considerable indignation

evinced in Waikikamookau literary circle? when the suggested list w a » published and it w a 6 ascertained that. my Aunt’s name did not head it, and there are many who hold that none of the candidates for the Laureateship could approach, let alone equal, her for the simple beautv and grave thought, of her verses. Take for example those Amaranthine lines of hers: High on the branches the birdies do t*et> “* foliage so pretty they stt So early to rise tchrn the day has begun So eager to flit and to twit in the atm . . Could Kipling have written that? Could Masefield? I doubt it. There many who hold that my aunt is entitled to the Laureateship purelv on her "In Memorisin'’ notices, of which I need only* quote those beautiful lines: Its r?n years today Sine*: f'nde Ostrald passed airatj dies, one grief, alack, our sorrow Here today and gone tovnorrase. — Caution, shake the bottle. There is another illustrious name which, in the opinion of many, should be included in the list of "possibles.” I speak of J. Twoomey-Twaites, whose epic free verse has been the subject of so much comment since the publication of his volume. “Purple Pineapples,” i n April last year. As an example of the modernist movement at its most neurotic, I quote part of his powerful poem, “Ode to a Cheesemite”:

O cheese O that it is b'it. All mites little little small So small smallish and O small ... Crawlish creep they O cheese and mites Creepish crawl you Jn Cheese . a cheese, O cheese Of a cheese ... To a cheese . . . . , , From a cheese •••••- O Cheese it It

This is the first stanza. There aTft 67 in the poem, and the cheese get* stronger in every one. The illustrations by the author, of which lack of space only forbids me to reproduce but one, are delightfully descriptive aad full of the rhythm of the original.

The Poet Laureateship is a very ancient office, but, like other historical institutions, must keep up to date if it is to survive. Those whose task it is to select the next Laureate must therefore be cognisant of the claims for official recognition made by the most modern of the muses—the theme song industry. Of the most promising, I would select the name of Aloysius Widger, the man who first thought of rhyming “moonlight’* and “June night.” His theme song for “Broadway Passion” is a masterpiece. I never knew you'd kissed me Till you said “And How!" (Stamp feet, close eyes and smock hf») Ba-a-abu dear. So now—And now! I wanna go back To mu mammy's shack Where the Yacku Hula Sweeties Jcky tricky wack For I never knew you'd kissed me Till von said “Wow! woic!" ( Stamp ieet swing O.P. and high kick exit , blowing kisses to earner*#/. There are still other men whose claims to the Laureateship cannot, in all fairness, be ignored, and amog these should be mentioned Horaul Pootle, whose limerick, ' There waj a young lady cf Ponsonby,” created such a sensation in Remuera a few months ago. Last, but by no means least, there should be a serious consideration of the graphic and charming work of Mr. Q. Rodney Wattle, whose muse has brought comfort and solace to millions. Commercialised poetry, perhaps, but then all great art has ever been commercial. Take, for example, those gripping lines: O microbes that swarm, in our gullets And fill us with fever and blain. You will not live long in your billets. For a Message has come which is To the ends of the earth we will shrill its Counsel of Hope and of Gain — Take Pilkington's Pale Pink Pellets, They'll purge you of Pain. Now what could be finer than That*