MODERN VERSE

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 3, 12 March 1945, Page 10

MODERN VERSE

MORE LETTERS TO KORERO

The title, “ Modern Verse,” under which you publish my letter in Volume 2, No. 24, is ill-chosen. I have already listened to an indignant wail from a colleague who is “ surprised at my sweeping condemnation of modern verse.” I do no such thing. If you use the word " modern ” in a chronological sense only, I recognize it, but to me poetry is poetry, whether it is of the age and vintage of the Venerable Bede or of contributors to Korero. Corporal Gilbert and I are really at one. He says, “ For me, anyway, the significance of a poem lies in its content . . . form, imagery, method, and approach . ' . . present the meaning with the sharpest possible impact and greatest significance and enable the poet to distill into a few terrific words his whole comprehension of the world or that part of it with which he deals result ‘ beauty.’ ” I agree. All I ask him to do is to read his own composition again and measure it by his own standards as expressed above. To show that I can “ take it,” I submit for the criticism of any readers who may be interested another 'effort of my own.

SEAPORT SUNRISE A promised tinge of orange in the sky Above it, palest green ; below The purple loom Of haze-enfolded hills. Wan light upon the sea Comes stealing from the East, while in the West, Still hangs the pallid mirror, Moon. But lost is all the glow. And magic radiance which infused the night When she rode Queen. And now the busy boats, Glide out to putt-putt-putter-putter, Putter on their way. Drawing straight lines upon the lineless sea. The little waves, So restless, yet so languid, ceasing not Their sighing on the shingle and the. sand. * All shattered by a truck upon the road ; The rattling milkman with his morning load ; The bawling syren of the earliest train; Banished is glamour ; it is day again. Sandy. I read with interest your correspondent’s views on a modern poem, and I should like to know whether his quarrel is with Corporal Gilbert’s poem or with the rhymeless form of modern poetry. I assume the latter to be the case, and therefore I must protest. I am not given to writing poetry, but I read it often, and for indefinable reasons I enjoy much of the rhymeless “ rythmless ” poetry of to-day. I am not here giving an opinion on the literary merits

of Corporal Gilbert’s poem, but in the best examples of the style he seeks to follow there is much to enjoy and much food for thought. There will always be some who prefer the rhyme and measured beat of “ Away in a manger, no crib, &c„” to T. S. Eliot’s “ Journey of the Magi.” The latter is stark, the statements are pithy, the feelings of men are tersely recorded, and, oh shame ! the lines are broken. T. S. Eliot was moved by something he saw in the nativity, and he wrote things he saw in his own style. He was sincere, and his picture is long lasting in my mind. Those who think poetry should be an evenly flowing song will not like it, but the picture is there, the emotions and intellect of the poet were roused, and he made no attempt in setting it down to force his imagery into a set form. The generation which followed the Great War, so far as its poets were concerned, was disillusioned, very mistrustful of the ancient landmarks, and when its poets broke into print their work was characterized by the same cynical and rebellious spirit. Bursts of genuine emotion are rarely as evenly voiced as Shakespeare’s utterances, and “ modern ” poets have deliberately avoided the artihcialness of the even metre. Their poems were “ deliberately and intuitively awry.” Nature does not work in straight or even lines. Her work is marked by a series of irregularities and curves, else would our trees and hills be symmetrical and our rivers like canals. It is the abruptness and variety in Nature which is so refreshing—and so it should be with poetry. I agree that much of modern poetry is worthless, but so are many “ ancient ” poems honoured by inclusion in the “ Oxford Book of English Verse.” I admit that many modern poems are mere imitations of the masters’ styles, but I have no doubt that the work of the genuine modern poet will last. Some, indeed, complain that these modern poems are hard to be understood, but I do not think that clearness of expression is everything. Some of John Donne’s poems, for example, take a little working out, and the same applies to a host of “ ancient ” writers. Clearness of expres-

sion is NOT everything, the understanding of a poem depending on the intelligence of the reader. There are some who are unable to understand even a subtle limerick. Perhaps modern poetry is a trifle incomprehensible, for the following reason :

The modern intellectual poet has in his mind a vast number of associations — associations in the realms of psychology, involved politics, science, and the diversified literature of the day. His thoughts traverse regions not known by the ancient poet, at least as far as the technical phraseology is concerned. In consequence, his allusions often take a little catching up. The ancient poet had his mind crammed full of Grecian and Roman mythology, and drew on this store for his metaphors and allusions. This calling-up on the part of the old poets of the dead heroes of the ancient work baffles any person who has not had a classical education, but the poet did not worry about those who differed from him in this respect. . What was good enough for them is good enough for the poets of to-day. I am enclosing a poem by Aaronson entitled “ Windy Day in Provence.” It would not have gone down in Tennyson’s day, but maybe your readers will enjoy it. I wonder what they think of it. Is it sufficiently regular for the likes of the orthodox reader of poetry ? In closing I must recall the remark on the modern poet, T. S. Eliot. It was said that he has many imitators, including himself. “1 P.W. Camp.”

WINDY DAY IN PROVENCE

By

The cypresses are looped with wind. The poplars besom the swinging sky. Squat dark trunks, hands on hips, Plant their feet in the fleeting grass. Across his face the sun’s hair In golden wantonness is blown. The mauve down of mountain-spines, Ripples like cat’s fur backward stroked. Under the bridge the rods wag. Over the bridge the wires sing. The river round the stolid drums Beats blue to green and green to gold. Wind at wide hats like captured crows. Wind at the heart like running surf. And wind upon the wild sky Like Van Gogh’s paintbrush wild with pain. From “ Modern Poetry, 1922-34.”