Georgian Poetry 1920-22 Part 1

Georgian Poetry 1920-22.

by Various.

PREFATORY NOTE

When the fourth volume of this series was published three years ago, many of the critics who had up till then, as Horace Walpole said of G.o.d, been the dearest creatures in the world to me, took another turn. Not only did they very properly disapprove my choice of poems: they went on to write as if the Editor of 'Georgian Poetry' were a kind of public functionary, like the President of the Royal Academy; and they asked--again, on this a.s.sumption, very properly--who was E.M. that he should bestow and withhold crowns and sceptres, and decide that this or that poet was or was not to count.

This, in the words of Pirate Smee, was 'a kind of a compliment', but it was also, to quote the same hero, 'galling'; and I have wished for an opportunity of disowning the pretension which I found attributed to me of setting up as a pundit, or a pontiff, or a Petronius Arbiter; for I have neither the sure taste, nor the exhaustive reading, nor the ample leisure which would be necessary in any such role.

The origin of these books, which is set forth in the memoir of Rupert Brooke, was simple and humble. I found, ten years ago, that there were a number of writers doing work which appeared to me extremely good, but which was narrowly known; and I thought that anyone, however unprofessional and meagrely gifted, who presented a conspectus of it in a challenging and manageable form might be doing a good turn both to the poets and to the reading public. So, I think I may claim, it proved to be. The first volume seemed to supply a want. It was eagerly bought; the continuation of the affair was at once taken so much for granted as to be almost unavoidable; and there has been no break in the demand for the successive books. If they have won for themselves any position, there is no possible reason except the pleasure they have given.

Having entered upon a course of disclamation, I should like to make a mild protest against a further charge that Georgian Poetry has merely encouraged a small clique of mutually indistinguishable poetasters to abound in their own and each other's sense or nonsense. It is natural that the poets of a generation should have points in common; but to my fond eye those who have graced these collections look as diverse as sheep to their shepherd, or the members of a Chinese family to their uncle; and if there is an allegation which I would 'deny with both hands', it is this: that an insipid sameness is the chief characteristic of an anthology which offers--to name almost at random seven only out of forty (oh ominous academic number!)--the work of Messrs. Abercrombie, Davies, de la Mare, Graves, Lawrence, Nichols and Squire.

The ideal 'Georgian Poetry'--a book which would err neither by omission nor by inclusion, and would contain the best, and only the best poems of the best, and only the best poets of the day--could only be achieved, if at all, by dint of a Royal Commission. The present volume is nothing of the kind.

I may add one word bearing on my aim in selection. Much admired modern work seems to me, in its lack of inspiration and its disregard of form, like gravy imitating lava. Its upholders may retort that much of the work which I prefer seems to them, in its lack of inspiration and its comparative finish, like tapioca imitating pearls. Either view--possibly both--may be right. I will only say that with an occasional exception for some piece of rebelliousness or even levity which may have taken my fancy, I have tried to choose no verse but such as in Wordsworth's phrase

The high and tender Muses shall accept With gracious smile, deliberately pleased.

There are seven new-comers--Messrs. Armstrong, Blunden, Hughes, Kerr, Prewett and Quennell, and Miss Sackville-West. Thanks and acknowledgments are due to Messrs. Jonathan Cape, Chatto and Windus, R.

Cobden-Sanderson, Constable, W. Collins, Heinemann, Hodder and Stoughton, John Lane, Macmillan, Martin Secker, Selwyn and Blount, Sidgwick and Jackson, and the Golden c.o.c.kerel Press; and to the Editors of 'The Cbapbook', 'The London Mercury' and 'The Westminster Gazette'.

E. M.

July, 1922

LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE

RYTON FIRS

'The Dream'

All round the knoll, on days of quietest air, Secrets are being told; and if the trees Speak out--let them make uproar loud as drums-- 'Tis secrets still, shouted instead of whisper'd.

There must have been a warning given once: No tree, on pain of withering and sawfly, To reach the slimmest of his snaky toes Into this mounded sward and rumple it; All trees stand back: taboo is on this soil.--

The trees have always scrupulously obeyed.

The gra.s.s, that elsewhere grows as best it may Under the larches, countable long nesh blades, Here in clear sky pads the ground thick and close As wool upon a Southdown wether's back; And as in Southdown wool, your hand must sink Up to the wrist before it find the roots.

A bed for summer afternoons, this gra.s.s; But in the Spring, not too softly entangling For lively feet to dance on, when the green Flashes with daffodils. From Marcle way, From Dymock, Kempley, Newent, Bromesberrow, Redmarley, all the meadowland daffodils seem Running in golden tides to Ryton Firs, To make the knot of steep little wooded hills Their brightest show: O bella eta de l'oro!

Now I breathe you again, my woods of Ryton: Not only golden with your daffodil-fires Lying in pools on the loose dusky ground Beneath the larches, tumbling in broad rivers Down sloping gra.s.s under the cherry trees And birches: but among your branches clinging A mist of that Ferrara-gold I first Loved in the easy hours then green with you; And as I stroll about you now, I have Accompanying me--like troops of lads and la.s.ses Chattering and dancing in a s.h.i.+ning fortune-- Those mornings when your alleys of long light And your brown rosin-scented shadows were Enchanted with the laughter of my boys.

'The Voices in the Dream'

Follow my heart, my dancing feet, Dance as blithe as my heart can beat.

Only can dancing understand What a heavenly way we pa.s.s Treading the green and golden land, Daffodillies and gra.s.s.

I had a song, too, on my road, But mine was in my eyes; For Malvern Hills were with me all the way, Singing loveliest visible melodies Blue as a south-sea bay; And ruddy as wine of France Breadths of new-turn'd ploughland under them glowed.

'Twas my heart then must dance To dwell in my delight; No need to sing when all in song my sight Moved over hills so musically made And with such colour played.-- And only yesterday it was I saw Veil'd in streamers of grey wavering smoke My shapely Malvern Hills.

That was the last hail-storm to trouble spring: He came in gloomy haste, Pusht in front of the white clouds quietly basking, In such a hurry he tript against the hills And stumbling forward spilt over his shoulders All his black baggage held, Streaking downpour of hail.

Then fled dismayed, and the sun in golden glee And the high white clouds laught down his dusky ghost.

For all that's left of winter Is moisture in the ground.

When I came down the valley last, the sun Just thawed the gra.s.s and made me gentle turf, But still the frost was bony underneath.

Now moles take burrowing jaunts abroad, and ply Their shovelling hands in earth As nimbly as the strokes Of a swimmer in a long dive under water.

The meadows in the sun are twice as green For all the scatter of fresh red mounded earth, The mischief of the moles: No dullish red, Glosters.h.i.+re earth new-delved In April! And I think shows fairest where These rummaging small rogues have been at work.

If you will look the way the sunlight slants Making the gra.s.s one great green gem of light, Bright earth, crimson and even Scarlet, everywhere tracks The rambling underground affairs of moles: Though 'tis but kestrel-bay Looking against the sun.

But here's the happiest light can lie on ground, Gra.s.s sloping under trees Alive with yellow s.h.i.+ne of daffodils!

If quicksilver were gold, And troubled pools of it shaking in the sun It were not such a fancy of bickering gleam As Ryton daffodils when the air but stirs.

And all the miles and miles of meadowland The spring makes golden ways, Lead here, for here the gold Grows brightest for our eyes, And for our hearts lovelier even than love.

So here, each spring, our daffodil festival.

How smooth and quick the year Spins me the seasons round!

How many days have slid across my mind Since we had snow pitying the frozen ground!

Then winter suns.h.i.+ne cheered The bitter skies; the snow, Reluctantly obeying lofty winds, Drew off in s.h.i.+ning clouds, Wis.h.i.+ng it still might love With its white mercy the cold earth beneath.

But when the beautiful ground Lights upward all the air, Noon thaws the frozen eaves, And makes the rime on post and paling steam Silvery blue smoke in the golden day.

And soon from loaded trees in noiseless woods The snows slip thudding down, Scattering in their trail Bright icy sparkles through the glittering air; And the fir-branches, patiently bent so long, Sigh as they lift themselves to rights again.

Then warm moist hours steal in, Such as can draw the year's First fragrance from the sap of cherry wood Or from the leaves of budless violets; And travellers in lanes Catch the hot tawny smell Reynard's damp fur left as he sneakt marauding

Across from gap to gap: And in the larch woods on the highest boughs The long-eared owls like grey cats sitting still Peer down to quiz the pa.s.sengers below.

Light has killed the winter and all dark dreams.

Now winds live all in light, Light has come down to earth and blossoms here, And we have golden minds.

From out the long shade of a road high-bankt, I came on shelving fields; And from my feet cascading, Streaming down the land, Flickering lavish of daffodils flowed and fell; Like sunlight on a water thrill'd with haste, Such clear pale quivering flame, But a flame even more marvellously yellow.

And all the way to Ryton here I walkt Ankle-deep in light.

It was as if the world had just begun; And in a mind new-made Of shadowless delight My spirit drank my flas.h.i.+ng senses in, And gloried to be made Of young mortality.

No darker joy than this Golden amazement now Shall dare intrude into our dazzling lives: Stain were it now to know Mists of sweet warmth and deep delicious colour, Those lovable accomplices that come Befriending languid hours.

MARTIN ARMSTRONG

THE BUZZARDS