POETS AND POETRY.
NEIGHBOURS.*
MR. GresoN's readers may possibly be puzzled for a moment by some of the titles at the beginning of his new book of poems, "Philip and Phoebe Ware," "Robert and Eleanor Askew." Vague memories of two novelists will cross the reader's mind.
A memorial poem He will scan the lines with slightly bewildered attention. Is he being very dense or has Mr. Gibson grown suddenly obscure ? Neither. Further research will reveal that the themes of the opening poems are based upon a new plan. "Richard Kendal" and the rest are just the Neighbours of his title whom Mr. Gibson has sought to bring before us in a short poem either narrative or photographic. The experiment— this gallery of everyday portraits—is an interesting one. " Casualties " is a section of the book which contains another series
of half-lengths :—
" JOE Banwss.
To a proud peacock strutting tail-in-air He clipped the yew each thirteenth of July No feather ruffled, sleek and debonair, Clean-edged it cut the yellow evening sky. But he returns no more, who went across The narrow seas one thirteenth of July : And drearily all day the branches toss, Ragged and dark against the rainy sky."
• 2folo55Ours. By Wilfrid Wilson Oilsion. London Itscualisa 17s. Od. net.]
The reader will certainly have noticed one feature in these verses besides their power of calling up
" The heartfelt things past speaking dear To long past generations of dead men."
We mean their quality of unity, their satisfying pattern. That is indeed one of Mr. Gibson's "long suits." He is a most admirable pattern-maker. This is not a rare quality, but it is rare in poets—the pattern-maker being often a mere jingler. The value of a strong pattern is admirably exemplified in" Tho Arrow" and in" The Saltmarshos " in the present collection. Alas that space forbids the quotation of either poem in its entirety, and that the strength of their construction forbids the making of extracts l The reader must therefore be content with a shorter and therefore less elaborate example :—
" Roses he loved and their outlandish names- Cloire de Dijon, L6onie Lamesch,
Chateau du Clos Vougeot—like living flames They kindled in his memory afresh As, lying in the mud of France, he turned His eyes to the grey sky, light after light ; And last within his dying memory burned Chateau du Cleo Vougeot's deep crimson night."
Mr. Gibson's skill is most admirable when we consider that it is allied to poetic feeling of the utmost simplicity anti depth.
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