" The Silver Cat" and Other Verse

Mary of Huntingdon. By Gilbert Thomas. (Allen and iinwini 3s. 6d.) Dedication. By Viola Gerard Garvin. (Gollancz. 3s. 6d.)

Ma. HUMBERT WOLFE is something of a Cinquevalli of verse.

He keeps so many bright balls spinning in the air at one time that it is little wonder there is some confusion as to what it is all about. What is he juggling with—gold, silver, painted glass ? Or is the whole thing little more than an effect of footlight dazzle, something to charm and delight us when we see it first, but in truth not so much art as a bundle of stage tricks, a clever manipulation of lights in a darkened theatre ?

These are questions which may be applied to most indi- vidual poets in their own time. Their own time is always a, more or less darkened theatre : it is for posterity to put the

lights up and show what is what—and on the other hand, if we may coin the expression, what is not what. But this is no reason why contemporary criticism should, be accounted biassed. We have compared Mr. Wolfe with Cinquevalli, a juggler of bright balls whose methods did bear investigation an artist therefore. Mr. Wolfe no doubt dazzles a great many people with his juggling of words—his increasing mastery of

chiming rhymes and smooth-flowing rhythms is fascinating to watch—for he is so often delightful to read even when one

does not trouble to think what it all means. Nevertheless, the headwork is there at the back of it all. Read these poems not once but many times. It is not a matter of cunning hands only. Meanwhile, here are two new balls spinning in the air.

The Silver Cat is a very pleasing book in its production—a point one must stress, for it is hardly likely that any but collectors will be willing or able to pay such a price for poetry

—and it shows Mr. Wolfe, not at his most adept, but keeping a smooth level of beauty in which phrase strengthens phrase in the architecture of the poem, from the moment we see those " Two orange candles like cat's eyes " to the quiet and lovel:f ending when the Silver Cat

" rose, stretched his silky paws to yawn at the geraniums of the dawn,

whose petals splashed the window. Then

curled himself up to sleep again."

Between cat and cat, as it were, Mr. Wolfe has achieved one of the most musical and fanciful love-poems of recent years. This Blind Rose is a miscellany of flower, bird, place, and

" Person " poems, with a number of sonnets attached. Mr. Wolfe, who, unlike most of his contemporaries, believes that a book of poems should be bound together by a single dominating

theme, or thread (whatever varying jewels are strung on that thread), would probably agree that his latest work is a poet's

holiday. The poet has strayed off -the high road of his pur- pose fora while ; but has composed some charming and some unhappy-sounding songs whilst wandering in the marigold meadows.

Mr. Gilbert Thomas was waiting for a train at Huintingdon, :` hidden within a green retreat "-

"when suddenly (It seemed from nowhere) came to me A. little maid some five years old With grey-blue eyes and hair of gold."

49 he asked her to tell him all about herself, but all she would key was " Mary." Yet, says Mr. Thomas, " as she smiled, the sunlight won, The day for me at Huntingdon." Of course it did, but it was not really so much the little unknown girl's smile as Mr. Thomas's own capture of a mood which won the day for him. In this first piosodie story, whose only fault is that it LS too short, Mr. Thomas hands us very modestly a key, " There," he seems to say. " Go in and browse if you like, but don't expect anything spectacular." We do not, after reading Mary of Huntingdon. But what a quiet cool garden

this poet has made for us ! His thoughts, however simple, have a way of flowering into pOetry almost in spite of them- Selves. Miss Garvin, also handing us a key, or rather a whole

ring of them— These are my keys, with which I make you free Of all the little rooms that once were mine . . ."

—seeks rarer and more delicate images. She begins nearer to poetry, shunning the commonplace, keeping her readers at their distance with a poet's gesture of cool preoccupation. Not that there is anything haughty about her work. Much of it is intimate and tender ; or, as in Matntaison, there is a bright sweet ring of words :—

" Beyond the road - - Malmaison lies With a hood pulled Over her eyes ;

Is she dead, or Is she asleep In her garden, where Rains weep ? "

But one feels that Miss Garvin could afford to be_ definitely bolder in her poetic approach to life. The technique is there

and there is nothing to show that the imagination is not. We must add a comment on Mr. Victor Gollances work, since

these are the first volumes of poetry he has published. The books, in light, plain bindings with coloured labels, are an ornament to any shelf. But we hope -Mr. Grollanez is not going to carry the cover " puffs " too far. He has been over-laudatory to Miss Garvin.