RECENT TERSE

Country Flower Seller and other Poems. By F. V. Follett-. (Constable. 6s.) An Indian Ass. By Harold Acton. (Duckworth. 5s.)

Arms. the publication of his second book, critics had begun to place Mr. Blunden in a tight little niche among the " nature poets," and some had vowed that there he would remain, with his self-acknowledged master Clare, and with Crabbe. But the extreme artifice of his verse—an unusual quality in a young writer—filled me with hopes that he had the possibilities of a deeper sophistication than that afforded by an intimacy with birds' eggs and songs, with farmyard smells and cries, with moonlight effects on lakes and snakes. I felt that in this man's mind was a promising contrafaction. Here was a slowness, a sense of strain and unremitting effort ; but with it went a lightning glance, and a swiftness of selective observation, which warned the reader that this continual effort was not the earnestness of the bible-backed naturalist with a spyglass. It signalled rather some inward groping, as though the poet ven- tured out only to trudge home with each impression and there to brood over it, break it up, and rebuild it. In the process he established its significance in relation to himself—and nothing

else mattered.

This laborious process, however, took time and wearied even this quick mind. One can imagine him doubting, at the end of each poem, if ever he would be able to write again. So I felt, at least, and speculated on the deception of his work. Always it appeared slow, almost elegiac in pace ; but I felt convinced it was due to distance covered, and not to the rate of travel. I sensed a certain agony of exhilaration that could result only from speed of mind, a swiftness in the accumula- tion of knowledge. How else could so young a man be so " aware " in his technique—for technique, after all, is the outward and visible form of experience ?

This mind was too self-centred, too much of the egoist, to be content with trafficking in 'the details of Nature's 'charms. By this quaint, outmoded process, it must be struggling toward some synthesis, until Nature should be rebuilt in the poets own likeness, and he should thereby have stamped himself on his world, a tortured, Laocoon figure, but yet-a creator: In this new book, a highly wrought, completely self-conscious and therefore satisfying book, Mr. Blunden has emerged triumphant. There is not a single poem here that we would dismiss as accidental. The Divine Fire, about which youth is so incoherent, has been mastered after a' long labour in the laboratory of the soul. What pleasure does the result afford ! Here we find something more than " nature poetry." Here is that agony of contact with the reality which promotes the various experiments of life. And what a result have this tension and distress of heart had upon the poet's hand ! How sensitive it has become ; it plays_ upon the rebellious words with all the nervous skill of a musician touching his strings. Here is an example. The poet is describing some piscatorial dream, and in his sleep he drags up a scaly monster

" Slow to the mould I pulled the huge

Half-legend from his subterfuge."

He tells how his dream took him to " A water drifting black and ill With idiot swirls,- and silent still."

But quotations showing the phrase-mark of the true poet might be taken from every poem in this beautiful book.

Mr. Follett works in the same kind as Mr. Blunden, but is less discriminating in his searching of the English hedgerows. He has a significant mannerism of using colours as adverbs : " Now greyly lies the winter's pall ; How goldenly and brown

old bramble leaves fare . . . It is significant because it indicates a lack of grip on language. He should be more con- cerned with words, for a beginner should love words, and their relations with each other, even more than his snbieet matter ; because if he is to be a poet, he is to come to a mastery of life by means of language. If he does it in any other way—such as nature study—he may become a complete man, but he will not be a poet. Mr. Follett has a good control of the mechanics of verse form,. however, and is to be congratulated on his sincere and interesting first book. It is well worth buying. Miss Sitwell and Mr. Acton are both poets of the bazaar, decorating the stalls of the mind with -glittering chains of ornamental diction. Similes are thrown up like confetti ; and

there is a general spirit of carnival about them which is quite exhilarating to the reader. With Mr. Acton we see :- "Whirled momentary mirages Of inspissated greenery"; and

" The fulgurant phoenix with her sycophants" ;

and also :— " Coiled dinosaurs that lap the hydromel From many a mauve-lipped shell."

Both of these poets insist that things " ooze "—Miss Sitwell in particular having an obsession for glycerine. They both catch the spirit of the age, or at least of the cabaret- dancing section of it, and so their work has an intoxication for

us when we are in the Savoy OrPheans mood. For, as Mr. Acton says :—

" We have our souls to save from boredom."

That, after all, is a mission, and one, followed by some of the .cleverest people., t r_ Miss 'Sitwell',-` however; has something more penetrating. She forsakes her Woolworthian muse for one more coherent -.and less garish ; and then she recalls Barham, with his wit

and speed, and his magical power of creating_ a macabre atmosphere. Her highly strung .senses pinch, things and

make them legendary., and she wanders quite bewildered, and as simple as a_ child, crying :— '" What shall I do, 0 goddess ? The night falls, And I am all alone in this harsh world ? "

Miss Sitwell can be trusted to defend herself, however, for her work shows that she has a well-equipped arsenal of nervous intelligence ; and one feels that she is now prepared to walk out of her bazaar—and still has her money to spend.

RICHARD CHURCH.