Other formats

    Adobe Portable Document Format file (facsimile images)   TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

Salient: Victoria University Students' Paper. Vol. 27, No. 12. 1964.

Poetry Yearbook "Mediocre"

page 4

Poetry Yearbook "Mediocre"

This was "The Year The Drought Broke." Or that at least seems to be the message proclaimed by Louis Johnson, as he plays at Noah in his arid introduction. Certainly it does seem to have been the year of the great storm, the year when the literary men went to war—for this is the long-awaited and most controversial issue of the Poetry Yearbook, the issue which the publishers (probably with a hopeful eye on the sales) describe as a "cause celebre."

But there seems little reason to see the Yearbook itself as part of any life-giving change in New Zealand poetry or publishing. There is insufficient evidence here that other prophets should join with Louis Johnson in announcing the end of a drought; some may however, care to discern another type of downfall. For the general standard of this volume is most disappointing; if this were the only evidence of New Zealand's literature, then it would be difficult to have much confidence in the future.

It is probably quite sobering enough to remember the furore this has caused and the publicity it has received. When one compares the quality of the poetry and the editorship with the angry words said in their defence when the Literary Fund refused to make its usual grant, then one is forced to the conclusion that here there is little more than material for a mock epic:

"'Restore the Lock!' she cries; and all around
'Restore the Lock!' the vaulted Roofs rebound."

If there is anything more to be said in this argument in the light of the Yearbook itself, it is probably to deny that there was any justification for banning (as far as the grant was concerned) the six poems to which offence was taken—reading them no more supports such extreme action than does a consideration of the principles involved. The serious reader may perhaps have some doubts whether or not the Advisory Committee would have been justified in refusing altogether to grant the usual subsidy—then perhaps M. H. Holcroft's editorial in the NZ Listener would have gained more support, for his professed concern for the future of State patronage if not for his unwise personal attack on Mr. Johnson.

We may not be able to agree with him that the Yearbook serves no useful purpose or that New Zealanders "have no real liking for poetry" (whatever that may mean), but nevertheless, looking at this book, we may find it difficult to deny that it is indeed seldom more than an "anthology of the second-rate."

Even when we open the Yearbook we are faced with an introductory essay which is far from satisfactory; before we open it we are presented with a cover and binding which may well seem sufficiently distasteful to deter us from venturing further. And when we gather courage to delve into the poetry itself, we will be occasionally pleased but are likely to emerge most depressed with the general standard: our last impressions remain as a reluctant recognition of mediocrity.

Everywhere there is too much writing about writing. Too often the sculptured phrase proves hollow. Too often we are left only with " . . . the natural power behind our acts and verses Murdered by triviality "

And if, as Mr. Johnson claims, this was James K. Baxter's concern in his poems for this anthology, then it is an implied criticism of him, as well as of the book as a whole—for his contributions, although sometimes quite skilfully worked, do not achieve the exppression which transcends its subject-matter, without which even criticism of triviality becomes self-destructive.

This is, in fact, almost the objection which may be taken to the editorial: Mr. Johnson makes some useful critical judgments, perhaps most usefully about R. A. K. Mason, but he also makes some doubtful ones, especially with regard to this American Thing and influences in our poetry. Yet, oddly, the most regrettable thing about the editorial is the very lack of judgments, of any real criticism. One is left with the feeling that the primary concern was not to say something valid and helpful about literature, but rather to expound a few favourite theories, and to unleash a few pet prejudices.

There is too much of what seems like that particular kind of smallness of interest which is only possible where the literary community is itself so small; we surely cannot but be suspicious of the half-hearted sneering at the "paid experts in the English department." We must wonder why Mr. Johnson is eager to wag a disapproving finger at that "archvillain" C. K. Stead: or why he manages, in an aside, to chide Professor Bertram in quite that tone. Is this Louis Johnson the serious poet and critic, or is it rather Louis Johnson the Giant-killer? Whether or not we agree with the opinions expressed or approve of the people involved, we must regret the sense of triviality which results from such suspicions.

A similar gloomy doubt hangs over the whole volume. To be quite fair, it is necessary to admit that many poems are technically pleasing, and that a few would reward repeated reading. More frequently there is a line or an image which completely succeeds. But even if one limits one's attention to the technically accomplished poems, too often one is left with the awful question: "so what? Just where does all this cleverness lead us," and, perhaps worse than that, "just what does it leave with us?"

We admire the virtuosity of writers such as Hubert Witheford and Martyn Sanderson, even of Kenneth McKenney, but we discover on reflection that their short, pregnant lines seldom have very much to say and that what seems so profound and prophetic is all too often coyly and intellectually empty. Mr. Johnson complains of the "trite convention" of Ruth Dallas, "surrounded by too many small conventions, too many little fences, to make for newly exciting poetic statements."

But this Poetry Yearbook is proof that he has forgotten or perhaps has not seen, that there are more varieties of the "let's pretend" game than the one he sees in "feminine fantasy." One of them is the intellectual approach which winds itself around in a sort of complex simplicity; another is the protestation of the Poet of Words, who hopes to conceal the inadequacies of his thought or the conventionality of his image, not by compressing it into obscurity, but by inflating it out of all recognition. Thus Gordon Challis writes:

"This myth has its attractions if we wish to pose as sacrifices to appease an unknown guilt."

When one adds this grand wordiness to the overall pattern, of poems contributing no real insight to already trite concerns, then one is bound to admit that the Yearbook does not, on an overall picture, present a very satisfying or encouraging account of poetry in New Zealand today. If this is the decision to which we, as readers, come, however, it should not be assumed that the Yearbook is not worth producing.

It is at the very least desirable that we should be able to make such an assessment, and at the best it must also be remembered that general outlines (such as are alone possible here) must appear more harsh than individual analysis. Were it possible to consider each poem in detail, then the necessarily qualified judgment of each one would show that the Yearbook is worth producing. What it would not show, however, is that this edition is, on the whole, satisfying, meaningful or important. It is not here that any real drought may have been beginning to break.