Poetry is found wanting

Yet another collection of poetry has been published — Caves In The Hills, by A. I. H. Paterson. It joins a family distinguished chiefly by its size.

With such poetry, it is not fair to ask: "Why do they write it?" That is a matter for the individual conscience. It may be fair to ask: "Why do they publish it in book form? Why do they feel it should be disseminated and preserved?"

I have often defended the role of the minor poet—and. as this puts me in good company. I am likely to do so again. But the only minor poets I can remember recently having been reviewed on this page were Gloria Rawlinson and Barry Mitcalf. Between these we have a great number of non-poets and some "nearly poets."

Mr. Paterson comes into the latter category. He fails to be a poet because of an almost complete inability to handle imagery. Most dangerous, perhaps, is a general reluctance to select the few apt words and nuances from the welter of inspiration. There seems to be a disconcerting amount of grafting on of new ideas when what was needed was the pruning of the old.

Calypso, a fairly commonplace poem with some attractive phrases, will serve as an example of one abuse of imagery. The poem begins with an appealinu image, presumably derived from Shakespeare;

Sunlight into the ocean of her mind

The great Ulysses fell, and touched her bright . . .

But this relatively promising beginning is promptly embroidered by irrelevancies such as the "wind-scoured paua shell." The poet is quite shamelessly filling out the stanza and engineering the rhyme.

In the third stanza the poem's opening image is transposed to:

Chill stone into the calmness of her heart

He fell, and set heart trembling like a well . . .

Unbelievably the stanza is again finished off with unconnected imagery. The child who "darts a palm-hot pebble" has a confusing effect in combination with Ulysses as the "chill stone": the lady's heart seems to respond fairly indiscriminately. The poet cannot afford lines which do not add .something to the poem—as in Calypso, and any such lines will seriously impede the progression of the verse.

So often in Mr. Paterson's work the first line is good or at least promising; yet before long we are bogged down in lines which, in imagery or rhythm, interrupt or contribute nothing to the poem. We cannot ignore lines such as "Grown desolate in its clay-cloyant floor" or "Than those time tore terrible in tortured ground." Even the Anglo-Saxons were hardly that extreme in alliteration!

Reviews

Equally disconcerting, especially perhaps to readers of Hone Tuwhare. is Mr. Paterson's $$ Often it is just too. too pretty: nearly always is a literary:

She weaves a path by water towers.

By cool, green castlelets, Furrows parted by the rain's plough.

And the wind's white minarets . . .

We are not convinced.

The subject matter of Cavi in the Hills, though often important and well-enunciated, suffers in a similar way through its disconcert ins habit of not remaining convincing. It is strange and disappointing how the grand fatalism of The Chain dissipates when it is brought up to date self-consciously in the last stanza: strange, too. how the dignity of Goldie's Wahine fails to lead convincingly into the modern counterpart, and finally is destroyed in the strident melodrama of "They shall not reach out to mock their doom."

The justification for writing verse as in Caves In The Hills comes from the lines and stanzas which work—for these may be preparing the way for later and better writing. But surely this is a private reason for a private activity By publishing in book form the poet is demanding an overall appraisal, demanding that the successes be seen (or not seen) in the overpowering context of the fumbllngs and failures. He is forcing critics, if they wish to be honest rather than patronising, to make harsh and perhaps unhelpful Judgments.

Poets must write; they must seek criticism even as they attempt communication: often they will wish to publish. But I would question, in cases where the writer is still no more than nearly a poet, whether collections in book form serve any Very useful purpose.

—P.G.R.

Caves In The Hills, selected poems by A. I. II. Paterson. Pegasus Press. October. 1965. Price: 12/6.