Clear Lenses

There seems an element of duress in bringing out two poets in one book – you have to buy one you may not like, to read one you do like. In this case I swallowed Ted Hughes for the sake of Thom Gunn, because Mr Gunn writes about people – soldiers, women, beatnik boys, himself – while Mr Hughes writes more about himself and animals. But both are most humane, accomplished poets. A razor-blade edge of style is apparent in the work of each, and they do not merely cut themselves with it. Mr Gunn is near to being a major poet. He understands so exactly the terrible world we live in, the world that bred us and the Nazis:

The Corps developed, it was plain to see,
Courage, endurance, loyalty and skill
To a morale firm as morality,
Hardening him to an instrument, until

The finitude of virtues that were there
Bodied within the swarthy uniform
A compact innocence, child-like and clear,
No doubt could penetrate, no act could harm.

When he stood near the Russian partisan
Being burned alive, he therefore could behold
The ribs wear gently through the darkening skin
And sicken only at the Northern cold . . .

It is poetry where the pity is all implied and never leaks out to the surface. This particular poem is aptly called ‘Innocence’.

Alan Ross is a slighter and a drier poet. But his sketches of Africa are peculiarly relevant to present-day problems. The best are about men and women who ‘transgress’ the colour bar. One can see how well the modernpage 609 habit of setting down whatever one knows has paid off; one has to be uninhibited to get a grip on an uninhibited situation. Fifty years ago Mr Ross would have been writing scenic drivel instead of these hard-bitten comments. But the tradition has given him – Gunn and Hughes also – clear lenses, and they have the skill and courage to use them.

1963 (292)