N.Z Verse

The White Cry

Messrs, J. M. Dent & Sons think (or say they think) that Douglas Stewart "does for the Antipodes" (hateful word!) "what Roy Campbell, a poet of similar impulse, does for Africa." This may be true—but it is a matter of opinion—in that Mr. Stewart's verse "is enriched with the scene, the mood, and the character of his own country and his own people," yet the comparison is not fair to Roy Campbell, and is grossly unfair to Mr. Stewart. It is true that both poets are vivid with a dynamic energy, but while Campbell's verse is "modern" both in concept and expression, in Douglas Stewart's the spirit of to-day is subtly blended with that of yesterday. Poetic labels are damnable in the extreme; and are also extremely useful. This New Zealander may be termed a Neo-Georgian Romantic Modernist—if you can conceive the species, rather numerous in these days, although few are of so high a quality as Douglas Stewart.

"The White Cry" contains poems that are, in essence, lyrical. Most are short and of the moment, although frequently reflective. The poet's sense of rhythm is unfailing, and he has not abandoned rhyme, but most noticeable is his constant use of imagery (almost always effective) of sound, and, above all, of colour. From "Haystack" we take one example of a score:

Hero-Hito

"What is the Chinese war like? Well, at least it isn't like wars in history books. You know, those lucid, tidy maps of battles one used to study, the flanks like neat little cubes, the pincer movements working with mathematical precision, the reinforcements never failing to arrive. War isn't like that. War is bombing an already disused arsenal, missing it and killing a few old women. War is lying in a stable with a gangrenous leg. War is drinking hot water in a barn and worrying about one's wife. War is a handful of lost and terrified men in the mountains, shooting at something moving in the undergrowth. War is waiting for days with nothing to do, shouting down a dead telephone, going without sleep and sex and a wash. War is untidy, inefficient, obscure, and largely a matter of chance."—W. H. Auden.

The creamy frost of toi-toi plumes
Above the rushes' blue-green shrilling.

("The White Cry," Douglas Stewart. 64 pages. J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd. 7/6.)