_June,_ 1914.
If one who looked from a tower for a new star, watching for years the
same part of the sky, suddenly saw it (quite by chance while thinking
of other things), and knew it for the star for which he had hoped, how
many millions of men would never care?
And the star might blaze over deserts and forests and seas, cheering
lost wanderers in desolate lands, or guiding dangerous quests; millions
would never know it. And a poet is no more than a star. If one has
arisen where I have so long looked for one, amongst the Irish peasants,
it can be little more than a secret that I shall share with those who
read this book because they care for poetry.
I have looked for a poet amongst the Irish peasants because it seemed
to me that almost only amongst them there was in daily use a diction
worthy of poetry, as well a an imagination capable of dealing with the
great and simple things that are a poet's wares. Their thoughts are in
the spring-time, and all their metaphors fresh: in London no one makes
metaphors any more, but daily speech is strewn thickly with dead ones
that their users should write upon paper and give to their gardeners to
burn.
In this same London, two years ago, where I was wasting June, I
received a letter one day from Mr. Ledwidge and a very old copy-book.
The letter asked whether there was any good in the verses that filled
the copy-book, the produce apparently of four or five years. It began
with a play in verse that no manager would dream of, there were
mistakes in grammar, in spelling of course, and worse--there were such
phrases as "'thwart the rolling foam," "waiting for my true love on
the lea," etc., which are vulgarly considered to be the appurtenances
of poetry; but out of these and many similar errors there arose
continually, like a mountain sheer out of marshes, that easy fluency of
shapely lines which is now so noticeable in all that he writes; that
and sudden glimpses of the fields that he seems at times to bring so
near to one that one exclaims, "Why, that is how Meath looks," or "It
is just like that along the Boyne in April," quite taken by surprise by
familiar things: for none of us knows, till the poets point them out,
how many beautiful things are close about us.
Of pure poetry there are two kinds, that which mirrors the beauty of
the world in which our bodies are, and that which builds the more
mysterious kingdoms where geography ends and fairyland begins, with
gods and heroes at war, and the sirens singing still, and Alph going
down to the darkness from Xanadu. Mr. Ledwidge gives us the first
kind. When they have read through the profounder poets, and seen the
problem plays, and studied all the perplexities that puzzle man in the
cities, the small circle of readers that I predict for him will turn to
Ledwidge as to a mirror reflecting beautiful fields, as to a very still
lake rather on a very cloudless evening.
There is scarcely a smile of Spring or a sigh of Autumn that is not
reflected here, scarcely a phase of the large benedictions of Summer;
even of Winter he gives us clear glimpses sometimes, albeit mournfully,
remembering Spring.
"In the red west the twisted moon is low,
And on the bubbles there are half-lit stars,
Music and twilight: and the deep blue flow
Of water: and the watching fire of Mars.
The deep fish slipping through the moonlit bars
Make death a thing of sweet dreams,--"
What a Summer's evening is here.
And this is a Summer's night in a much longer poem that I have not
included in this selection, a summer's night seen by two lovers:
"The large moon rose up queenly as a flower
Charmed by some Indian pipes. A hare went by,
A snipe above them circled in the sky."
And elsewhere he writes, giving us the mood and picture of Autumn in a
single line:
"And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown."
With such simple scenes as this the book is full, giving nothing at all
to those that look for a "message," but bringing a feeling of quiet
from gleaming Irish evenings, a book to read between the Strand and
Piccadilly Circus amidst the thunder and hootings.
To every poet is given the revelation of some living thing so intimate
that he speaks, when he speaks of it, as an ambassador speaking for his
sovereign; with Homer it was the heroes, with Ledwidge it is the small
birds that sing, but in particular especially the blackbird, whose
cause he champions against all other birds almost with a vehemence
such as that with which men discuss whether Mr. ----, M. P., or his
friend the Right Honourable ---- is really the greater ruffian. This
is how he speaks of the blackbird in one of his earliest poems; he was
sixteen when he wrote it, in a grocer's shop in Dublin, dreaming of
Slane, where he was born; and his dreams turned out to be too strong
for the grocery business, for he walked home one night, a distance of
thirty miles:
"Above me smokes the little town
With its whitewashed walls and roofs of brown
And its octagon spire toned smoothly down
As the holy minds within.
And wondrous, impudently sweet,
Half of him passion, half conceit,
The blackbird calls adown the street,
Like the piper of Hamelin."
Let us not call him the Burns of Ireland, you who may like this book,
nor even the Irish John Clare, though he is more like him, for poets
are all incomparable (it is only the versifiers that resemble the great
ones), but let us know him by his own individual song: he is the poet
of the blackbird.
I hope that not too many will be attracted to this book on account
of the author being a peasant, lest he come to be praised by the
how-interesting! school; for know that neither in any class, nor in any
country, nor in any age, shall you predict the footfall of Pegasus, who
touches the earth where he pleaseth and is bridled by whom he will.