I'll slip over the side. I've tried and failed."
And then, finally, the poet does not shrink from the last and grimmest
reality. He seems to say--Let material force do its utmost against this
man. Admit the most dreadful possibility; shatter the life, with its
fine promise, its aspiration and toil and precious perception of beauty,
and fling it to the elements which claim it. Nevertheless the spirit
will conquer, as it has won in the long fight hitherto and will continue
to win. When the Dauber had been goaded almost beyond endurance by the
cruelty of his shipmates, and when their taunts had availed at last to
conjure in him a sickening doubt of his vocation, the poet represents
him as turning instinctively to his easel, and healed in a moment of all
the abasement and derision--
He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line,
And then came peace, and gentle beauty came,
Turning his spirit's water into wine,
Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame:
So, too, when the horror of the storm and the immense danger of his work
aloft had shaken his manhood for a moment: when he saw his life as one
'long defeat of doing nothing well' and death seemed an easy escape from
it, a rallying cry from the spirit sent him to face his duty:
And then he bit his lips, clenching his mind,
And staggered out to muster, beating back
The coward frozen self of him that whined.
And in the last extremity, when he lay upon the deck broken by his fall
and rapidly slipping back into the eternal silence, the ideal gleamed
before him still. _It will go on!_ he cried; and the four small words,
considered in their setting, with the weight of the story behind them,
have deep significance. For they bring a challenge to reality from a
poet who has very clearly apprehended it; and in their triumphant
idealism they put the corner-stone upon his philosophy and his art.
_Harold Monro_
The poetry of Mr Monro--that which counts most, the later work--is of so
fine a texture and so subtle a perfume that its charm may elude the
average reader. It is, moreover, very individual in its form; and the
unusual element in it, which is yet not sufficiently bizarre to snatch
attention, may tend to repel even the poetry lover. That person, as we
know, still prefers to take his poetry in the traditional manner; and
hence the audience for work like this, delicately sensitive and quietly
thoughtful, is likely to be small. It will be fully appreciative,
however, gladly exchanging stormy raptures for a serene and satisfying
beauty; and it will be of a temper which will delight to trace in this
work, subdued almost to a murmur, the same influences which are urging
some of his contemporaries to louder, more emphatic, and more copious
expression.
A particular interest of this poetry is precisely the way in which those
influences have been subdued. It is that which gives the individual
stamp to its art; but, curiously, it is also that which marks its
heredity, and defines its place in the succession of English poetry.
There is independence here, but not isolation; nor is there violent
conflict with an older poetic ideal. On the contrary, a reconciliation
has been made; balance has been attained; and revolutionary principles,
whether in the region of technique or ideas, have been harnessed and
controlled. So that this work, while fairly representing the new poetry,
is clearly related in the direct line to the old. A little "Impression,"
one of a group at the end of the volume called _Before Dawn_, will
illustrate this:
She was young and blithe and fair,
Firm of purpose, sweet and strong,
Perfect was her crown of hair,
Perfect most of all her song.
Yesterday beneath an oak,
She was chanting in the wood:
Wandering harmonies awoke;
Sleeping echoes understood.
To-day without a song, without a word,
She seems to drag one piteous fallen wing
Along the ground, and, like a wounded bird,
Move silent, having lost the heart to sing.
She was young and blithe and fair,
Firm of purpose, sweet and strong,
Perfect was her crown of hair,
Perfect most of all her song.
One may cite a piece like that, breaking away, in the third stanza, to a
freer and more fitting rhythm, as an example of the normal development
of English prosody. And that is, perhaps, the final significance of Mr
Monro's work. With less temptation to waywardness than a more exuberant
genius, he has achieved a completer harmony. But it was not so easy a
task as the quiet manner would cheat one into supposing; and, of course,
it has not always been so successfully done. There are many
pieces--beautiful nevertheless--where external influences have not been
completely subdued. From them one may measure the strength with which
contemporary thought claims this poet. For it appears that he, too,
cannot be at ease in Zion; that he is troubled and ashamed by reason of
a social conscience; that he is haunted by an unappeasable questioning
spirit; that he is perpetually seeking after the spiritual element in
existence. Indeed, so clear and persistent is this last motive, that if
one were aiming epithets it would be possible to fit the word
'religious' to the essential nature of Mr Monro's poetry. Of course, no
poet, be he great or small, can be packed into the compass of a single
word. His work will mean much more, and sometimes greatly different from
that. And the word religious in this connexion is more than usually
hazardous, for almost all the connotations are against it. It is true
that the common meaning, bandied on the lips of happy irresponsibles,
has no application here. On the contrary, it seems sometimes completely
reversed; and the good unthinking folk would find themselves nonplussed
by such a piece as that called "The Poets are Waiting," in the chapbook
which Mr Munro published at the end of 1914. Yet it is of the essence of
religion; and it most faithfully presents the spiritual crisis which was
precipitated by the Great War for many who had clung to a last vague
hope of some intelligent providence--
To what God
Shall we chant
Our songs of Battle?
Hefty barbarians,
Roaring for war,
Are breaking upon us;
Clouds of their cavalry,
Waves of their infantry,
Mountains of guns.
Winged they are coming,
Plated and mailed,
Snorting their jargon.
Oh to whom shall a song of battle be chanted?
Not to our lord of the hosts on his ancient throne,
Drowsing the ages out in Heaven alone.
The celestial choirs are mute, the angels have fled:
Word is gone forth abroad that our lord is dead.
To what God
Shall we chant
Our songs of Battle?
I do not wish, to stress unduly the spiritual element in this work, but
it compels attention for two reasons. It is a dominant impulse,
supplying themes which occur early and late and often; and the manner of
its expression reveals a link with the past generation which is
analogous to the technical connexion that we have already noted.
The signs of descent from the Victorians are naturally to be found in
the early poems. There is, for example, the inevitable classic theme
treated in the (also inevitable) romantic manner, and making a charming
combination, despite the grumblings of the realist and the pedant. That,
however, is a very obvious and external mark of descent. A more
interesting sign is in the spirit of "A Song at Dawn," a wail to the
Power of Powers which the author probably wishes to forget. So I will
not quote it. The point about it is the celerity with which it sends
thought flying back to Matthew Arnold and "Dover Beach." Yet there is an
important difference. For whilst the Victorian muses upon the decay of
faith with exquisite mournfulness, the 'Georgian' takes an attitude of
greater detachment. Instead of grieving for a dead or dying system of
theology, he seeks to question the reality which lies behind it.
In the volume of 1911, called _Before Dawn_, there are several poems
which pursue the same quest. Sometimes the method is one of provocative
directness, as in the dramatic piece called "God"; and at other times it
is by way of symbol or suggestion, as in "Moon-worshippers" or "Two
Visions." From the nature of things, however, the pieces in which the
argumentative attitude is taken are the less satisfying, as poetry. Thus
the colloquy in "God" just fails, from the polemical theme, of being
truly dramatic; while, on the other hand, its form prevents it from
rising into such lovely lyrism as that of "The Last Abbot." In the
former poem we are to imagine all sorts and conditions of people coming
in and out of an old English tavern on market day; and all of them ready
and willing to enlighten a travel-stained pilgrim there as to "Who and
what is God?" One sees the allegory, of course; but, somehow, that is
less convincing than the touches of satirical portraiture which we find
in passing, and which point to this poet's gift of objectivity. The
judge and the priest, the soldier and sailor and farmer, the beggar,
thief and merchant, are presented mainly as types: that, of course,
being demanded by the allegory. And when a poet arrives to solve the
problem, he also speaks 'in character'--though we recognize the voice
for one more modern than his reputed age.
... God is a spirit, not a creed;
He is an inner outward-moving power:
.....
He is that one Desire, that life, that breath,
That Soul which, with infinity of pain,
Passes through revelation and through death
Onward and upward to itself again.
Out of the lives of heroes and their deeds,
Out of the miracle of human thought,
Out of the songs of singers, God proceeds;
And of the soul of them his Soul is wrought.
There follows a quick clatter of disputation, broken by the entrance of
the philosopher; and the pilgrim's question being put to him, he
replies--
God? God! There is no GOD.
Thus 'the spirit that denies' abruptly shatters the poetic vision; and
the artistic effect is, correspondingly, to break the music of the
previous stanzas with a sudden discord. The design of the work required
that the philosopher should be heard, and dramatic fitness suggested
that his most effective entrance would be here, rending the fair new
synthesis with denial. And the resulting dissonance is inherent in the
very scheme of the poem.
That defect does not appear in "The Last Abbot," which is also engaged
upon the thought of the universal soul. Here an old monk, knowing that
he is drawing near the end of life, quietly talks to the brethren of his
order about life and death and after-death. There is no argument, no
discussion even. No other voice is raised to interrupt the meditative
flow of the old man's message, which is, in fact, a recantation. And, as
a consequence, the poem has a unity of serene reflectiveness, rising at
times to lyrical ecstasy. He is thinking of his approaching death--
Oh, I, with light and airy change,
Across the azure sky shall range,
When I am dead.
.....
I shall be one
Of all the misty, fresh and healing powers.
Dew I shall be, and fragrance of the morn,
And quietly shall lie dreaming all the noon,
Or oft shall sparkle underneath the moon,
A million times shall die and be reborn,
Because the sun again and yet again
Shall snatch me softly from the earth away:
I shall be rain;
I shall be spray;
At night shall oft among the misty shades
Pass dreamily across the open lea;
And I shall live in the loud cascades,
Pouring their waters into the sea.
... Nought can die:
All belongs to the living Soul,
Makes, and partakes, and is the whole,
All--and therefore, I.
So much then for the poet's cosmic theory, presented more or less
directly. This explicit treatment may, as we see, give individual
passages where thought and feeling are completely fused, and the idea
gets itself born into a shape sufficiently concrete for the breath of
poetry to live in it. But the final effect of such poems is apt to be
dimmed by the shadow of controversy. A subtler method is used, however,
justified in a finer type of art. In "Don Juan in Hell," for instance,
there is a symbolical presentment of the theme: a conception of life
which is a corollary from the poet's theory of the universe. Don Juan is
here an incarnation of the vital forces of the world, of the positive
value and power of life which is in eternal conflict with a religion of
negation. And, a newcomer among the shades in Hell, he turns his scorn
upon them for the lascivious passion which found it necessary to invent
sin.
Light, light your fires,
That they may purify your own desires!
They will not injure me.
This fire of mine
Was kindled from the torch that will outshine
Eternity.
.....
Proud, you disclaim
That fair desire from which all came;
Unworthy of your lofty human birth,
Despise the earth.
O crowd funereal,
Lifting your anxious brows because of sin,
There is no Heaven such as you would win,
Nor any other Paradise at all,
Save in fulfilling some superb desire
With all the spirit's fire.
The same idea is woven into "Moon-worshippers," with delicate grace. It
constitutes a precise charge, in the poem "To Tolstoi," that the great
idealist has forsworn the 'holy way of life'; and, recurring in many
forms more or less explicit, culminates in the charming allegory called
"Children of Love." This is a later poem, mature in thought and masterly
in form. The theme is by this time a familiar one to the poet: he has
considered it deeply and often. And having gone through the crucible so
many times, it is now of a fineness and plasticity to be handled with
ease. It runs into the symbolism here so lightly as hardly to awaken an
echo of afterthought, and shapes to an allegory much too winning to
provoke controversy. The first two stanzas of the poem imagine the boy
Jesus walking dreamily under the olives in the cool of the evening:
Suddenly came
Running along to him naked, with curly hair,
That rogue of the lovely world,
That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare.
The holy boy
Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know.
Impudent Cupid stood
Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow.
(Will you not play?
Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy.
Is he not holy, like you?
Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?)
.....
Marvellous dream!
Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try;
He has offered his bow for the game.
But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there
wondering why.
That may be taken as Mr Monro's most representative poem. On our theory,
therefore (of this work as a link with the older school), the piece
might serve to indicate the point which contemporary poetry has reached,
advancing in technique and in thought straight from the previous
generation. Not that it is the most 'advanced' piece (in the specific
sense of the word) which one could cite from modern poets. Many and
strange have been the theories evolved on independent lines, just as
numerous weird technical effects have been gained by breaking altogether
with the tradition of native prosody. But Mr Monro's poetry continues
the tradition; and whether it be in content or in form, it has pushed
forward, in the normal manner of healthy growth, from the stage
immediately preceding.
The new technical features are clear enough, and all owe their origin to
a determination to gain the greatest possible freedom within the laws of
English versification. Rhyme is no longer a merely decorative figure,
gorgeous but tyrannical. It is an instrument of potential range and
power, to be used with restraint by an austere artist. In "Children of
Love" it occurs just often enough to convey the gentle sadness of the
emotional atmosphere. But very beautiful effects are gained without it,
as, for instance, in another of these later poems, called "Great
City"--
When I returned at sunset,
The serving-maid was singing softly
Under the dark stairs, and in the house
Twilight had entered like a moonray.
Time was so dead I could not understand
The meaning of midday or of midnight,
But like falling waters, falling, hissing, falling,
Silence seemed an everlasting sound.
The verse is not now commonly marked by an exact number of syllables or
feet, nor the stanza divided into a regular number of verses, except
where the subject requires precision of effect. An order of recurrence
does exist, however, giving the definite form essential to poetry. But
it is determined by factors which make for greater naturalness and
flexibility than the hard-and-fast division into ten-or eight-foot lines
and stanzas of a precise pattern. The ruling influences now are
various--the thought which is to be expressed, and the phases through
which it passes: the nature and strength of the emotion, the ebb and
flow of the poetic impulse.
Thus, while metrical rhythm is retained, it has been freed from its
former monotonous regularity, and has become almost infinitely varied.
The dissyllable, dominant hitherto, has taken a much humbler place.
Every metre into which English words will run is now adopted, and fresh
combinations are constantly being made; while upon the poetic rhythm
itself is superimposed the natural rhythm of speech. In most of these
devices Mr Monro, and others, are presumably following the precept and
example of the Laureate; but in any case there can be no doubt of the
richness, suppleness, and variety of the metrical effects attained. Most
of the pieces in this little chapbook illustrate at some point the
influence of untrammelled speech-rhythm; and in one, called
"Hearthstone," it is rather accentuated. I quote from the poem for that
reason: the slight excess will enable the device to be observed more
readily, but will not obscure other characteristic qualities which are
clearly marked here--of tenderness, quiet tone, and delicate colouring.
I want nothing but your fireside now.
.....
Your book has dropped unnoticed: you have read
So long you cannot send your brain to bed.
The low quiet room and all its things are caught
And linger in the meshes of your thought.
(Some people think they know time cannot pause.)
Your eyes are closing now though not because
Of sleep. You are searching something with your brain;
You have let the old dog's paw drop down again ...
Now suddenly you hum a little catch,
And pick up the book. The wind rattles the latch;
There's a patter of light cool rain and the curtain shakes;
The silly dog growls, moves, and almost wakes.
The kettle near the fire one moment hums.
Then a long peace upon the whole room comes.
So the sweet evening will draw to its bedtime end.
I want nothing now but your fireside, friend.
Thus the technique of modern poetry would seem to be moving towards a
more exact rendering of the music and the meaning of our language. That
is to say, there is, in prosody itself, an impulse towards truth of
expression, which may be found to correspond to the heightened sense of
external fact in contemporary poetic genius, as well as to its closer
hold upon reality. Thence comes the realism of much good poetry now
being written: triune, as all genuine realism must be, since it proceeds
out of a spiritual conviction, a mental process and actual
craftsmanship. That Mr Monro's work is also trending in this direction,
almost every piece in his last little book will testify. And if it seem
a surprising fact, that is only because one has found it necessary to
quote from the more subjective of his early lyrics. It would have been
possible, out of the narrative called "Judas," or the "Impressions" at
the end of _Before Dawn_, to indicate this poet's objective power. He
has a gift of detachment; of cool and exact observation; and to this is
joined a dexterity of satiric touch which serves indignation well. Hence
the portraits of the epicure at the Carlton and the city swindler in the
rôle of county gentleman. Hence, too, poems like "The Virgin" or "A
Suicide": though here it is unfortunate that imagination has been
allowed to play upon abnormal subjects. The result may be an acute
psychological study; and interesting on that account. But if it is to be
a choice between two extremes, most people will prefer work in which
fantasy has gone off to a region in the opposite direction. There is one
poem in which this bizarre sprite has taken holiday; and thence comes
the piece of glimmering unreality called "Overheard on a Saltmarsh."
Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
Give them me.
No.
Give them me. Give them me.
No.
Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.
Goblin, why do you love them so?
They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man's fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
Hush I stole them out of the moon.
Give me your beads, I desire them.
No.
I will howl in a deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
Give them me. Give them.
No.
But in his more representative work, the intellectual realism which
comes from an acute sense of fact is clearly operative. We have seen,
too, from the earliest published verse of this poet, the continual
struggle of what one may call a religion of reality--belief in the
sanctity and beauty and value of the real world--for spiritual mastery.
In the later poems the two elements become deepened and are more closely
combined: they are, too, seeking expression through a technique which is
directed to the same realistic purpose. And as a result we get such a
piece of quiet fidelity as "London Interior"; or a tragedy like
"Carrion," in which the logic of life and death, controlling emotion
with beautiful gravity, is suddenly broken by a sob. It is the last of
four war-poems; a series representing the call of battle to the
soldier, his departure, a fighting retreat, and finally, in "Carrion,"
his death--
It is plain now what you are. Your head has dropped
Into a furrow. And the lovely curve
Of your strong leg has wasted and is propped
Against a ridge of the ploughed land's watery swerve.
.....
You are fuel for a coming spring if they leave you here;
The crop that will rise from your bones is healthy bread.
You died--we know you--without a word of fear,
And as they loved you living I love you dead.
No girl would kiss you. But then
No girls would ever kiss the earth
In the manner they hug the lips of men:
You are not known to them in this, your second birth.
.....
Hush, I hear the guns. Are you still asleep?
Surely I saw you a little heave to reply.
I can hardly think you will not turn over and creep
Along the furrows trenchward as if to die.
_Sarojini Naidu_
Mrs Naidu is one of the two Indian poets who within the last few years
have produced remarkable English poetry. The second of the two is, of
course, Rabindranath Tagore, whose work has come to us a little later,
who has published more, and whose recent visit to this country has
brought him more closely under the public eye. Mrs Naidu is not so well
known; but she deserves to be, for although the bulk of her work is not
so large, its quality, so far as it can be compared with that of her
compatriot, will easily bear the test. It is, however, so different in
kind, and reveals a genius so contrasting, that one is piqued by an
apparent problem. How is it that two children of what we are pleased to
call the changeless East, under conditions nearly identical, should have
produced results which are so different?
Both of these poets are lyrists born; both come of an old and
distinguished Bengali ancestry; in both the culture of East and West are
happily met; and both are working in the same artistic medium. Yet the
poetry of Rabindranath Tagore is mystical, philosophic, and
contemplative, remaining oriental therefore to that degree; and
permitting a doubt of the _Quarterly_ reviewer's dictum that
"Gitanjali" is a synthesis of western and oriental elements. The
complete synthesis would seem to rest with Mrs Naidu, whose poetry,
though truly native to her motherland, is more sensuous than mystical,
human and passionate rather than spiritual, and reveals a mentality more
active than contemplative. Her affiliation with the Occident is so much
the more complete; but her Eastern origin is never in doubt.