Triple Stream

A poem is not what you think
It is not finding, but trembling on the brink
of finding. It is not the where,
But the road to there.
(–Edsel Ford)

A poem should have poemness. Verse can be terse. Whether Poetry is a craft like carpentry or a shrine of literary values or “what is oft thought but not so well expressed” is a matter for pedagogues to wrangle over. Whether it should be analysed like a compound in the Chemistry department or used as a machine to think with, is for critics to legislate. But the reader can derive maximum pleasure from poetry only when he approaches it with a sympathy and sensitivity. Interpretations may, however, vary according to the reader’s philosophy of life or personality pattern and the critic’s pedantic scholarship.

As I read the American verses - mini poems - published in the home-forum section of “The Christian Science Monitor” of U.S.A., I was deeply impressed with their quality and novelty. I believe that poems do not lose their ‘caste’ and taste if they are found in the pages of a newspaper magazine section. I did not know anything about the poets until my friend Miss. Bessie Bacon Goodrich of Los Angeles (U.S.A.) sent me excerpts from a letter of the Editor – “It is good to know that our coverage of really up­-to-date poetry is appreciated. At the Annual Meeting of the Poetry Society of America in New York last January, four of the principal prizes and one lesser one went to our contributors. Currently too, the Golden Rose of the New England Poetry Club is held by our frequent contributor Mrs. Norma Farber”. Well it does not kill one’s curiosity and one’s enthusiasm when one is told that one’s spirit of exploration is not water-logged among specimens of shallow and second-rate poetry.

A synoptic survey of these mini-poems will reveal certain trends and tendencies in the new writing. However, there is much that is in line with the old traditions and new aspirations. They are mostly free verse which gives license for organised violation of the arbitrary principles of grammar and prosody. Conventional metre has been replaced by rhythmical run-on prose which is refreshingly different from the matter-of-fact and pedestrian prose of daily use. In most poems lines do not begin with capitals. Spelling is simplified and Americanised.

How artistically the poet has sculptured the splendour of the tall, slim eucalyptus trees!

‘Airy and slender, elegant
with tattered splendor of old tapestries,
they lean their tall slim lattices on the air,
perpetually tossing largess and sun-faded silver bark,
retiring and at once renewing,
their leaves deciduous but indecisive’ . . . .

(‘The Eucalyptus Trees’ by Helen Harrington)

Cities are crowded. People find it difficult to get living accommodation and parking space for their cars. Contrastingly Nature offers luxurious apartments for our feathered friends!

‘There is not a hedgerow or a vine,
a shrub or tree,
that is not hanging out these days, a sign:
“Vacancy”.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Room for robins”: claims the apple bough;
a field remarks’
it can accommodate whole families
            now, of meadow larks
canaries can find quarters there beside
that garden path;
river reeds want ducks and will
            provide an added bath’:
(‘Vacancy’ by Helen Harrington)

Helen Harrington and a host of writers denounce the din and bustle of city life and celebrate the glories of nature. There seems to be a vigorous campaign going on in favour of rural life with its tranquility and wholesome influence on body and mind without pollution found in our mega cities. The poems range from Wordsworthian simplicity to Miltonic loftiness: Let us have a look at the following three specimens:

‘They drowsed through summer, greenly indolent
Where pungent marigolds strung the air,
Where lavender phlox breathed musky fragrance,
These leafy whorls lay bloomless there’.

(‘Christmas Roses’ by F. A. Cray)

‘At six the precise, the punctual sun
aphronically appeared. But still
sight-salvos of color, crescendoing
shouted so, shook me so from sleep’.....

(‘Sun-rise’ by D. S. Squdra)

‘Nature is practiced, old with skill,
versed in the ancient lore of lace;
working with dignity, style and grace
working deftly alone until
pattern of tree and stream and hill
Are crocheted in their destined place’

(‘Snow craftsmanship’ by J. C. Solovay)

Some of them are pre-occupied with the benign aspects of Nature.
There are others who see Nature ‘red in tooth and claw’, in her militant and hostile mood.

‘Militant’ March
Come armed with your battering ram,
            the winds......
Will our defences hold, our carapace of walls,
Shuddering under the thud of your legions
That mass out of the north and west together?
We are beleaguored by confusion,
Till not even thought finds shelter’.

(‘Militant March’ by A. C. Mathews)

‘The right of winter to possess this land
Is disputed now......and plainly.......
            by the sun.
It lays its claim down with a
            heavy hand
Its days of weak temerity are done.
Where once it thrust uncertainly
            through cloud,
fingered withered grass and withdrew,
now it stands firmly, principles avowed,
knowing its power, sure what it will do’.

(‘Sun Claimant’ by Helen Harrington)

There are a few poems with cultural yearnings and spiritual hankerings. After the hard glut of material satisfactions there comes an irrepressible urge to explore the unknown. The poet stands agape, in awe and mystery. As H. G. Wells says in his ‘Shape of Things to come’, “For man there can be no rest and no ending. He must go on-conquest beyond conquest. This little planet and its winds and its ways and all the laws of mind and matter that restrain him, then the planets about him and at last across immensity to the stars. And when he has conquered all the deeps of space and all the mysteries of time-still he will be beginning”! The scientist sends the rocket to the moon and comprehends the hardest things but fails to understand the simplest things, the tremendous trifles! Having swallowed the camel, he strains at the gnat!

‘We seek a fourth dimension
Who have as yet to read
With simple comprehension
The secret of the seed­-
We guess at suns by billions,
Propound a galaxy,
And still the fire-fly’s brilliance
Retains light’s mystery’.

(‘Enigmas’ by G. S. Galbraith)

In Norma Farber’s poem ‘Monkeys and Moon’ satire is directed against man’s pursuit of the vain pleasures and shadowy nothings. The writer presents her reflections on an ink drawing by a Japanese artist. The picture represents monkeys trying to reach the Moon:

‘The artist sage pokes ridicule
at apes among us who aspire
to what’s not there.
or so I take it.
Suppose we try direct ascendence.
shall we be less deluded, hankering up
to catch true-moon in our poor fingers’ cup?’

The following poet sings of patriotism, love and all heroic qualities celebrated in literature. But he is a staunch believer in freedom and individuality. He can never visualise a Utopia or an El Dorado consisting of standardised specimens of humanity this thought is gall and worm wood to the American poet. She sees the bewildering diversity that exists behind the facade of unity.

‘Cut me with silent shears by ancient pattern,
Stitch me with necessity s dark thread;
trim off frayed seams with disciplined convention,
Edge me in purple, border my hem in red.
Shaping whatever fate or fashion cast
Even though piece by piece, I have resembled
pieces of others, I will be me, assembled’

(‘The Unique’ by Mary Alice Hart)

The age-old gospel of love is re-phrased as the fourth dimension. Love is the elixir of life. It makes things work and grow. It is protoplasm in plants.

‘This is their green age, tender and tough:
they need
love at their roots to strengthen their
airy learning,
They need clear springs of laughter at
at their feet
to send the sweet sap upward. Oh, they need
a World of love, the green believing children,
to-day’s slim trees, the future’s sturdy seed!’

(‘Green Children’ by Frances Frost)

‘So will my heart from wintering come forth
Shyly, and yet with tender certainty,
Lifting new Blossoms,’ conscious of their worth
proving again that love must breathe and be’.

(‘Tardy Spring’ by Elizabeth Parker)

I would like to conclude with a beautiful poem ‘Compleynt to an Ink well’ by Bridgman. It is an invocation to the Muse – the Modem Muse of the ink bottle. The poet is confronted with a blank paper, mute pen, lack of inspiration and dearth of ideas. Naturally and of course jocularly, he turns to his dream goddess Urania!

‘How fast you flowed when Chaucer s page
Wrote up the pilgrimage

Through all those sonnets scratched by quill
You did not disappoint Sweet Will,
And turned into immortal lyric
The easy grace of Robert Herrick.

Ink well! the hour is late tonight.
Your ink has not begun to flow.
The paper lies before me white
As once for Shelley long ago’.

We should appreciate Bridgman’s courage and confidence in comparing himself to Chaucer, William Shakespeare, Robert Herrick and P. B. Shelley.