. --,-·....... : f,; •""<-,'.~·•• ::::r/~:· '. ' ;..;.,:~:"/;..: ,., ~· ,J ; ..• -~.-:''· ,., . -~ ~·.r:·.1• ,.,. "d~. -:.,~ JI ',c\ •t· ...... . :·· .. : I.PAGE B.RUDDICK P.ANDERSON F.R.SCOTT • I MON'I'R.EbL, ClillADA DECEMBER 1943. THE MAPLE LEAF IS DYING. A REVIE\V BY r-i"WF\TILLE SHAW, A.J.M. Smith's THE BOOK OF C.1-1N.h.DI.AN POETRY is the most complete survey of English Canadian verse we possess. Its completeness is not, in itself, a virtue for this has forced the inclusion of much trash whose only worth is historical and even ~his only in a special sense for to understand any particular level of our poetry's history one must n1ake tangential reference .to English or American influence so that much of the work here reproduced is only confirmation of the lack of any national continuity in the growth of the country's literature. Furt~er, its completeness is rather extenuated for the logic which includes Carman (a Canadian who spent most of his life in the U.S.A.) i~cludes .Anderson (an Englishman who has spent a few years in Canada). However this latter is of no importance except to illustrate the fallaciousness of a national consideration of our verse. With the exception of the Indian which possesses -t~e strength of unique and {for them) contemporary myth the early verse is frankly derivative. Its eulogies of the "simpler virtues" a.re an inevitable result of a strenuous pioneering environment in which anything more subtle would have appeared unforgivable luxury and in which the demands on individuel fortitude were so great that complex social analysis was entirely out of the question. The result is such verse as: "They saw a strong-built mother boiling porridge, All in a chamber somewhat bare but neat (Tho goodman with his gun had gone to forage, While the goodwife kept home alive and feat), And, helping her, six barefoot little spartans, All clad in homespun grey instead of tartans." Duvar. "The filnigration of the Fairies". Such hymning of ecstatic simplicity can be left to the sentimental curate. It is a rather tawdry example of a verse which, like propaganda, pays tribute to necessary action by gushing over it. A similar cast·ration of a nature which must have been as awesome as it was terrible has occurred in such familiar Landseers as: ".And near yon bank of many-coloured flowers Browse two majestic deer, and at their side A spotted fawn all innocently cowers; In the rank brushwood it attempts to hide, While the strong-antlered stag steps forth with lordly stride, •••'' Sangster. "The St. Lawrence and The Saguenay'!. The newer "Golden .Age" poetry was written in an age which was determined to find the gold and little else. While expanding Canadian industry was merrily chasing the dollar across a thousand miles of prairies, the poet drearily painted golden sunsets or found Pan and Eurydice under every Maple Leaf. He had become civilized (at Oxford) and had reluctantly returned his soul carefully wrapped in a poultice compounded of Empire and Olympus. Out of the hodge-podge of nationalist and pre-Raphaelite verse arises only more derivative if somewhat sophisticated thought. As minor poets must, much reliance ~au placed on nature description. From the picturization of a sunrise one is supposed to derive the feeling of the rhythmic appearance of hope, of a lake (always solitary) the feeling of devastating solitude, etc. Instead of using nature as an illustration for a more P.AGE TWO important theme es a greater poet might, the phenomenon with the aid of the best imported larks and Grecian deities was left to impose itself with the superimposed addition. of a cumbersome emotional directive dragged in by the heels along with the in evitable exclamation mark. This surrender to empty landscape is a curse which persists today in our painting but happily one which the next generation of writers was able to overcome. The one exception to these generalizations is found in the work or Isabel Va.1anoy Crawford which, while seeming heavy and shapeless beside the relative elegance of her contemporaries is not afraid to draw themes from its innn.ediate environment. Her enthusiastic acceptance of industrialization. her realization of the role of the tool as the concrete manifestation of activity and tho genuine surprise of her images set her far apart from her co-nationals. Lines like: "The lean lank lion peals His midnight thunders over lone, red plains, Long ridg'd and crested on their dusty waves, VJ'i th fires from moons red-hearted as the sun, •••" remind one of the strangely incisive quality of a Rousseau night scene. If guilty of a heavy uneven technique, her statement embraces without seeming decorative and creates of sincerity rather than artificiality. Proust has said somewhere that of each of the things we know we possess a double; that is with our recollection of it as facsimile there exists also the reality of its significance, a reality which exists far beyond the limits of its sensory definit.ion. It is with this second element that modern poetry has concerned itself and pushed by its search for meaning has attained a range and a sense of evaluation which is far in excess of its predecessors. It is, perhaps, as A.J.M. Smith asserts, a bias for the contemporary that makes one appreciate modern Canadian writing far more than the rest of the work in this book; perhaps, also because it is more difficult to detect influence and thus estimate originality, but whatever the cause there can be little doubt that these people have placed an a priori art on the dust heap. We can no longer judge their work by its approximation to a model (this is good Tennyson, that is bad Swinburne, etc., etc.) but rather by the success with which the poet has released his experience and the degree in which his form reveals his content. Thier work is national in the best sense of the word-that is, an assertion of the value of their own attitude rather than one overshadowed by the awareness of the superiority of foreign cultural reaction. I find that my estimation of them differs sharply from Smith's. l'hus I can hardly agree that "Pratt is the greatest of contemporary Canadian poets for he is the only one who has created boldly and on a large scale", which is as true as saying theta poem about an elephant is grester than one about a flea. Pratt's DUNKIRK comes unchanged from the propagand mill, and his description of a whale at play or an eagle sadly considering the first aeroplane merits consideration for National · (or rather Canadian) Geographic Magazine. Excitement sustained by exclmnation points, expletive and tenuous extenuation do not eonstitute poetry despite the critics Smith so characterist.ically drags in to ·.justify his judgment. . His work is in striking ~ontrast to much of the lnst sections of this anthology where writers like Finch, Hambleton, Anderson, Pago or 5mith himself have concentrated on economy of form and have, with a care (whir,h is not the deliberateness of effeteness) selected images which spring from the trend of the theme without losing their relationship to it. "In their eyes I have seen the pin-men of madness in marathon trim race round the track of the stadium :pupil." or "on the shore the lion waves lay doMt on their paws" oontain images which explode without our being aware of the frantic gasp of a creator who PAGE 'IEREE attempts by his exertion to hide his, mediocrity. A,M. IQ.ein is a writer who, while being both "large" and "bold", has recognized the exi~encies of fom.. His verse, dictated by a sense of tender iildigna.ti,o,n.--reminding one of the work of one of the notable omissions from this anthology, Bruce Ruddick,--is at its best in his AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL in which the richness and warmth of Jewish custom are revealed to us in a vividly decorative manner which combines exoticism with strong soctal assertion. Robert Finch's and A.J.M. Smi.th's glittering inconsequen.tials will impress any , one who hes a pla.ce for that intellectually conditioned lyric which is, to a large extent, a focus on matters .apart from the great issues of personality and which is disconcertingly attractive to all save those obsessed to the point of mania by a continual demand for political sloganj_ng. Finch's THE SISTERS or Smith's SHADOWS THERE ABE possess the cool trnaquility of relatively unimportant phenomena which calmly assert themselves assured in their remoteness from fiercer problems. It is the verse of Scott, .Anderson, Page and Wreford which makes us quite contentedly proelaim the death of the Maple Lear·for here we find a complete disregard. for a dictated chau-ti.nism and a did.acticism which, while not conatituting pol~tical directive, is a ruthless analysis of social falsehood. It is on this tide of affirmation that the fubure of Canadian verse rests for it is by a union with the great wave of social protest which is, at present, sweeping the country that e. universalised statement can be made . which carries within its scope a.ll the _proud nnd sweeping ramifications of mankind itself, POEM BY MffiIAM WADDlliGTON ROCKY MOUNTAIN TRAIN As the Rocky Mountain train carved its trock -Through wilderness I was surrounded By dusty soldiers faces smudged with tragedy; Dislocation of the center was implicit · In the wavering faces over khaki shirts, In the swaying and the lurching on the track. Under us the wheels hurried out a warning And the wheel lever elbowed in persistent rhythm, Never let children be born, never let children be born. Outside the mountains lifted And the sky dipped, while under us The earth spun on its perfect center. The mountains lifted clear to the tall sky And the fir trees folded Close on. their secret of deer lairs and doe paths; The mountains sang up and down their distance Of sons as thick as cedars, daushters fair as birches, Children still to grow like smooth strong forests Tc, hold the slipping soll and force their roots Into the slopes of future. PAGE FOUR rot1R POEMS BY ALICE EEDY COLD Stand·still And let the wind blow through you-And have greatness of cold and gravel Knowing the cold gravelly substances, The steel runners of aloneness. SOUNDS The trees shake a froth of sound Like the sound between the teeth of a Spanish dancer. The little children are quiet in their crowded room. The hissing of trains in the long night Is like the rush of young nervous horses. HEAVY. This savage sadness Is like a flower under water. Is ponderous and turns over, Glazing the still center. This grief like hair Moves this way and that Like leaves sliding and sliding. LITTLE O entice me with the sound of swish, The curled frond of the rain sound. 0 tickle me with feet patterns. Little sounds do not disturb me, Are light flutings through Venetian, Patterning tho senses with a flat delicacy. 0 fishtail ecstasy. Print the forehead of a favm or the ear of a doe With voile care. Stencil yourself a dream. Be pretty and happy. PAGE FIVE fNDER COVER OF NIGHT BY P.K. PAGE "Go on, sweet cow," he so.id in c. tone whi.ch anyone overhearing would have chought he was directing in mockery nt a woman. But it stood there, the greet bony beast with its dung splattered shanks wav~ ing its harsh cord of a tail liken bell rope. Ho leaned ngninst its rump in meditation--delivering it a swift packward kick in its side suddenly. The animt.l jumped and its ' rubber udder swayed. '"Come, n he r onchod up, clnsping a horn, while the creature merely surveyed the field with bored eyes.. "Your hunger or mine," he snid as it lowered its head to munch. "Your hunger or mine," he said. "Our hunger." .And he bent do'Vlm. and plucked 0. tuft of grass c.nd put it in his mouth. "Cold comfort," he said as he sp2t it out•. "What are green pastures to me tpnt I should be led beside them? .Answer me, cow,." And for answer the cow stretched its neck, raised its head nnd mooed so close in his ear that it nearly deafened him. "So thc.t is the teste of green, then," he said, ns the cow unexpectedly co-oper.. 2tive, moved o. few steps forward with him. "Hough and sharp--sueh as I would have thought," he sc.id, nnd he hooked e, finger round his tongue to remove n final green splinter. "Bossie, Bessie or Mollie," he said, addressing the animo.l when they reached the 10.te, "look, I unlc.tch this for you a.."ld we ·wrrlk on tho rand. There you must move like a lady for you move in tho public's gaze. None of this bobbing bcckward and fo.rward as though you had ball-bearings in your hoe.d tho.t turn you into a sailor on n dock of hills. From now on we wnlk together like any pe..ir of friends to.king ctn evening constitutional." The long roo.d stretched p2.lc before them--its sides white with blowing daisies, the fine dust muffling all sounds of their movement except to give off e.. thick whisper and sigh. · -Y · d n • .Yours B "M necrne, " sai· tb.e man, is 1v.1u.rray.~ ii:.. I h, 2.ve never k nown. , u t f or a11 thaj a.nd for all that, I could tell you things if I felt so inclined thc.t would put some expression into your sepia eyes." They continued in silence for a time, the light going '!Ari.th a sudden hush almost as it does in the tropics--evening taking its place at once ·without warning. "Your ·knees in this light," said the man, "are white and dimpled like those of any woman who may at this moment be dipping them in scented water or beguiling who knows what man :with their glimmer," -he said. A soft glow approached behind them as they walked, increasing like a pressure. Leaped on them both then and a horn ripped the bolt of smooth air through which they moved. "Look outl" said the mun, grabbing the cow's halter until his armpit burned. "You fool among fools--move or your hide's a pelt and your great shanks beef," Heaving, he pulled her down into the ditch on top of him as the car went by in wind and dust. Her weight was hot upon him and lnrge, but she smelled sweet as any ha~rick, he was pleased to discover. Feeling the need to rest, he did not move innnediately, but the cow began to stwnble to her feet in a jerky fashion and he followed, findihg his_legs and anns trembling, This made him angry with the cow and he struck it across its backside with a hand which felt black with blood. The impect hurt his flesh. ttCow, '' he said, and he nudged her in the ribs with his elbow, "cow--indeed, cow." Not quitG understanding what had happened, his mind flashed him pictures obviously meant to explain his behaviour. But still he could not, understand. Besides which, r PAGE SIX tbr no reason, tho cow begnn to :run and her loose underside made a flapping noise in the night. He forgot his emotion in the effort to keep up with her; but as he ran he kept a hard hand on her hnlter and looked behind him every few ya~d·s.~.~ror .the ffre·t:stgna~offa light. rnvo POEMS BY P.K. PAGE. OPPORTUNIST When he took the pole at a leap it burned his legs. Helmet for hope, he took from the smiling hook and (for emergency) at his waist, the axe. Almost a fire himself on his flaming reel be tunnelled the night and ate the sparks at a gulp; arriving, he entered the very heart of the blaze. But he had never intended to put it out: and quick as an actor in tbe wings he strode onto the stage when the scenery called his clothes. PHOTOGRAPH They are all beneath the sea in this photograph-not dead surely--merely a little muted: those two lovers lying apart and stiff with a buoy above which could ring their beautiful movements; and she with the book, rending as through a bowl words that were never written, f's like giraffes and vowels distorted and difficult as code which make her lazily turn away and laugh; he with hands so pale thoy·might be dying sits with paints and paper, painting sand and wears a skin of corrugated water which stillness opens on his sea--scape mind. And all their paraphernalia a pretense: cigarettes, matches, cameras and dark glasses and the pair of water wings which refuse to float are idle in their submarine oasis. While overhead the swimmers level waves, shrinking tho distance between continents and closer inlnnd from the broken weirs the fishermen are hauling giant nets. PAGE SEVEN A NOTE FROM 1':'l JOURNAL, BY PATRICK ANDERSON • ~ay,, how would you like to come from a country where the villages have names like St. Joan's Without, and Topsail, and Twillingate?' ' I guess I ' d 1 i l<:e it fine • ' . • •••And where the people are called Noseworthy and Spracklin and a cove is e tickle?• 'A tickle71 •sure. A tickle • .And you come through the partridge berries and the chuckly pears onto a field that's all piled and livd.d with squid.' 'That's octopus, isn't it?' 'Sort of. A small one. You see, they go jiggin' for squid in their dories at the mouth of the harbour. The jiggin' is the movement of the hook up and down. A squid comes up and squirts ink all over them.• 'Yes. But what are they doing in the fields?' t-Manure. 'l'hey're sort of wb.ite at first, then they go pink, then they turn blue. Strewn all over the fields. Boy, what a colourl And the great green-blue .flies seething over them. That's agriculture for you. lifuat colour, what life, what flies, what a helluva stink!' 'Squid••• that must be something.' 'You're telling me. Therets no country lil-ce it. All it needs is a :painter and a revolution. Full of carnivorous plants, too• .And bug beer.' 'What was that you said? What kind of beer?• 'Bug beer. Quite simple. Beer made with bugs. Of course, it's comparatively rare nowadays. You don't find it everywhere. It•s kind of special.' · 'It really has bugs in it?' · 'Certainly. Fermented bugs. I'm telling you, it's an amazing country. What it needs is a genius to describe it.' ·,And I suppose you don't produce geniuses.' 'Our geniuses have o. way of going crazy. Francis Lym.en•••he was a darn good violinist. Drank rum and never did a stroke of work. He was a genius. Got a job with the Agriculture Reconstruction Bureeu o.nd they put him on a farm--but he just refused to milk cows. Cows, he said, were not in his line. Cows were definitely not inspiring. 'Well, one night I was up playing the piano at my parents': house. My father was away, but I had the key. About one thirty A.M. Frnncis began to ring the bell violently. I let him in and went on playing nnd I kind of heard htm rooting around--he went into the kitchen for a glass of water. irhen he persuaded me to go for a walk. So we walked along Middle Street where the tarts are. 1rhey all · knew him. They used to call at him in an imitation of his Anglo-Irish accent. And he would go by mouthtng replies into each dark doorway. He was a pretty arrogant chap. Drabs, he would se.y: low dovm sh91Tleless hussies. Scum, he would say--fallen women. Doxies • .And they would jeer back at him, How's his lordship tonight? God, it was terrific. 'He was a tall gangling fellow, with long blond hair and an hysterical laugh. He was always getting into rows. One day he ca~e out blind onto.the street with a big bottle of rum in v\'hich there ,Ns s only one drink left. He sc.w a man standing there--stevedore, I guess. Bum, he said: Have a drink, bum. You poor lousy bum2 have a drink, he said. Well, the guy took the bottle and tipped it up and drunk it, very cooly, taking his time. Then he smashed it ngainst Francis's face. Francis got a nasty cut that time.·1 ·'But what about the walk? Go. on about that,' 'Well, we were strolling along amongst all this back chat and then Francis said PAGE EIGHT for me to go nhcnd a bit, ns ho w&ntod to talk with one of the women. So I wont on to tho next street lo.mp,, I ho;!rd sundry vrhisporings ~:nd such. Then suddenly thor·0 wns an :1wful rumpus, o. womnn screrJning o.nd something tinny clettered on the pnvoment. furned ~ut Frnncis hcd been trying to mcko her with 2 couple of cans of snrdines he'd snitch0d from our pantry. \1h2,t c. man! ' 'Is thet nll? All c.bout him, I m.cc.n?' 'No he iNCS shut up in nn nsylum lnter. He fell in love with Beethoven's Pnth etic Sonnta and used to wnndor f.~round 2.sking people to ple:y it for him. Pio.no, organ- ho evon got somebody down ~t th~: docks to do it on en nccordion. He wrote poems to it, describing his moods. Ho cnrriod the music round with him and it got> dirtier and dirtier. He wns plnying b~ss viol in a night club that time. First job he'd held in years. One night he jumpod on it.' 'Did ho ever got out of the o.sylum?' '0, yes, he wns rolensod.' 'How old wore you then?' 'When I knew Frc.1.r1cis? About sixteen. ' 'You left whon you went to Mount Allison University?' 'Yes, but I went bnck summers. I'm telling you there's no country like it for painting--or grnft. And tho langunge! Did you ever henr of gaffling fish? It's sorting them into grades. They jig the cod end remove their sounds end lights end split 'em and dry them on flnkes, and thon they gaffle them nnd they get che2ted on the fish like they get cheated on everything else. On tho blueberries, for instance. 'I was often down there nt tho harbour. It's some plnce. The streets are terrnced for it's very stoop c.nd thore's lots of rock. Steps and gnngplr!nks and hovels on stilts--th2.t sort of thing, EvGry now and then '.l hydrnnt where the women get their weter. No sowers. Thnt's why we have the Night Cert.' 'The Night Cart?' 'Yes. Sounds evil, doesn't it? And it is 8. sinister looking object to come upon nfter midnight, with its torch flcring up in front Rnd its wheels clanking as some dim 2bject old m&n goes nround collecting the sewage thsy hnvo 10ft out in pQils.' 'You mean to tell mo you weren't glad to get awnyr' 'I wns and I wasn't. It's n powGrf:ul country.' 'Did you evt:r vi.sit ct Governr.ient House?' 'My pr-.rents used to go, I went once or twice. It wasn't oxoctly my style. The last tim0 I was there I didn't go. Tho.t wus thG occasion of tho Royal Visit and it involved too much dressing up end shEving nnd such. A lot of funny things happened that time. 'There was the question of the Royal Cnr. Newfoundland felt it didn't have the right type of car to cnrry the King the few miles from the boat to the reception. The American Consul offered his beautiful Ps.ckard. But--well, a Packe.rd' s an American car 2nd the govermaent decided to turn the offer down. They sent all the way to Englund and ordered e. hug Daimler. It must he.ve cost them about fifteen thousand dollars. 'So the King 2rrived in his Daimler amidst great popular demonstrations only the Daimler wns a closed cnr which the Gonsul's wasn't, and some people got quite med that they couldn't see properly. One band of veterans from the lust war was standing in one of the little villeges on the route ond the beautiful new Daimler went by so fast thet they couldn't see a thing. 'When the King nnd Queen Grrived ~t the garden party the chauffeur drove the Daimler into the garage and apparently fell asloep, he was so proud. Fell asleep bo.sking in the sunlight of his own glory. Thct would have been alright if it hadn't been for PAGE NINE Harry-boy. Horry-boy was a local half-wit. He wns a nice little man, quite popular with his pals in the Salvation Army nnd the Temperance League and at the brick yard where he worked, but he hnd one fault--he wes awful curious. HG loved to touch.' 'Yes•••?' 'Vvell, Harry-boy nipped over the fence and stole the Royal Standard from the bonnet of the car!' lHe did:' 'Sure. I think he explained afterwards that he thought it was just one of the decorations. He rolled it up in his very dirty pocket and took it home and everyone was very pleased. He pinned it up in the parlour and the neighbours came in and had a little celebration. They looked upon it ss a patriotic souvenir. A good substitute for being at the garden party or crowded up against the iron railings outside. 'When it was time for the King to go, the authorities found that he had no Royal Standard. There was a terrific to-do. After getting the Daimler and everything, it was terrible. It might give Newfoundland a bad name--not that bankruptcy and graft hadn't done that already. •In the end, the King left without it. I'm sure he didn't mind. I expect e king has as many Royal Standards as an ordinary fellow has handkerchiefs. It was several days before they found it. By that time, Harry and his friends were probably charging admission.' , 'What happened to Harry?' '0 he lost his job and his membership in the Salvation Army and the Temperance League, and he was sent to gaol. It was finis for him. They posted if off to England, I imagine.' 'And the Daimler? ' ~I expect the Daimler is still there.' 'Well, you certainly have some country. No wonder you're going to a psychoanalyst. It's going to be fun for him. I bot you got your neurosis in a field of squid. What a beautiful childhood!' 'But it is beautiful! c~ The colours. The ruggedness. The out-ports.' 'And the -bug beer.' 'Say, did I ever tell you the story nbout when the first railroad was built in Newfoundland? It goes like this. The first train arrived at a primitive village at the end of the line. The very first train. So tho inhabitants went up to the local sage, an old man with a long whitG beard, to ask for his opinion. Ho stood looking at the train for n long time. He looked at the · engine. He looked at the three carriages. He looked at the gunrd's van. ~ell, he said, it's a mighty good thing thnt train en.me here head on. If it had come sidewise, it would have swept the country!' A POEM BY PATRICK ANDERSON FOR A SPANISH COMRADE ••• a las cinque de la\tarde (Lorca) Amazed and bewildered by death's veronica a las cinque de:· la tarde his cape that was full of the bulls of Miura laid aside folded PAGE '!EN •' ,' ._. ', ' ..,,.., . ,_ ; r and drawn a.way from his athlete's body the petals of daring and the little winds also that the bulls made at his thigh and his armpits. there in the arena before the heartless world the torero is hunted. Already he smells the tomb like a pale flower of Andalusia, a flower so white and cold its heart is where blood loses its colour. The eaudillo Franco and the five archbishops and the affieionados line the arena in the afternoon of Madrid with the ash of their eyes. Once at the fiesta · the butterfly pass, the quite of the mariposa. tubercular, tasting the blood in his mouth, in that mountain air gracefully, the estocade. He was already dying of the occupational disease of his courage. He was already racked with the red sickness of his pride. PAGE ELEVEN But clever and fancy his flesh curtsied to the great blow of the horn. And now the afficionados weep for him with their cigarettes-~ the torero is hunted. And now the caudillo Franco weeps for him with the Bank of Spainthe tororo is hunted. And the priest leans down on his neck with the sharp pie of his crucifix there in the ring of blood. Tell this in Glasgow in th€ mountains of Shensi. NOTE If any of our readers have any back issues they no longer want-especially copies 1 and 2--we would be grateful if they would send them to the address below. PREVIEW weloomes outside contributors,·but is sorry to be financially unable to pay for contributions at present. Subscriptions to PREVIEW are one dollar·a year, to be sent to Mr. Bruce Ruddick, 1455 Drummond Street, Montreal, Quebec. \