INTRODUCTION

Most of our contemporary poetry is first seen in our magazines; and this may be one reason why it is so uniformly meritorious (as regards form and intelligence), and why almost every line of it might have been written by the same person. For the magazine editor is compelled to restrict his criticisms of the product submitted to him to the body of it rather than to its soul; since, however desirable it may be that the latter should be right, it is indispensable that, for magazine purposes, the former should be correct. The natural consequence has been that the soul has gradually disappeared from the common run of magazine poetry, while the body has attained a perfection of form and adornment which the great poets might equal, but could not surpass. And, inasmuch as fashion rules in the outward accoutrements of verse, as well as of society on parade, it has followed that the great majority of magazine verses bear so strong a resemblance one to another that, as aforesaid, nearly all of them might have been composed and indited by the self-same poet. They are very nice, but they are very monotonous; and their most cordial admirer can hardly hope that they will much outlast the physical substance of the medium in which they appear.

Real poetry belongs to another category. It is always the product of real emotion felt by the individual who writes it. It is the record of his personal and independent discoveries in the realm of feeling and thought. In so far, therefore, it creates a new world; nothing just like it was ever before seen, for the same reason that no two persons are just alike. Nevertheless, if the new poet’s mission is authentic and lasting, this new world which he reveals must recommend itself to the reader by proving itself to be a discovery in the consciousness of that reader himself; it must not be alien; in telling the writer’s secrets, it must tell the reader’s as well. Its charm, its grasp, and its permanent value lie in the fact that the new writer, in admitting us to his intimacy, endows us with a fresh insight into ourselves; these emotions of his, his passions, truths, and moods, have ever been our own, but only at his instance did we fully awake to their significance, relation, and value.

Another quality the real poet must needs have—the instinct of beauty. For that (as distinct from mere prettiness and the musical jingle) he must go deep. The enduring harmonies are elemental; they abide at the root of things. They instil a joy which thrills from the very heart of nature to our own. They make us rich and happy. We say of them that they are the flower and fragrance of truth. They refine us and exalt us. They set our feet again on the true path, and give us delicious glimpses of unimaginable good. They are the warrant of human integrity. They make orthodox conceptions of Heaven appear cold and barren in comparison. There is a vital fire in them which arms us against fate.

The authentic poet, too, must trust, at any cost, to his inspiration. When he is vibrating to the impulses of the god, he must ask no questions, but obey. Things will be told to him which are above the height and below the sounding of his common understanding. When he has been let down once more to his normal level, he questions these revelations as another might; but he must yield to them. He will be charged with obscurity; but he must content himself with the assurance that certain heights of feeling and perception do not lend themselves to mortal language, except in hints and allusions; they will not be explicit. The reader who has a soul for these things will understand; the others must wait, and, if they will, complain. There is a Fourth Dimension in these matters, which we must compound with as best we may. Such obscurities may be the upper rungs of the ladder which stretches from earth to Heaven.

But I will not longer dwell on these general considerations; my function is to speak for a new poet, who here, for the first time, addresses his contemporaries. Poet I call him, advisedly. He has much to learn in the way of fashionable tailoring; but for those able to care, in this age, for the naked beauty of nymphs and demigods, he can say something. I must not be coarsely misunderstood; the delicacy and refinement of his inspiration are extreme. But the soul of his theme has so commanded him that he has often been heedless of the technique of form. The divine pressure of the message has often caused his mortal tongue to stammer in its delivery. It would be easy to correct these lapses or negligencies; but at the risk of compromising their individuality—of lowering their spirit to the conventional. Rather, I rejoice in them, as one rejoices in the awkwardness and naïveté of virginity. Growth will adjust these surface inharmonies. Meanwhile, they are the warrant that here is one who writes in response to an intensity of vision and emotion, pressing intolerably from within for expression. Truth and beauty, genuinely perceived, will not stay in the heart, but demand to be released, because they belong to the greater heart of humanity. It is only the brain that can keep its own counsels. The poet knows that what is given to him is far too precious for personal ownership. It must out.

The substance of the book is the love of a lover for his beloved. No story is told. In one short piece after another the moods of the lover are reflected; and all of them wear the shadowy vestments of night, twilight, and dawn; the sun has not yet risen, or he has set. Love in eclipse: love waiting: love remembering:—these states of emotion, and the insight they inspire into life, nature, and the Creative purposes, are the features of the theme. The phases are briefly treated; but they are not to be briefly dismissed by the reader; the thoughts and feelings embodied are long and deep, and sometimes, in their simplicity, abstruse and subtle. Ever and anon, they are imperfectly conveyed. But, constantly, the right word blooms out with no more effort than a flower blooms, with satisfying felicity. In this respect, and in a rich beauty of imagery, the writer brings Keats to mind; and the conception of others of his verses suggests a fellowship with William Blake. Yet he is far from being a poet of echoes; he stands on his own feet, and his head brushes his own stars. It is poetry that stirs within him, not the poets.

It is to poets, therefore, rather than to the general public, that his book will make its first appeal. They can appreciate and extenuate; welcome what is given, and wait hopefully for what may be to come. That which is to come will doubtless reach a far wider audience. The essentials of poetry are already here; if, now, the writer, without forfeiting his individual voice and impulse, can achieve greater perfection of expression, he can add a new page to the Golden Book of time.

JULIAN HAWTHORNE.

November 5, 1903.