Acanthus and Wild Grape Part 1

Acanthus and Wild Grape.

by F. O. Call.

FOREWORD

Poetry has been defined as "Thought touched by Emotion," and I know no better working definition, although no doubt more scientific and accurate ones could be found. The best poets of all ages seem to have had this ideal plainly before them, whether consciously or unconsciously, and I cannot see how modern poets can dispense with either thought or emotion if they are to write real poetry. For one is not enough without the other. Take for example the first lines of Master's "Spoon River Anthology."

"Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?

All, all, are sleeping on the hill, One pa.s.sed in a fever, One was buried in a mine, One was killed in a brawl, One died in a jail, One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife, All, all are sleeping on the hill."

This sounds tragic indeed, but seems to have aroused no emotion on the part of the poet and excites none in his readers. In fact, through the whole poem, emotion is held in check with a strong hand, and only allowed to show itself in some distorted cynicism.

Let us take an example of the opposite extreme where emotion, whether real or fancied, has stifled thought.

O World! O Men! O Sun! to you I cry, I raise my song defiant, proud, victorious, And send this clarion ringing down the sky: "I love, I love, I love, and Love is glorious!"

The definition chosen need not hamper the most "modern" poet nor restrict his choice of subject, for there are few things that cannot awaken both thought and emotion if looked at in the right way. An iron foundry and a Venetian palace have immense possibilities of arousing both elements, and perhaps the foundry has the greater power.

The modern poet has joined the great army of seekers after freedom, that is, he refuses to observe the old conventions in regard to his subjects and his method of treating them. He refuses to be bound by the old restrictions of rhyme and metre, and goes far afield in search of material on which to work. The boldest of the new school would throw overboard all the old forms and write only in free verse, rythmic prose or whatever he may wish to call it. The conservative, on the other hand, clings stubbornly to the old conventions, and will have nothing to do with vers libre or anything that savours of it.

But vers libre, like the motor-car and aeroplane, has come to stay whether we like it or no. It is not really a new thing, although put to a new use, for some of the greatest poetry of the Hebrews and other Oriental nations was written in a form of free verse. At the present time the number of those using it as medium of expression is steadily increasing. In France, Italy, the United States, and even in conservative England, the increase in the number of poems recently published in this form has been remarkable. The modernists hail this tendency as the dawn of a new era of freedom, while the conservatives see poetry falling into decadence and ruin. The right view of the case probably lies, as it generally does, between the extremes. There is much beauty to be found in walking in beaten paths or rambling in fenced-in fields and woods, but perhaps one who sails the skies in an aeroplane may see visions and feel emotions that never come to those who wander on foot along the old paths of the woods and fields below.

But it seems to me that it matters little in what form a poem is cast so long as the form suits the subject, and does not hinder the freedom of the poet's thought and emotion. And I am old-fashioned enough to expect that beauty will be revealed as well. Out of this union of thought, emotion and beauty, we could scarcely fail to get strength also, which term many modern poets use to cover an ugliness that is often nothing but disguised weakness. But form alone will not make even a semblance of poetry as the following lines, unimpeachable in form, from Sir Walter Scott plainly show:

"Then filled with pity and remorse, He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse."

Nor can I conceive of more beautiful poetry than the following, by Richard Aldington, although rhyme and regular metre are absent:

"And we turn from the music of old, And the hills that we loved and the meads, And we turn from the fiery day, And the lips that were over-sweet; For silently Brushing the fields with red-shod feet, With purple robe Searing the gra.s.s as with a sudden flame, Death, Thou hast come upon us."

And this brings me to the real purpose of this Foreword--the explanation of the t.i.tle of this book. On the hills and plains of Southern Europe there grows a plant with beautiful indented leaves--the Acanthus. The Greek artist saw the beauty of these leaves, and, having arranged and conventionalized them, carved them upon the capitals of the columns which supported the roofs and pediments of his temples and public buildings. Since that time, wherever pillars are used in architecture, one does not have far to look to find acanthus leaves carved upon them. In the Roman Forum, in Byzantine churches like Saint Sophia or Saint Mark's, in the Mediaeval Cathedrals of France. England and Spain, in the Renaissance buildings scattered throughout the world, and even in the most modern office-buildings of our great cities, this decoration of acanthus is to be found. And the reason is not far to seek.

"A thing of beauty ... will never Pa.s.s into nothingness."

I recently saw a picture of a Corinthian column of a ruined Greek temple standing against the sky, and broken fragments of its fellows lying at its foot, with wild vines climbing over them. And who could say that one was more beautiful than the other? The carved acanthus leaves upon the column were beautiful because of their symmetry, harmony of light and shade and clear-cut outline, but the wild grape was perhaps more beautiful still in its natural freedom.

So in this little book will be found some poems in the old conventional forms and some others in free rhythms, in which the author has tried in a humble way, to mingle elements of thought, emotion and beauty.

F.O.C.

BISHOP'S COLLEGE LENNOXVILLE, QUE.

ACANTHUS

ACANTHUS

Beneath the sculptured marble portico Of a Greek temple, white against the sky, Carved capitals on pillars rising high Gleam like great blossoms in the noonday's glow.

Proudly each column in the stately row Its crown of beauty wears; the sunbeams die Among acanthus leaves that nestling lie Where they were carved two thousand years ago.

Eternal Beauty, thou wilt not be bound By time-forged fetters, but dost find a home Where Gothic pillars rise acanthus-crowned Beneath gray northern spires or southern dome, Eternal Beauty, Everlasting Truth, Thou hast the secret of undying youth.

THE OLD G.o.dS

Old G.o.ds are dead; their broken shrines are lying Profaned with blood and trampled to the ground; I see lost beauty with each sunset dying, I hear lost music in each echoing sound.

Old G.o.ds are dead; triumphant stands the scoffer Beside old altars where our offerings lay,-- False G.o.ds perhaps,--but what have you to offer Who batter down old temples in a day?

Old G.o.ds are dead; but still the sunset lingers, The moonlight still its store of treasure yields, Dawn touches darkness with its magic fingers, And bluebirds wing their flight across green fields, The sea-tides ebb and flow, stars shine above, And human hearts still long for human love.

THE OBELISK

(_Place de la Concorde, Paris_)

There rise the palace walls as fair to-day, As when with arms and banners gleaming bright, The pageantry of royal pomp and might Pa.s.sed through the guarded gates and went its way.

The blue, translucent beams of morning play On arch triumphal, veiled in silver light; And here, where blind red fury reached its height, An ancient column rises grim and gray.

Slumbering in mystic sleep it seems to be, And dreaming dreams of Egypt long ago, Unmindful of the ceaseless ebb and flow About its feet of life's unresting sea; But 'mid the roar, I hear it murmur low: Poor fools, they know not all is vanity!

GRAY BIRDS

Gray birds of pa.s.sage from another sky Are those long hours I sit and wait for you; Borne by strong wings across the sunlit blue They go--dark flecks of shadow drifting by.

Sometimes they bring a song--a joyful cry, As morn and eve your coming used to do; But sometimes plaintive notes of sorrow too, Amid the joyful echoes wail and die.

Then as I watch the beating of the wings That seek a haven by far northern lakes, And catch the note of some bird-heart that sings, Or hear the plaintive cry of one that breaks, I turn once more to half-forgotten things, And the old longing in my heart awakes.

AFTER TEA