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while this omission makes for unity in the volume, it also makes for a cer–
tain monotony as well as an incomplete view of "the new poets." Nor is
Frost's foreword, good as it is in itself, a substitute for the introduction
which the editors might better have written for themselves, thereby
setting forth, as Frost does not dream of doing, their intentions and
claims. Does an anthology of verse have to be "sponsored" like a tele–
vision program?
If
so, Frost's is of course the best of brand names; and
it is noteworthy that the young now acknowledge, as the young did not
always do, his mastery. But the relation in this case, as in that of the
young generation with other established poets and artists, does not seem
to me to be a very active or helpful relation. It is the soothing one of
homage eagerly given and complacently received; the atmosphere is
that of a congenial party rather than of a working studio. (Indeed,
the poem of homage to this or that authority is among the stock sub–
jects.) And for all Frost says of "schools," it was not as a poet in resi–
dence or a Brooks and Warren instructor that he learned to write
"An Old Man's Winter Night" or "A Selvant to Servants."
A bursting rocket photographed against a black sky is on the cover
of
New Poets.
Shall we say that the fireworks are all on the cover? It
depends on what is meant by fireworks. In the contents of the volume
there is little pyrotechnic display in the form of verbal or typographic
experiments. The presiding muse here is unassertive, intelligent, charming,
voluble, company-conscious-the perfect guest. The scene tends to be
indoors, the mode of communication is conversation, the talk is generally
good.
If
this state of poetic manners excludes shows of unique energy and
vision, it at least does so deliberately rather than furtively. And one of
the contributors, Adrienne Rich, seems to allude to the whole situation
when she ends "The Celebration in the Plaza" with
The viceroy of fireworks goes his way,
Leaving us with a sky so dull and bare
The crowd thins out: what conjures them to stay?
The road is cold with dew, and by and by
We see the constellations overhead.
But is that all? some little children cry.
All we have left, their pedagogues reply.
The viceroy of fireworks goes his way; the emperor of ice cream is dead.
All we have left is a rueful recollection of their exploits. So say the
pedagogues. But their dogmatic gloom is belied by the charm of the
poem itself, which says more than it asserts.
