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    <Metadata name="pj.Title">NZ Literary Fund Advisory Committee - Correspondence</Metadata>
    <Metadata name="pj.Year">1950 - 1951</Metadata>
    <Metadata name="pj.Location">ORGANISATIONS (Boards, committees etc)</Metadata>
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    <Metadata name="pj.Provenance">Pei Te Hurinui Jones</Metadata>
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Notes from the Centres  ELLINGTON The New Zealand Talent Society is the new title for the Composers', Artists' and Writers' Society, formed in Wellington in 1948. This change of name was decided at a meeting in June as the result of an objection raised by the Note, Zealand Women Writers' and Artists' Society due to t he similarity of come. The Society is preparing for the production of a light musical comedy, corn-posed entirely of New aland compositions and scores. The Wellington Repertory Society is producing its next production, Christopher Fry's &quot;Venus Observed&quot; at the Paramount Theatre, first produced in London only s8 months ago. The Repertory's five non-sub. scription plays a year, which are additional to its six major productions, have always been staged at smaller theatres. A Handbook for New Zealand Writers is being compiled by the N. (. Centre) with the aid of the Literary Fund Board. Editors and Book Publishers arc being contacted for information so that the materialcan be included in a list of literary markets. This publication should prove invaluable and its appearance is awaited with considerable interest. AUCKLAND Auckland has been well served -this year with vaned types drama. The most idea of serious organisations trying to present work of more than dreary drawing-room level, AS 2 standard instead of as an occasional freak performance is refreshing. But despite local performances of Moliere and Shaw, dramatic honours for gripping performancts go to the most difficult medium of radio. &quot;Alcestis&quot; WAS particularly tine, and Gtsethe's &quot;Faust&quot; came to life with an almost unbelievable vividness. So much ink has already gore to the penning of critical appreciations of the Massey Collection of Paintings that it would seem superfluous to say much more. However, such overseas collections provide ideas and memory-accretions, which will prove of value when we come in assess future local collections. The May Exhibition ca see rather later this year. As usual, the Auckland Society of Arts provided an exhibition which gave food for thought?anel controversy. So many people, so many opinions?but some of (continued inside back cover) ARENA: NUMBER 28, 1951 Edited by N. F. HOGGARD Published Quarterly by The Handcraft Press Box MS Te Aro Welltnegon  THE MATES A Short Story by Denis Brosnan IWAS fishing for greenbonc when these two fellers came along. One was a cripple who walked with two icicles, and if it hadn't been for his cobber, he'd never have been able to make it over the rocks. Ts WAS a dandy sea for grecnbone, nice and flat among the kelp, hut I had loco there for hours without so much as a nibble. I thought these two blokes had just come over for a look at the sea (you know how the sea draws people), but these two had come to fish, all right. The one without the sticks carried a sugarbag with a bit of line trailing nut. The cripple was a big feller-wide across the shoulders. It seemed tough, to see him stumbling along with those sticks. The other one was quite 2 little geezer. The cripple's shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, and his arms were brown and thick. The little joker had arms like matchsticks. You know how it is with fishermen. A man with a rod or a line in his mitt is just one of the big brotherhood. It puts the Masons to shame. I gave a bit of a wave, and they both waved back. They were a little way from me. They had a good spot, nice and flat, with plenty of mussels, which are good bait for line fishing. As T say, the green-bone were not biting although the sea was like glass. I had half a mind to drop the rod and throw the line out, but I kept sneaking a a look at the other two to see how they would get on. Naturally, I expected the little bloke to do the fishing. The big feller would sit and look on, T thought. Well, what do you know ? The little geezer, who had been fussing around like a Dutch uncle,

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baits up the hooks and hands over to the big one. The cripple was sort of propped up, with the sticks under his armpits. He whirls the line a couple of UM, and then it sails out over MC kelp; smack into, the deep, green stuff, far out. It was some throw I 'Couldn't have done better. The sun is shining all over the water and the big bloke leans hack looking as pleased as a baby at feeding time. The little feller looks pleased, too. They're not so far y char I can't sec that. The little one would never make a fishermen though. It stuck out Mile. You need patience for fishing. 'ite of mine would spend ages binding the bait to the hooks, with thread unravelled front a sugarbag, before he even got the line in the water. This little feller expected the fish to jumpright out on to the rocks. He was fidgeting around like an old woman, and standing up on his toes to, get a better look. It was lovely there, with the gulls wheeling d the small white boats out in the channel. It was one of those dars'whots all the trouble in the world seems to be shut off beyond the horizon. : i.'  WaV MileS stoat', when Iheard the little bloke yell out. The cripple had a catch. When the line came in, the catch proved to be 2 big blue eod; slithering in over the kelp, wet, and shining, and beautifu'. I won't pretend that I Wasn't interested. Just another fish? I was itching to stroll over and take a look; but a man doesn't wish to, seem like a novic dropped my rod pretty smartly though, and.wailust getting the lineCout of the bag when I hear someone callingtth is the (idle gieier.,Hey,&quot; he cries, &quot;how's this, for a fish?&quot;  I went over; and it was 2 beauty. A meal Air three; Istrouidikkri could almost stnell it sizzling in the pan. The crippli'.Wit 'list. stand- ing there smiling, but the little 'taker was bending cvelqlietOd. kept poking it with his fingetas it flapped about on the rock. it would he a thame to'see a nice fish like that wriggleAtack into the drink, so I said &quot;Knock him-on the head, mate, or you will lose him.&quot; The little 'cove only grinned at toe, and said &quot;Charlie caught him.&quot; Then he went back to prodding the fish. I hung around bit, and the little feller baited the cripple's line again. Tile big bloke threw the line OM, and the little one wrapped the cod in a sheet of newspaper. He never stopped talking though. He kept yappingabout the fish, and he never stopped once. &quot;W'o're going to have him for tea,&quot; he said. &quot;Chaeie caught him. We're staying at a crib up the road.&quot; Then he unwrapped the cod, and took another look. I could see that the cripple s as feeling pretty pleased, hut he never said anything. Ile only said &quot;hullo,&quot; when I first went. over. The little bloke asked. me half a dozen times, what I thought of the cod. I said it was a nice fish, but I was wishing he would shut up so that I could throw my own fine cwt. He was still dancing about like a cat on hot bricks when I did get away, at last. I got My [Me out, but I could see that there 0000 no more fish about. The cod had just been the odd one, nosing about the kelp. That's the way it is, sometimes. Well, I looked at the other two. The cripple was holding the line, and the little joker W25 bolding the cod by the loll, and showing it to the big cove 25 if he had never seen it before. I decided the fishing had had it, so I sat back and rolled 2 smoke. Jost then, some people came over the rocks and stood looking at the sea then I heard the little bloke hollering again. Hell's bells: what a fuss. Ile had called the people over, and coos unwranping the cod once more The cripple was still leaning back, propped up on those sticks. Ile had the line away out. I could hear Shorty chattering away like 2 magpie. &quot;Charlie caught it,&quot; he screeched. &quot;We're having it for tel.&quot; I was disgusted. I tossed my cigarette into the kelp, and went back to where the coif, too' minding our bikes. The other two left before we did, but we caught up with then, about a quarter of 2 mile up the road. The big feller W25 limping along and the little geezer was carrcthg the cot,. God Almighty : be ,vas still at it? unwrapping W/125 W25 left of the paper, peering 2t the fish, and covering it up again. I I could see his jaw going, nineteen to the (lox., as we passed. I pretended not to notice them. I didn't want to hear it, all over again. I soon forgOcabout it, of course; although I was a hit sore about not catching a fish myself. It all come back sine night, when lots lying in bed having a look at the paper. I saw a hit of a heading about a local trawier coming in with a record haul of groper. News must have been scarce at the time for there W25 even a picture of the boat --with the Skipper holding up 1 groper that was as big as a sheep

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dog. I'm interested in fish, or course, but it wasn't the size of this one that made me sit up. I nudged the wife. &quot;Look,&quot; I said. t'It's the little bloke who was down on the rocks that day with the cripple.&quot; I couldn't /sonic it out at first, but lying there thinking it over, it sort of dawned on me that the cripple's mate hadn't cared 2 damn about the blue cod at all. Lord: a fishing trawler. He would be up co his knees in fish from daylight to dark. All that play had been for the cripple's benefit. Yes, I could see II AMY the little feller had wanted his mate to feel good. They MLitt have been pretty good cob-bees, those two. Boy, did I feel silly when I 'membered toy bit of advice about knocking the cod on the head? I'll bet that little bloke had a good laugh to himself. KENDRICK SMITHYMAN Question in Midmorning Passage Why should :he grey gull bend her fire wing against this water? Chid, We purloin from importuned Heaven a meed of grace sufficient in our selfhood's arrogance having instruction of the Sea', bird never to be ours, when we arc taught to question in midmorning passage stopped cool by a glide, a slow flash low of her flight. But in grace of ourselves we may not abide who would harry torn, reasonable truth even from this bird, casually example as though intuition said -Now, this moment something is shown which is as much Heaven, grace, yourself, or truth-seize it i&quot; before the merchant engines frighten off gull or harbinger in other flight. TRIGGER A Short Story by Clarence Alva Powell p .tLiMAN,&quot; Mr Trigger had said, &quot;your judgment, or rather the - `-' lack of it, has cost the company M excess of twenty thousand dollars. We are not in a position to conduct business in this manner.&quot; Grand Circus Park vac windswept and cold the statues cowered under the sting of the winter blast. Here sat no place for consolation, and Flinn turned hack to the hotel. &quot;So we feel that a severance of relations with you is in order,&quot; Mr Teiggct had said. &quot;I am scary, lrnan.&quot; In the hotel lobby he stopped at the magazine concession and one by one re-organised his disarranged ideas?tried to collect himself. Perhaps in the Post or Colliers, a story might . the evening papers, it occurred to him, stressed numberless trials and tribulations. &quot; X'e know that you have lost hold of yourself,&quot; Mr Trigger had continued. &quot;There have been disturbing reports the nature of which I shall not discuss.&quot; MAN SHOT! blocked the top of she late edition of I newspaper. Ebrwan shuddered and turned away, only to sec on the cover of Crime Detective Magazine, in colours shockingly real, she body of a man face downward in a pool of blood, the stilletto still in his back, &quot;We can only hope,&quot; and Mr Trigger's voice had then revealed emotion, &quot;that out of this situation nothing serious occurs.&quot; On the cover of Horror Tales Magazine a flawless blonde lay strangled at the foot of a cliff. Satan himself in black and with gnarled talons stood over her. Pierian made no purchase; rather, he fled the seeming portent of those flagrant publications and was so absorbed that he failed in his usual courtesies on stepping into the elevator and ascending to the tenth floor. Asa matter of fact, he did not hear the operator spnk to him. He laboured down the heavily carpeted hall to number tots?his own suite--and entered. Though furnished well enough, the living

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room was a dead place, a tomb; the gray carpet ooh the red flowered centre, dull, rven distasteful in its faded drabness. The small square mahogany table and the chalk white loop with deep red shade were cold, cold AS the statues in Grand Circus Park. He drew the window shade to close nut the neon flash, disdained to seat himself in the uncomfoirable, uninviting thinly-stuffed couch or chairs, snapped out the light and, though the hour was only ten, entered the bedroom. 2171 sorry, Erman. We know that you have lost hold of yourself.&quot; Dropping his overcoat, his suit coat and his hat upon the chair, he sat down abruptly, with head between hands, on the edge of the bed. Trigger was right, he was persistently and diabolically right he had lost hold of himself. Kicking of his short, he tore the tie from about his neck, disrobed sod wok Trigger's accusing and warring drone running through his head, extinguished the light and covered himself in the darkness. &quot;We can only hope that OUt of this situation nothing serious occurs.&quot;. Why had Trigger hest so . so damned effusive 10 announcing his dismissal. Why hadn't he just said: &quot;Sorry, Elm, we don't need you any more.&quot; But no, not Trigger. He had his own way of doing things. He could see, coon in the darkness and these hours later, Me penstrating, questioning gleam in Trigger's eyes, as if he would like to say more, but had decided against it. in his mind he could see him or io often in the past he hod seen him gliding furtively here and there, peering through that glass oarrition, or through that wicket window, or through the unexpectedly closing door, watching him. Elman could not sleen: too many images swam before his eyes : she StatUCS, forlorn and cold in the pork. Trigger's eyes, his lean face ; 2 winterblown newspaper in the park ; the faces of the people 111 the hotel lobby ; the desk clerks; the magazines in the magazine racks; the garrulous, tattling newspapers. MAN SHOT! screamed large and black before his eyes. Why ? Why had the man been shot ? Or had he been shot ? There was a dagger in his back. But that was the man on the cover of the Crime Detective Magazine. The man-lying in the pool of his own blood. That man lying in a pool of red blood on a gray carpet. 6 Erman started: his carpet &quot;'to gray with red flowers! His carpet was gray h red blood upon it. No. No. The carpet had pictures of flowers on it, and :he flowers were red. The man lying in the pool of blood was on the cover of the Crime Detective Magazine. In 2n effort to tear his mind front the phantasmagoric horror, he reviewed mentally in the darkened room, the objects of his own quarters : there was the window, and near it the small square mahogany table, and on the table the whitech-alk tamp with blood shade?daninl he swore. It was a red shade It was a red shade. In this room: this night he had barely noticed but he was so familiar with it. Rut something was wrong, as if 2 sinister presence charged the atmosphere ; as if an unseen peril lurked in the darkness: there was something he had seen which had not yet registered on his brain, there was eminent danger, he felt ; as if keeping pace with his breaths ing another breathed with him in the room. Ile broke into a MCA:. We can only hope that out ofthis situation nothing serious occurs&quot; came to him now with chill clarity, and the sarcasm in Trigger's voice bCCOme evident. Why hadn't Trigger merely said. &quot;Sorry, Erman, we don't need you any more.&quot; Wasn't the usual and logical procedure in such cases to take one to court? That's it. Why hadn't Trigger called in the authorities? Why hadn't he had him arrested? Wild n aginings of the murdered man on the cover of the Crime Detective Magazine flashed across his mind, and the perturbing, unexplainable sense of some presence compelled him almost to switch on the light. But he couldn't. Ile couldn't move. He knew, he knew now why Trigger hadn't exposed him: Trigger believed that he still had the twenty thousand dollars! He must find the missing link in this horror around him. Ile must, for actually he heard it breathing in the room. Back again to his entrance to the suite: there was the carpet with Me blood-coloured flower in the centre; the window and drawn shade; the dark square table and the white chalk lamp, the lamp with Mc red shade; the couch and two chairs. That was all. In this room he had hardly noticed, but there was the bed, the low striped chair, his hat and coats in careless disorder 2nd, his mental processes catching up with him rapidly, he remembered now the dresser, the clothes closet with the open door, and, fear like a knife stabbing his heart, inside it . 7

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KENNETH LAWRENCE. BF-.kt;DOIN Letters for 7 Exiled i. (for in the desert) the glasses arc from a common quartz . they are not empty though you had no taste for any of our wines .. now you can scarcely water your desert with their memory. history has reported sweeter wine than ours, and we will never know if the fathers were better vintners, or better liars. but youth has never had 2 UM for wine, no . wine is for old heads which need quieting. the youthful head's a ballroom of shining questions, pleasant camplionies, unquiet digested and relished .. youth is that time. but son, the desert will age you quickly-- think now and then upon our recipes for wine. ii. (for in the mountains) the pinnacle is either, or is not . when is must weather when weather is either . is pinnacle or negates, defeats. the dreary pinnacle cannot escape its definition hut commands not necessarily by definition. command comes into nature not pinnacle and pinnacle. a pinnacle must weather, a pinnacle must needle weather, the pinnacle which is by nature pinnacle is a generations first lost. a pinnacle in a valley is meaningless, a pinnacle is only on high, a pinnacle must weather. iii. (for on the plains)  when breeding it is best to have room. if one will fill up the earth whether with poems, or love-children, or drivel, Of teats, one must ha on ea rth to fill and what of the earth comes, and is of earth spawned, must earth know, earth as earth, and self. 9

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JAMES M. DOBBIE Australian Newsletter .  Radio Station ICE, Sydney, invites radio plays by Australian and New Zealand writers. Well known radio actors and actresses will select scripts which they believe wili be suitable for playing in, and 21i will produce the plays, with those Wen and actresses filling the roles. Writers of plays produced will be paid Lt at the end of a year, writers of the three best plays will receive, in addition, too, Lie, Las. Miss Jean Hay, former librarian for the New Zealand Government in Sydney, is librarian for the Nfildura Shire Council, which has an ambitious scheme to provide a network of public libraries serving an area of ,000 square miles. Miss Hay stated thciiim t &quot;To provide geed reading for outback people.&quot; Local authorities show coniiderable zest in campaigns for the found-ERIC NIXON ing of more libraries (including children's) and the extension of country coverage. Instance: a Jubilee train is inuring rural arc. la Cezanne Queensland. It carries a library (with a section showing children's t to death, hooks n from round the world), and the walls hold paintings, also pie- Each rock is 2 monument by professional and amateur photographers. The tour will end as old and as strong as God's breath. Each tree a powerful praise of life, in December. a rooted luxuriant belief. Cezannc discovered in rock and tree this strange, this warring harmony and built a world for Many yeast to fight his own despair and fears. Strength was his all, and simplicity won. The growth in the tree he placed in the stone. The years in the rock were in trees renewed until life and death were interfused. See rock and trec become as one, the light of the sky renew the bone and eye in partnership with love place form and content hand in glove. 10 iv. (for in Brooklyn) o the truly lost arc those who never travel, those who arc not where and have not been. hose will you find yourself if you are not any where? and where is by definition and essence inescapable where is the unchained place, the unsealed place, the unplated area, beyond manufacturers devices and chemists tricks. and where is not nowhere. where is. A play called &quot;The Highwayman,&quot; written bdward Samuels and revolving round early days of the gold diggings, received a good reception recently, even from the critics. Onc reviewer went So far as to suggest it could be &quot;Australia's first musical smash-hit.&quot; Samuels was formerly I chemist. He ?nee wrote a novel, &quot;Why Not Tell?&quot; published in the depression years, is a prolific writer of doggerel with one volume to his credit, or discredit, entitled &quot;Queer Crossroads.&quot; Paul L. Grano has shifted to Townsville (North Queensland) after many years in Brisbane. He is widely known as a semi-experimental poet, is one of the first four contributors to Meaniin (first issued in Brisbane), No. a in The Georgian House Poets series, and recipient of a Commonwealth Literary Fund Fellow-ship. (Continued on page zo) t

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HENRY BRENNAN Dead From the Paula Line Drive the shovel?or the drill?deeply, To where sleep has its roots spreading, in the fold of earth where all Man's dead has rested, And the dust of their hearts met and kissed each other, Met and enlaced their fingers; Where their hearts have met and spun Their fleece of silver, flaxen, brown, and golden hair. Dig to the mist-soft down of pexe, Beyond the shock of shell or bomb or mortar To the loam of rest. There let the sore and weary muscles Ripen to golden wines?if they wish ? Sink the shallow grave Seeing it as the world that opens wide its arms To enfold in pride and love a favourite son. Your graves become the memory of a saint, The memory of a saint now blind of compassion, A new saint, unbcatificd, Whose memory becomes blind, Whose memory of you is a mirror of you through your comrades' eyes, Your father's and your mother's eyes, And I'll do no more remembering--no more Of bodies smashed and ripped, Or bones picked clean by wolfish flame, Poor, pitiful heaps to hold your name in the sun's face. I'll do no more remembering, And let your names become the memory of a saint, 'Me name-renouncing patron saint of all men set in shallow graves, The memory of I saint now blind of compassion Who never saw you deaOUIS JOHNSON Oedipus Afraid his tenderness may lead him high And wider from his sanguine stricture's being, Yet will he carry grievance on his shoulder, And cry nights, lonely with his duty's mocking. All too clear, his day has vision planned Ina And needs to whip his blond into a gale Screaming a torrent that his fears have told  But only to the cold and galling night When dreams of that great love obsess his flesh And bring the ministering image of a girl: A taste of brass afflicts each day's success And there remains the night and tears. He dreams?Ascending tnotherward and knowing love Deeper than wombdark, velvet as a grave's Still solace at his eager heart-race moves. R. B. THOMPSON Blind Bird Feet skeincd in light thorn-textured night helmeting his sight my tenant voice sobs in his voice love allows no other choice?love imposes on the sight essential structures of all blight?sleep alone divides this night.

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.3 BOOK REVIEWS UNDERWORLDS&quot; Poems by Francis Searle (Heinemann) Ilk It is always interesting, ?for the critic. at least?to follow the development of individual poets who attach themselves to a new group exhibiting pronounced characteristics. During the early days of the war there was in England a strong reaction against the political and socialconscious verse of the Auden Spender school of the thirties, which revealed itself primarily in a rather vague exploitation of the subconscious. Nowhere was this more noticeable than in the work of the young poets who gathered round Tarnbimuttu and Poetry Lon- don. Since then, however, the most outstanding poets of this group have isolated themselves by the particular qualities of their own styles. Mr Francis Scarf, 25 his latest book testifies, has moved towards 2 greater crystallization of thought and a disciplined form. In place of the veiled suggestions and the subtle hints of profundity be/ow the surface (but seldom rising above), there is a definite fine of communication which identifies the poet with the society in which he lives, an effort towards a personal integration. Some of the poems are so Skilfully wrought, if not always successful in conveying any real depth of emotion, as to give the impression of having been chiselled from stone. The hook is divides] into two sections, though the titles are not so apposite at they might have been. &quot;Otherness,&quot; for instance, is mainly autobiographical; a recapturing of the scenes of childhood and adolescence: In sea and grotto where we found our hearts our youth remains, and all our days return in endless dreaming to the mocking sea . with some neat descriptions of the Tyne neighbourhood (&quot;Tyne Dock&quot; and &quot;Night Fishing), of his experience in the Services (&quot;A Candle in the Barrack-Room&quot;), and, later, of civilian life in Glasgow. The second section, &quot;Underworlds,&quot; is perhaps the corollary of his early experiments with archetypal myth and dream imagery, and it is here that his development is most clearly seen. Both sections and many of the poems are interrelated by a preoccupation with a personal subject (seldom definitely stated hut manifesting itself through Isis obsession with &quot;golden hair&quot;) which is continually exerting i pressure whatever experience the poet may be attempting to re-create: For her I sec the silent song Upon the silent page, And yet it trembles on my tongue As though my body was a gong Broken by beauty's rage. This preoccupation, providing at it does the motive-power in Scarfe's work, is the &quot;skeleton&quot; key to the whole book. HOWARD SERGEANT &quot;NO SUMMER SONG&quot;: Poems by James Brockway (The Fortune Press) As is usual with a first hook, these poems arc uneven; what is perhaps not so usual is that the reason for this is at once obvious: while Mr Brockway has considerable strength of imagery, he will try to leash it with the reins of a philosophy that appears neither mature nor original, and the effect is strained, even laboured. When he escapes self-conscious rationalization, he says what he has to say in a convincing manner, and rise title poem, one of the finest in the book, shows him in command of quite a powerful weapon: Yet I am Promise, withered in his Spring,  A tree untree'd, the red worm at the root . flow he ran then turn, with his imagination, and his variety of form, to poems as flat as :At the Window&quot; is hard to understand ; bans comparing And sleeping, I wait for this frozen year to turn, When the blade shall shoot, the earth grow green again, The child be Isom in the man, the man in the child, And all these winter doubts be reconciled with other efforts, it seems easiest to avoid explanation by suggesting somewhat cryptically that Mr Brockway will write poetry when he stops trying. JANE LUNT

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&quot;ANTHOLOGY OF FRENCH POETRY&quot; by Alan Conder (Cassell) Some of the translations in this anthology of French poetry ranging (tom the time of Villein to that of Peguy and Apollisiaire remind one of that rather outdated definition of 2 gentleman as one who wears the wrong clothes with ease and assurance: essentially French the subject matter of the poems remains, but Mr Conder makes thorn almost entirely at ease in English poetic idiom. Charles d'Otleans rondels are here just as refreshing and lively as they are in the original ; Viilon retains his tone of voice, and there arc lines of Baudelaire, 25 &quot;he chokes to death beneath a mound of thin&quot;, that achieve an astonishing Englishness in the roundness of their vowel arrangement Of course, Mr Conder is less successful with the work of some poets than he is with that of others, and in several of bis versions of Fontaine and Victor Hugo there seems to be some lack of inspiration; but Is is ays skilful in avoiding either literal translation or those foreign twists of language which so many translators unconsciously affect, and, as Mr de la Mare and 1,1r Louis Cannsion affirm in their introduction., he serves li not only the cause of French poetry, but that of our nun. These few lines from a well known poem of Ronsard should convince soy one of that : I shall nor tell, although of love Ern dying The pleasure of this mortal ecstasy, Lest someone should essay to succour me And cure the ill that caused my blissful sighing. JANE LUNT &quot;CIRCUS AT WORLD'S END&quot;: Poems by Peter flopegood (Angus Robertson) 716. Firstly it would he as well to dispel any idea that the primary intention of :sir llopegood's poetry is to offer something original by way of a philosophy. Philosophy implies the rigid definition of the academy, the austerity of an intellectual epicure seeking his salvation amongst fife's numerically ordained realities. This poet, while succeeding in appending to his work a high degree of intellectual coherence, is no philosopher. To the complete contrary. In his rather febrile realms of Alchemists, Ogres, and Unicorns we can find release from the chaos of seeking the reality of a philosophic salvation 76 and take refuge in a Utopia where The sober seeker after truth shall never, cover find het, not even clutch her nether face though panting hard behind her. 0 sad, indeed, that this is so, so sad for the logician; it sets us laughing, ho-ho-ho, who claim no solemn mission, sod this is, indeed, a balm. His work is rich, evocative, and daring enough to he enduring. In such pieces 23 the title poem, &quot;Circus at World's End,&quot; sod &quot;The Clam's Dream&quot; one finds an extra quality, locking in many of his contemporsries. We need not be satisfied with mere technical capability, but can come to grips with the intrinsic assurance of 2 poet fast outstripping the &quot;singers of folk songs&quot; from whom he has culled the medium for his unique approach to the relentless problems of our day. FRANCIS CABUCHE &quot;THKIN OF DREAMS&quot; by Raymond Queneau (New Directions, Neu, York, A.) &quot;The French title of this novd,&quot; sips the publisher's note, &quot;published in Paris by Gallimard, is 'Loin de Rood' &quot; Literally rendered, that title would have done better service than the present dramatic titling. It is very difficult to judge 2 man's prose on the way it is given in another langusge, but I should say the title is the only lapse in translation made by H. J. Kaplan, who has done better service to Queneau than Gilbert has done for CaMUS, 2 ferviCe from the English reader's stand to be equalled (in recent oats only) by that of Gerard 4 Hopkins' work for Maurice. Kaplan has apparently hod much tougher language to work on with Queneau than would hove been the case for orthodox writer, but he does get (vide Laughlin's account in a tail piece) the peculiarity of Quencau's style with its &quot;reliance on nuances of French spoken speech sod argot, second to its occasional quasi-Joycean verbal tricks.&quot; The translator's conversion i3 extremely

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well sustained. It is English (and one always remembers translations bleb are not), but not English of the academy; it has a definitive French accent ; and it is very much and singularly alive. Is there any English work with quite this style? So couch, of course, is largely credit to the translator. To put too much to Kaplan would be highly unfair. Queneau deserves to be known more widely in English, both for his prose and poetry. John. Lehmann has done a little to help in making only 2 trifle of his prose 2CCiblc. He did more for Devaulx, but there would seem to be a better case for Quencau. May it be hoped this Direction starts the ball rolling, for his poetry conies this way all too rarely. What I have seen of the poetry makes rate suspect Queneau ii superior to even the pre-Resistance Aragon. and be is certainly superior to Aragon as novelist. (It is curious how Aragon seems to overshadow better qualified poets: Eluard, Jouve, Queneau Supervielle.) Aragon and Quencau are contemporaries, yet &quot;The Skin of Dreams&quot; demands to be considered in relation to Sartre, even at one remembers Queneau's older relation with the Surrealists and the heyday of Dada. This novel has a good twenty years of activity behind it. Possibly more than any other single work, it spans the movements and tastes of the twenties, thirties and forties. Full appreciation of the story and the implicit arguments can be had only by reflection in reading on the various movements.   , That reflection naturally moves on to speculation, not to the simple speculation of what lies behind (though your decision there will help with realising the local flavour) but with what is actually before you, for that is ample enough. No one will he sufficiently naive to read &quot;The Skin of Dreams&quot; only 25 a comedy of high order. That would be tantamount to reading the Pauline gospel only as a study in mother fixation. But :his is high comedy, not pleasant unless yours is a taste which looks on the till.' and, fourth books cif &quot;Gulliver's Travels&quot; as mild pleasantry. Cantos, who puts small disguise on his feelings, trails his seriousness before the reader of 'The Plague.&quot; Quencau is more subtle. His comedy is played in a serious house. It could be many, things to many people, even to those who appreciate vulgarity (but well done) and perhaps even to those who scout round the fringes of pornography. ia KENDRICK SMITHYMANPERIODICALS RECEIVED EXANGELOS, February, 195z. (31 Rue de Seine, Paris,-France). ARIZONA QUARTERLY, Spring, 1951. (Tucson, U ) a dollars pot year. CANADIAN POETRY MAGAZINE, Winter, 193o. a I-L., annually. DECADE OF SHORT STORIES, Vol. ro, No. 1. (zo9i 5 Vanowen St., Canoga Park, California.) L5o per year. SUCK EGG MULE: A Recalcitrant Beast, No. z. (Wendell Anderson, General Delivery, Taos, Ncw Mexico). t dollar annually. POETRY CHAPBOOK, Spring, 1951. (aa, East 45th St. New York.) i dollar per year. OUTPOSTS, No. 18 Or Dulwich Village, London). 416 per year. NORTHERN REVIEW, Vol. 4, No. 5. (2475 Van Horne, Montreal, Canada). 3 dollars annually. SINIBOLI, No. 4. (67-38 loath St. Forest Hills, ) 3 dollars for three issues. MARCHES DE FRANCE: International Literary Revicw. (19 Rue Albert Lienatt, Alost, Belgium). REVIEW FIFTY, Spring, 1911. (Flank House, Botcsdale, via Dist, Norfolk, England). 51- per year. THE WINDOW, No. z. (090 West End Lane, London). POETRY : Magazine of the British Poetry Association, Vol. z, No. 8 (7o Partridge Rd., South Yardley, Birmingham, England). 814 per year. CULTURA, Nos. 3 84 3, 195o. (Ministry or Education, Buenos Aires, Argentina). POINTS, No. 9. (az Bd. Saint-Michel, Paris 6, France). 1116 per year. T HE GLASS, No. 6. (183 ng Rd., Lowestoft, Suffolk, England). 61- per year. BIAGI, Vol. 1, No. 3. (tot9S. 47th St. Philadelphia, A.) dollars for four :outs. RIEW: Progress Through the Press. No. 6, Jutse. (Box 287E, Brisbane). 51- per year. THE SEWANEE REVIEW, Spring. 19, T. (Tennessee. A.) 4 dollars per year. FANTASY ADVERTISER, April, 1951. (1745 Kenneth Road, Glendale California). 514 per year. INFERNO. No. 5. (Box 5030, San Francisco). 0 for four issues. THE POETRY BOOK MAGAZINE, Winter, 1951. (248E. Sand St. Brooklyn, ) 3 dollars per year. BOOKS RECEIVED PAGES FROM MY PRESS, Poems by Raymond Dune. (31 Rue de Seine, Paris, France). THE SHADOW OF THE SWIMMER, Poems by Charles Edward Eaton (Fine Editions Press, New York). 3 dollars. FOR FRIENDS AND FIRESIDE, Verse by Gordon Campbell (Bond Street Bookshop, Sydney). POEMS IN PAMPHLET: The Two Natures by Robert Waller, No. 4. (Hand Lte Flower Press, Aldington, Kent). II, THE TWILIGHT OF THE ELEPHANT by Elio Vittorini (New Directions, ) FIRST AND LAST POEMS by Michael Sloane (Fine Edition Press, New York). 59

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AUSTRALIAN NEWSLETTER (from page it)  New Zealander, Douglas Stewart, of the Bulletin, has had his plays and poems re-broadcast and republished. His story of Ncd Kelly, the bushranger was syndicated in the weekend Press, and the Australian Broadcasting Commission has been featuring him regularly. His &quot;Golden Lover&quot;, the story of Tawhai and her lover X'Itana, of the ii,.:Iilly error. of Maori legend, pleases much more than does the Ned Another New Ze(1d-horn Writer, Mess Brown, wrote &quot;Australian Son&quot; (Phoenix House, London, 19th)' first full-scale biography of the outlaw. The author wrote M loft over a coach-house in Melbourne. It took a year and a!: hi, savings. Australian papers reported, earlier this year, that Auckland teachers asked the Educational Institute to consider the importance of comics in the lives of children. At the same time, the Victorian Government was considering a ban or: such iicerature Now the problem of comic strips that are more strip than comic is growing in impotiance. The police point out that crime and fantasticcornic books arc basic :actors ID The present increase in juvenile delinquency. My own observation parents arc reading this &quot;literature&quot; as avidly 23 their children. HENNY KLEINER You and I Though I am and you are merely you, Broken the dream Embroidered with fantastic Foreknowledge without foundation, Yet, I return to hours of less cutting clearness, To dim delusion of woman's Nebulous, love-sink vision That you were I, I?.you,? And weep on the loveless pavement Of life's grey dead alley To know that l Ales /11Ctely I While you are you. so WILLIAM HULL Out of Gear with Death This yearning cobble stoned a parabola of light among brown-stone maroomdrabbed monotone (horizon girds us so unleavcd to nakedness), pastured for Etas with quiver fleck sustained in tang of untwining in prelusion to less, this cobbled space by leaves' decline impressed (parabola shanks us so garbed with fright), brain of us embroiled so confuses sequence of choreography cue for burial under mourn of corn released leap the lift of corn entails, death disordered so rebirths us out of time, seasoned unsanguined martyrdom of leaves, miraculous, summered out of mind. GRACE WILLIS When There is Nothing Here When there is nothing here, but sun and earth red flowering on this stretch of slouching hills, thou I shell know they took away your voice and made it sing again as laughter wills. Always . always I shall know how greatly stood the reaper wind, how yellow broke the crusted sunburnt soil that summer ploughed into its fleshy loam, its mouth of smoke. When there is nothing, nothing here hut time translated in a life of little things, tell them, say I had so many days of dawn and dark about my travelling, et

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GEOFFREY JOHNSON Verge and Deep Some of the tall tobacco flowers, - Which droop and trail by day Were cut to grace this vase of ours When noon was on its way. Now it is night. Though doomed to die, They open OS before, Enrol, in subtler silks the waves of dusk, And brim with emanating spice and musk The hollows of the hall from door to door. What IS this mystery. Life's or Death's or Love's That breathes and burns from mirrors, nooks, alcoves? What is this mystery, dear, that you and I, Quietly looking each at each And lost beyond the need of speech Touch, and let go, and once again explore? PHILIP MURRAY Lines an The noisy parrakeet that preens my mind Proclaims my love with raucous, vulgar voice; Yet in my heart an owl sits brooding, still; Ile loves you too, hut he is silent, shy: Though sometimes when the parrakeet is hoarse I hear him softly sigh, rehearse your nun, But always as he is about to speak The parrakeet screams out some new conceit. When I have finally killed this winged witch And sent his sharp shrill screech to echo's hell, Then I shall love you, owl-like, quietly. 22JANE LUNT Impediment Love is not love which fillips love only In a preordercd harmony, Though I remember my old father saying Ships arc already ships when in an inner eye The three line moves above the water's calm. 0 small worlds and small disasters, The roebuck, the lapwing, or the iron dog, The alder trees in the autumn, The prohibitive may, for there arc always Deserts among deserts and within the dream Roses which have no thorns. Love is not. I have seen the windy streets like the seas In the morning, and in the dark the old rain And the shaky face of the moon, and I remember, I was coming home in the evening when a crying bird Flew like the wind invisible behind me, and the wheel Like an old dog sleeping in my hands, Dreamt and not dead in his dreaming. 0, citizens under the ewes of another night, Love is not love for all I have been standing /fere on the yellow beaches while my days Strode hke tomorrows daughters the infinite sun, While a brown bird in the field was singing And a juniper tree grew sharp 25 the colour of grass. Love is not .. though I would tell you I have been waiting all this winter in the square Where the hawk sits on the head of the marble cupid And a dry man in the rain minutely gathers up The bitter leaves of the unastonished spring. 23

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LIONEL MONTEIT11 The Child I sew a child wandering through the catacombed dream of uncertainties, breaking from blood, breaking away the part of God that only a mothering womb can give. Feet of the morning moving in night, patterning out their lost journeys, lopped off like limbs his anticipating faiths from the Spirit's innocent wholeness. And see how the people weep their losses:- - lament the codified emblems needing no love--- or louder than Ashur, confess their sins. Yet at the crucial moment of day they are brutal es soldiers in victory. And 1, one of them. O may the child of the dream, his man-made image shattering as 2 cross at the plinth of our vanities, trail his imperative story over our primative hearts--for the womb of heaven is waiting and there shall be no storming else ethereal day. LLOYD ZIMPEL Better Men Would Sooner Do This Since it is highly desirable to escape dedication in such 2 manner as to poetic your neighbours pretend you're an artist or better.? 2 madman By coming home late and beating your wife and greeting the sun with singing and shouting you establish a moos to revile all who love you Remember Pctronius who had no such councilI New Zealand Writers' Conference THOSE who defined the syllabus of the New Zealand Writers' Conference held in Christchurch in Nay must base been fully aware of the rift between the older writers and the new. Nothing could be more just than the way spokesmen of both schools were given a heating. And schools they arc indeed, even if Denis Glover remarked, in a different context perhaps, that there arc no schools of writing in New Zealand, only writers, each of whom is 2n individual with an individual voice and manner if the Conference achieved nothing else it impressed upon some representatives of the old school that a kindly tolerance or younger writers Was condescension and intolerance. As Professor Arnold Wall put it, speaking for his generation, they were on a road in those days, the destination obscure perhaps, but at least they were on a road, implying of course that the younger generation is not. This is intolerance when Professor Wall and others speaking from the floor proved that, in poetry anyway, beyond strict metre they couldn't go. Their argument seems to be that to write in metre means discipline; this becomes synonymous with seliscipline in a moral sepse. eflnletrIcal writing therefore proves the writer to be lacking in moral self-discipline. This is the familiar anti-Modem Art prejudice et work in the sphere of letters. It means, in short, that many writers with a solid reputation posssess a faulty aesthetic and are ignorant of the fundamentals of the very craft they practice. Art without discipline is untlinkable, but what a multitude of disciplines there are! That there is no break in the continuity of tradition, at leastin matters of technique, was satisfactorily proved by the poet, J. R. Hervey, himself a member of the old school by virtue of age, but definitely of the younger in spirit and association. He appeared as one of the panel of speakers, discussing recent trends in New Zealand poetry, together with Allen Curnow, Basil Dowling and Janes Bala.. Baxter's paper was magnificent and made a profound impression. If Hervey proved the rift to be no rift at all, but a gap quite easily negotiated by a man on a refs, Baxter proved that the younger writers were definitely one road in the matter of directions, hot it WAS their own road. ay

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However, only one of the six major papers read during morning and afternoon sessions W. intolerant in any grave sense. In many extra-mural meetings in homes, pubs and corridors writer got to know each other, sounding the quality of the living person behind the externalised art. Continuities wereestablished and sympathies born. But in this one instance intolerance won king Pa: Lawinr,making the excuse that he was merely being provocative, accused the younger writers of undermining the moral standards of thecornenunity, and of having no &quot;spirituality.&quot; It is difficult to write about this without becoming intolerant in turn. Needless to say, the speaker W. challenged from the hall in most unliterary language. Here one might mention that the meeting would surely have become noisy, to use a euphemism, had one of t he delightful elderly enthusiasts, a purveyor of reminiscences, not popped un twice, first to tell ton :riinable stories and second to say he'd quite lost the point of the second one during its telling and might he be allowed to repeat it. He was. This kind of thing effectively stymied discussion at many a meeting. And there were too many jack-in-a-box up-jumpers with a &quot;please, Mr Chairman&quot;, familiar voices belonging to people with nothing whatever to say who would insist on saying it. One could go on to discuss much that was memorable about the Conference, but perhaps this matter of the rift between old s;hool and new is fundameritai and dominates al: else. And yet I am bothered by many things, not the cast being the existence of a core of truth somewhere in what Lawlor had the courage to say. That he is tight will immediately Occur to :110le who associate solemnity with seriousness of purpose and sobriety with profundity of thought. POINTS THE MAGAZINE. OF YOUNG WRITERS Short Stories - Poems - Book Reviews - Articles In English French  Edited by MARCEL BISIAUX and SINBAD VAII. Annual Subscription: /216 el Bd. Saint-Michel, Paris 6, FRANCE 26 But there's a big difference between being right and saying some thing with a core of truth in it. Stolidity and puritanism will always feel uncomfortable and superior on the sight of clowning, posieg and happy irreverence; the ciderly sober Will always experience a loss of dignity when forced to usociate with youthful tipsymania. But any moral judgment so based will be nothing but superficial. There is no doubt that both sides learned something from the other, even if it's hardly to be expected'ehe conservatives will start turning cartwheels in public or the yourtreontemporaties reduce their consumption of amber fluid, press their pants and tone down the colour of pullovers. t':'.'Perhaps some of the blame for the apparent rift lies with some of he vittuous whose virtue was virtuous by virtue of certain omissions and blindnessM, ind the wearing of blinkers as they plodded the road that was at least a road. W. HART-SMITH Poetry QUARTERLY MAGAZINE OF THE'BRITISH POETRY ASSOCIATION  Editor: HARDIMAN SCOTT POEMS : CRITICAL ARTICLES : BOOK REVIEWS tat.&quot;  ContribUtois include: Richard Church, A. W dber Stevens, Henry &quot;..Treece, Paul Dehn, Lionel Monteith, John Heath Stubbi, Herbert Palmer, KathleenItwine and others. ANNUAL SUBSCRIPTION: 814 . to the Editioi: ;r7nongPratirir,drZzail, South Yardley,   - , - -s 27  

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Correspondence ( TO THE EDITOR   AMERICAN AND CANADIAN VERSE May I offer my congratulations on your enterprise in publishing numbers devoted to American and Canadian verse? Even for those with specialist leanings it is not too easy to keep in touch with verse from other English-speaking countries, and the average lover of poetry knows little of such literature. Possibly to many such, Canadian poetry means no more than Bliss Carman and Robert Service. If we can obtain more knowledge of American and Canadian art and literature, we shall be nearer understanding the American and Canadian peoples. ALAN MULGAN Wellin1156, Mop 101h. '95' APPRECIATION I enjoyed the Canadian Number of &quot;Arena&quot;. I was particularly interested in W. H. Drunamond's poem, &quot;The Wreck of the Julie Plante&quot; as I heard it recited nye? a Canadian radio station lot Ianuary. The &quot;Poems in Pamphlet&quot; scheme of the Hand and Plower Press, England (&quot;Arena&quot; Number 27) is an excellent idea which could well be adopted by Neu, Zealand publishers. FRANK A. WILSON Dunedin FROM ABROAD Thank you for &quot;Are.&quot; Number ra which I have found very interesting, and apart from the poetry and criticism I have found special interest in the newsletters. I know so little about New Zealand. (Miss) }JENNY KLEINER Tel Aviv, Israel &quot;ARENA- is a New Zealand International Literary Magazine. seeking closer contact with overseas countries through the medium of cultural association and mutual exclranne of ideas in 1 tersture. Pablishes work by both known and unknown writers (here and abroad) in the form of short stories. poems. critical articles and hook reviews Annual subscription In 4s. (Overseas 5s.) Editorial address: Box 6188. Te Aro. Wellington. &quot;ARENA&quot; OVERSEAS AGENTS ?En! ind: Poet, Commonwealth Publications, 31 Dulwich Village. London. A.: Gotham Book Man. 51 West 47th St. New Yorvveseonesnewsonruon.,A NOTES FROM THE CENTRES   (from inside front cover) ,MANNINNWINWNINAN the subjects on which good painting technique and care were expended : well, they leave many wondering. We know that Rembrandt found lasting beauty in the shambles of a butcher's shnp hut is it necessary for some of our most skilful painting to be expended on somewhat repulsive fish ? An impression of rather ion many landscapes, remains. Some of Lois X'hite's paintings gave the impression that an almost Eastern interpretation had been successfully integrated with her own vision. Among the more interesting of the new local novels is&quot;Otago Interval&quot; by Jesse Whitworth (Paul's Book Arcade, Hamilton) The authoress has recently left for England on a visit. The A. Writers' Club meets once a fortnight in the Library of the Unitarian Church. A recent visitor to the Club was 0. E. Middleton, who early this year gave a series of talks on h i s American experiences from Station t YC. DUNEDIN Frank Sargeson, the Auckland writer, recently gave an address in the Public Library Hall on the subject of &quot;Landscape and Literature.&quot; This provided a kind of afterglow of the Writers' Conference at Canterbury College. Dunedin writers represented at the Conference included Mrs Dunningham, Cho r I es Basch, Boil Dowling, D. H. Munro and David Hall. What came out of the cauldron was not a golden calf but a quite inexplicable atmosphere of goodwill. The young nom certainly saw visions but the old men did not settle down to the less congenial role of dreamers. Indeed, the representatives of the State Literary Fund Board who were present, were not oblivious to the many trends. The Public Library Hall in Moray Place, has provided a Veil. for tome interesting discussions to be continued during the winter months. Mr Gray on Walt Whitman and Mt Alan Cotter, editor of &quot;The Tablet,&quot; on Christopher Dawson, had the audience on their toes. Correspondents are invited to forward short notes of literary, artistic and dramatic interest for publication in this section of &quot;Arena.&quot; Brevity is the keynote for these items. .H.

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