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Wavelength, v. 1, issue 3, Fall 1941
31858063099622_005
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5 Youd's poems show throughout not only facility in his medium, but also a keen insight into and a warm appreciation of the emotionally significant facts in the world around us. This is, indeed, perhaps the chief distinguishing mark of the poet. Although I do not know whether "Fywert Kinge" is a real person or simply the pseudonym of T. Bruce Yerke's, I do not think that it is possible to deny him an eminence fully equal to Youd's. I have seen three of his poems: "After Armageddon" ( DT 1:2 ), "The Final "Twi-light" ( DT 1:1 ), and "Destiny" ( Sc. 1:1 ). Each of these is extra-ordinarily good. The first named is slightly the weakest, since the concept is wearingly familiar, yet Kinge treats his subject with freshness, and everywhere demonstrates a sure mastery of his loose rhymes, and a quick ear for the telling phrase: [indented] "The machines are gutted, and stare with unseeing eyes, The bodies . . . They have gone. They have merged with the earth." The "Final Twilight" is a strikingly atmospheric rendition of the abandonment of a dying world by the space-bound legions who muse: [indented] "That soft, shrouded speck curving into the blue Was once their home, their life, their hope. Now it vanishes on the eternal flow of time, And disappears into a deeper hue . . ." In "Destiny", the quiet and melancholy mood is given an aching attractiveness. The final stanza: [indented] "Retrospect: Can this be that far, Far future? That glorious age the ancient sages wrote about? Glass cities? Well kept roads? Thriving gardens? Science, O Science! It seems to have died? Dust to dust . . .perhaps is ture. For here, we have the end of the trail . . . And 'tis no different than the beginning. Somewhere. . .somehow, the bright dreams Have vanished by the wayside." There has been no poet in science fiction fandom who could e--qual Fywert Kinge in the atmospheric quality with which he imbues his poems. Three other poets whose published works make them worthy of mention are Lowndes, Miske, and Hart. We take Miske first. He has usu-ally been able to demonstrate a fair command of meter, but his poetry palls because of his themes, despair and frustration. And Miske's ab-sence of humore certainly doesn't help. Take the time when he printed, meticulously as ever, his poems in the solemn hope that "they may bring something of beauty or philosophy into the lives of those who read them". Or, why not take as a clear example of this lack of humo r the following lines from "Certainty" ( C 1:1 ): [indented] "Thus Grandeur, though it draws a sigh, Is lost beneath the darkening sky."
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5 Youd's poems show throughout not only facility in his medium, but also a keen insight into and a warm appreciation of the emotionally significant facts in the world around us. This is, indeed, perhaps the chief distinguishing mark of the poet. Although I do not know whether "Fywert Kinge" is a real person or simply the pseudonym of T. Bruce Yerke's, I do not think that it is possible to deny him an eminence fully equal to Youd's. I have seen three of his poems: "After Armageddon" ( DT 1:2 ), "The Final "Twi-light" ( DT 1:1 ), and "Destiny" ( Sc. 1:1 ). Each of these is extra-ordinarily good. The first named is slightly the weakest, since the concept is wearingly familiar, yet Kinge treats his subject with freshness, and everywhere demonstrates a sure mastery of his loose rhymes, and a quick ear for the telling phrase: [indented] "The machines are gutted, and stare with unseeing eyes, The bodies . . . They have gone. They have merged with the earth." The "Final Twilight" is a strikingly atmospheric rendition of the abandonment of a dying world by the space-bound legions who muse: [indented] "That soft, shrouded speck curving into the blue Was once their home, their life, their hope. Now it vanishes on the eternal flow of time, And disappears into a deeper hue . . ." In "Destiny", the quiet and melancholy mood is given an aching attractiveness. The final stanza: [indented] "Retrospect: Can this be that far, Far future? That glorious age the ancient sages wrote about? Glass cities? Well kept roads? Thriving gardens? Science, O Science! It seems to have died? Dust to dust . . .perhaps is ture. For here, we have the end of the trail . . . And 'tis no different than the beginning. Somewhere. . .somehow, the bright dreams Have vanished by the wayside." There has been no poet in science fiction fandom who could e--qual Fywert Kinge in the atmospheric quality with which he imbues his poems. Three other poets whose published works make them worthy of mention are Lowndes, Miske, and Hart. We take Miske first. He has usu-ally been able to demonstrate a fair command of meter, but his poetry palls because of his themes, despair and frustration. And Miske's ab-sence of humore certainly doesn't help. Take the time when he printed, meticulously as ever, his poems in the solemn hope that "they may bring something of beauty or philosophy into the lives of those who read them". Or, why not take as a clear example of this lack of humo r the following lines from "Certainty" ( C 1:1 ): [indented] "Thus Grandeur, though it draws a sigh, Is lost beneath the darkening sky."
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