Could the Sun’s poetry editor’s enthusiasm for the work of Robert Hillyer be an example of a liking that may be too tender in its newness?
Poetry editors are only human, however much they seem to be stern unworldly judges, delivering their Rhadamanthine pronouncements. Alas, hard as it is admit — spoiling the sweet naiveté of our readers, blushing their innocent cheeks — poetry editors, like any other folk, have their overwrought enthusiasms and their sullen hatreds. My talented colleague, Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor, insists so often on work from Sara Teasdale (1884–1933) that the poor woman’s name has become a millstone, dragging me down to a sigh: Teasdale, again? How long, O Lord, how long? And I — yes, even I — nod sometimes in sleepy errors and rise sometimes to overly energetic passions.
My recent enthusiasm for the poetry of Robert Hillyer (1895–1961) is an example of a liking that may be too tender in its newness. Yet no. Hillyer really is worth our reading. Here in the Sun, we’ve featured his poems “Early in the Morning” and “Fog.” And now, for one of the lighter verses we offer every Wednesday, another Hillyer poem — this one about the end of summer, in the voice of an old cow: “There’s no more grass, there’s no more clover / Summer is over, summer is over,” Hillyer writes. In two stanzas of rhymed tetrameter couplets, “Moo!” gives the thoughts of a cow as she contemplates the weary length of her life and the changing of the season.
Cancel anytime
By continuing you agree to our Privacy Policy and Terms of Service.
By JOSH HAMMER
|
By NEWT GINGRICH
|
By DAVID JONES
|
By JOSEPH CURL
|
By DAVID JONES
|
By JOSEPH CURL
|
By GEORGE WILLIS
|
By JOSEPH CURL
|
