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Poems 1942-67, by Alan Ross (Eyre and Spottiswoode, 30s.).
Night Crossing, by Derek Mahon (O.U.P., 15s).
Eyes in the Rock, by David Rokeah (Poetry Europe Series, Rapp and Whiting, 2 I s.) .
Earth Hand, by David Ignatow (Rapp and Whiting, 21s.).

Alan Ross's Poems 1942-67 are an impressive achievement. Whether or not they are 'great' poetry only time can decide, but for this reviewer they show a genuine and personal talent which has steadily developed, the vision sharpening, the technique becoming more personal and assured and in consequence of deeper significance.

Alan Ross has at times been dismissed as a poetic journalist or reporter, and it is true that many of his poems are about places that he has visited in various parts of the world. But his impressions not only convey some unsuspected essence of a seaport or river, but a sense that through his landscapes he is expressing, whether harsh or tender, some personal mood. Indeed, in many of his poems there is an undercurrent of anxiety and frustration. This suggests that whether it is a question of a new love affair or old village, Alan Ross may be one of those travellers—D. H. Lawrence was another—who are always on the move because something rather dark and troubled is always behind them.

Because he has definite statements to make, Mr Ross does not strive for tricksy poetic devices. But although based on a proper sense of tradition, by a sensitive awareness of the quality of language he always brings his poems to the heel of the present day, Whether as a traveller in space or the tunnels of love, Mr Ross's explorations are nearly always both illuminating and rewarding.

With middle age and particularly if one is also trying to write verse, the capacity to appreciate new collections of verse by new writers may tend to wither. It is reassuring, both as regards poetry itself and one's capacity to appreciate its more recent out-growings, to find a poet to whom one can respond without any carping reservations but real enthusiasm. Derek Mahon's Night Crossing expresses a vision of life with a rhythmic power and vitality of image which would be remarkable at any age let alone in the author of a 'first' volume. This is the second verse of his Death of a Film Star—

     Goddesses, from the whipped sea or slums,
     Will understand her final desolate
     Stark-nakedness, her teeth ground to the gums,
     Fingernails filthy, siren hair in spate
     (And always with her as she goes or comes,
     Her little bottle of barbiturate).

One must contratulate the Poetry Book Society in their choice of this fine volume and hope that it gains some of the success it deserves.

The title page of David Rokeah's Eyes in the Rock tells us that the poems are translated from the Hebrew. The translations are by various hands and in some of these serious and interesting poems there is that sense of wooden¬ness and predigestion that is a characteristic of so much translated poetry. In his introductory piece, Mr Rokeah tells us not to 'explain' his songs since they will yield no more to explanation than a mountain or a piece of flint. No doubt most good poems exceed prose explication. However, since they are Imagist poems, the author usually juxtaposing certain elements of nature with various personal moods, Mr Rokeah's poems certainly do not lend themselves to explanation.

You are offered without any particular setting and with Chinese brevity some four or five lines—

     A dark well
     From which rises the cavernous echo
     of stones of augury
     As they kiss the fountain's mouth—
     This is your love tonight.

If that poem sparks off a response in you then it will lead to self-confession not to explanation.

Eyes in the Rock is No. 7 of Rapp Whiting's Poetry Europe Series and the publishers are to be congratulated on making a number of interesting poets from abroad available in English translations.
At a first reading one might think that Mr Ignatow's sharp and interesting comments upon the business of living would have gained more power if he had taken more account of rhyme and rhythm, had given more shape to his observations and edited his passion. But a writer must be judged by what he attempts to do. Mr Ignatow expresses the sense of urgency and moral indignation characteristic of much American writing. One must admit the value of these spiky disconcerting 'prose/poems'. Perhaps these lines may suggest that the term 'prose' is not derogatory.

     Bums are what we have made of angels,
     Given them old clothes to wear,
     Dirty beards and alcoholic breath,
     To lie sprawled on gutters before our feet
     As sacrifice to our idols: power and money ...