Something seems to be stirring out there. I’m too cautious and cynical to proclaim a renaissance in formalist poetry but the prognosis is promising. Clarence Caddell, an Australian, has published the second issue of The Borough: A Journal of Poetry. I wrote about the first issue in September. Just last week I wrote about the third issue of New Verse Review.   Especially gratifying is seeing five poems by R.L. Barth in The Borough. Bob is a Marine Corps veteran of Vietnam who served as a patrol leader in the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion. He is the finest American poet to have served in that war – not that there’s a lot of competition for the title. His work is composed in the plain style, practiced by writers from Ben Jonson to Yvor Winters and J.V. Cunningham. Here is Bob’s anti-sentimental “Letters from Home”:   “I never understood Why others couldn’t wait For letters when what good Came from news three-weeks late?   “Came from an alien world Of proms and family meals? Took mind from war, unfurled No memory that heals   “But carelessness that kills? The truth is that you’re here On mountains or foothills Where life, not home, is dear.”   And here is “Flying Home,” subtitled March 1969, also from The Borough:   “Weapons surrendered to the armory, My separation papers well in hand, I look at the dark porthole, where I see Myself in civvies, ill-prepared to land.”   Another good poet collected in The Borough is Vivian Smith, a retired teacher in Australia who turns eighty-two this year. As with Barth, note the emotional realism, the pared-down though conversational style, and the anti-sentimental tone. Here is Smith’s “Birthday”:   “Born in the year that Hitler came to power, I don’t do face book, blog or tweet, I’ve never owned a mobile phone, kind of old-school, dressed to disappear,   “and yet surprise, surprise, I’m still alive with poems waiting to be written down like sign writing scribbled on the sky, half-erased, already vanishing.   “I like my life, the humdrum tasks. I never hungered for the hippie trail. Indifferent to fashion, I survive. Poems can be true in different ways.   “I write them down, I do not hold my breath. I don’t just sit around, waiting for my death.”   On Friday, Bob sent me a new poem not published in The Borough. Of it he writes: “Here's a poem about a subject I've been thinking about for fifty-five years. Like [J.V. Cunningham], I am a renegade Catholic; but, as JVC certainly knew, being a renegade doesn't mean you leave the training behind.” Here is “A Soldier-Poet Courts Controversy”:   “‘Your unchecked rages and so forth are clearly Manifestations of PTSD.’ An all-encompassing excuse, for sure, To which I give a blunt response: bull shit. Agnostically, call them . . . character flaws; But Catholics know the Seven Deadly Sins Down in the depths of their iniquity, And strictly hold themselves accountable.”

Robert Chandler has rescued, through translation, much of Russian literature for the Anglophone world – Pushkin, Andrey Plantonov, Teffi, Lev Ozerov and Vasily Grossman, among others. Most of Chandler’s own prose I've read has been in the form of brief introductions and notes. Several years ago he alerted me to a piece about Rudyard Kipling’s poetry he had published in Granta, and I wrote about it. Now I find two other essays published in the same journal – one on Grossman, the other one devoted to an English poet previously unknown to me: “Best Book of 1946: The Years of Anger,” by Randall Swingler. Chandler assures us the book contains Swingler’s “best work,” much of it devoted to his experiences as a British soldier during World War II.  One of the most gratifying pleasures I know as a reader is learning of a writer new to me and finding him worthy of attention. The passages quoted by Robert look more than promising. My university library has only one book by Swingler in its collection: The God in the Cave. It’s a twenty-three-page poetry collection published in 1950 by Alan Swallow of Denver (publisher of Yvor Winters), and I’ve put a hold on it. Through interlibrary loan I will request a copy of The Years of Anger. My only hesitancy is that Swingler was a communist, an affiliation not associated with the writing of first-rate poetry. Robert quotes the central stanza of “The Day the War Ended”:   “There is a moment when contradictions cross, A split of a moment when history twirls on one toe Like a ballerina, and all men are really equal And happiness could be impartial for once.”

The Irish poet Michael Longley died on Wednesday at the age of eighty-five. I’ve read him sparsely but recall a devotion to the natural world and to World War I, in which his father fought. Here is “Glossary” (The Candlelight Master, 2020):   “I meet my father in the glossary Who carried me on his shoulders, a leg Over each, hockerty-cockerty, who Would spend ages poking the kitchen fire, An old soldier remembering the trenches And telling me what he saw in the embers, Battlefields, bomb craters, firelight visions: A widden-dremer, yes, that’s my father.”   Longley adds some notes: hockerty-cockerty is to be “seated with one’s legs astride another’s shoulders”; widden-dremer is “one who sees visions in the firelight.” From the same volume is “Ors,” named for the French cemetery in which Wilfred Owen is buried. The English poet was killed a week before the Armistice while crossing the Sambre-Oise Canal:   I “I am standing on the canal bank at Ors Willing Wilfred Owen to make it across To the other side where his parents wait. He and his men are constructing pontoons. The German sniper doesn’t know his poetry.   II “My daughter Rebecca lives in twenty-four Saint Bernard’s Crescent opposite the home Wilfred visited for “perfect little dinners” And “extraordinary fellowship in all the arts.” I can hear him on his way to Steinthals.   III “Last year I read my own poems at Craiglockhart And eavesdropped on Robert, Siegfried, Wilfred Whispering about poetry down the corridors. If Wilfred can concentrate a little longer, He might just make it to the other bank.”   This is “Poetry” (The Weather in Japan, 2000):   “When he was billeted in a ruined house in Arras And found a hole in the wall beside his bed And, rummaging inside, his hand rested on Keats By Edward Thomas, did Edmund Blunden unearth A volume which ‘the tall, Shelley-like figure’ Gathering up for the last time his latherbrush, Razor, towel, comb, cardigan, cap comforter, Water bottle, socks, gas mask, great coat, rifle And bayonet, hurrying out of the same building To join his men and march into battle, left Behind him like a gift, the author's own copy? When Thomas Hardy died his widow gave Blunden As a memento of many visits to Max Gate His treasured copy of Edward Thomas’s Poems.”   Longley’s wife Edna has edited two editions of Edward Thomas’ poems and one of his prose. Here is “Edward Thomas’s Poem” from Longley’s Snow Water (2004):   I “I couldn’t make out the miniscule handwriting In the notebook the size of his palm and crinkled Like an origami quim by shell-blast that stopped His pocket watch at death. I couldn’t read the poem.”   II “From where he lay he could hear the skylark’s Skyward exultation, a chaffinch to his left Fidgeting among the fallen branches, Then all the birds of the Western Front.”   III “The nature poet turned into a war poet as if He could cure death with the rub of a dock leaf.”

Francis Bacon’s death might have been scripted by Monty Python. It’s certainly the most unlikely in the history of English literature, at least as reported by the not-always-reliable John Aubrey. It’s absurd but if true it helps beatify the author of The Advancement of Learning (1605) as a martyred saint in the cause of science. In his Brief Lives, Aubrey tells us his source was Thomas Hobbes:  “[H]is lordship’s death was trying an experiment: viz., as he was taking the aire in a coach . . . towards High-gate, snow lay on the ground, and it came into my lord’s thoughts, why flesh might not be preserved in snow, as in salt. They were resolved they would try the experiment presently. They alighted out of the coach, and went into a poore woman’s howse at the bottome of Highgate hill, and bought a hen, and made the woman exenterate it, and then stuffed the bodie with snow, and my lord did help to doe it himselfe. The snow so chilled him, that he immediately fell so extremely ill, that he could not returne to his lodgings . . . but went to the earle of Arundell’s house at High-gate, where they putt him into a good bed warmed with a panne, but it was a damp bed that had not been layn-in in about a yeare before, which gave him such a cold that in 2 or 3 dayes, as I remember he told me, he dyed of suffocation.”   In other words, pneumonia, contracted from a snow-stuffed chicken and exacerbated by sleeping in a wet bed. Exenterate means to remove entrails, to eviscerate or disembowel. Bacon died at age sixty-five on April 9, 1626. He had been a close friend of George Herbert. In his biography of Herbert, John Drury reproduces the six-line elegy Herbert wrote in Latin for Bacon, with Drury's own translation of “On the Death of Francis, Viscount St Albans”:   “While you groan under the weight of a long, slow illness, And life hangs on with a wavering, wasting foot, I understand at last what prudent Fate willed: Certainly you could only die in April, So that here Flora with her tears, there Philomena with her plaintive cries, Might lead the lonely funeral of your speech.”   In his two-page gloss on the poem, Drury writes of the final two lines: “Bacon had to hang on so that he could die in April, that wonderful month of flowers and birdsong for a keen gardener like him.” Of the poem as a whole he adds: “Herbert’s elegy for his old friend breathes tender personal affection.”   It was Bacon who wrote in his essay “Of Studies”: “Read not to contradict and confute; nor to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and discourse; but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.”   [See John Drury’s Music at Midnight: The Life and Poetry of George Herbert (University of Chicago Press, 2014).]