"Inane dominions" is worth a thousand words. More so with every day, it seems!

I agree, Terese. Ruefully and wholeheartedly.

Formal poetry does not need vindication Ross

I was referring to A. D. Hope not 'formal poetry'. Have you read his essay on free verse, it is available on line, search 'A.D.Hope essays" it is a disgraceful deceptive essay by a man obviously frightened by modern poetry and reacting against it. It so angered me that a professor of english could use such deceptive tactics such as deliberately publishing Eliot and Whitman without using correct line endings and manipulating the text to make his points.. I was disgusted and lost a lot of respect for Hope. I first read Hope 50 years ago and found him wooden and academic, he didn't speak to me. No doubt he wrote some fine work and was and is much loved but when he tried to discredit Eliot and Whitman by deceitful means he lost my vote. And if you don't believe me I will be happy to post his essay and tear it to bits. He didn't to my knowledge ever retract it or apologise for his deceit.

Ross,

I would love to read that essay and your profanation of it. If there is anything I hate more than a stuffy moralist it's a stuffy metrist!

I was ranting a bit but I was a teacher and librarian at Universities and various colleges so I really was angered by Hope's essay. I have actually read a few of his poems and I can see he was a wonderful poet and an extraordinary man. But I hate people who are either or when in comes to poetry, it seems one-eyed not to see the value of free verse or too think formal verse is no longer valid.

I think hating people who are either/or is a little excessive. Hope didn't like free verse and put his views in writing, as was only natural for a scholar and poet. Maybe he overstated things - and perhaps he misquoted to make his point, which is clearly less forgivable. And I know he said somewhere (I can't find it at the moment) that the title of his essay ("Free Verse: a Post-Mortem") had proved a little premature. But given the range of his true accomplishments I'd say we don't need to be too bothered by this blind spot of his. Tolstoy, after all, couldn't understand Shakespeare. Eliot dismissed Byron. And so it goes...

'Perhaps' Greg, have your read the essay. As I said it's online. but you're right, I of course don't hate the people just the intellectual position. Did I mention the first person to encourage me to write poetry was Douglas Stewart, he was poetry editor at the same publishers where I was junior editor. Just name dropping!!
cheers
Ross

Yes, if you're referring to the essay included in The Cave and the Spring. I read it a while ago and I've just checked it out again. I suppose you could say he misquotes, in that he re-arranges the line-breaks in "Ash Wednesday" in order to question their sheer arbitrariness (as he sees it). But he does warn you that that is what he is doing. I can't find him doing the same thing to Whitman, although he does talk about him (whom he clearly prefers to Eliot - or, at least, dislikes less), but maybe that's in another essay.

It's certainly a questionable essay - and it probably helped to make Hope deeply unfashionable - but it has a certain coherence of its own. It helps you understand why he wrote the kind of poetry he did.

A good name to drop, Ross.

This poem more than anything else did much damage to Hope's status as a poet in Australia:

Australia by Alec Derwent Hope

A Nation of trees, drab green and desolate grey
In the field uniform of modern wars,
Darkens her hills, those endless, outstretched paws
Of Sphinx demolished or stone lion worn away.

They call her a young country, but they lie:
She is the last of lands, the emptiest,
A woman beyond her change of life, a breast
Still tender but within the womb is dry.

Without songs, architecture, history:
The emotions and superstitions of younger lands,
Her rivers of water drown among inland sands,
The river of her immense stupidity

Floods her monotonous tribes from Cairns to Perth.
In them at last the ultimate men arrive
Whose boast is not: "we live" but "we survive",
A type who will inhabit the dying earth.

And her five cities, like five teeming sores,
Each drains her: a vast parasite robber-state
Where second hand Europeans pullulate
Timidly on the edge of alien shores.

Yet there are some like me turn gladly home
From the lush jungle of modern thought, to find
The Arabian desert of the human mind,
Hoping, if still from the deserts the prophets come,

Such savage and scarlet as no green hills dare
Springs in that waste, some spirit which escapes
The learned doubt, the chatter of cultured apes
Which is called civilization over there.