One more striking feature of our contemporary poetry is its infinite variety of aim and of technique. There exists in it no general tendency, no trend, no norm. Some of the poets are venturing into that dubious region that lies mid way between prose and verse; others stand immovable with their backs to the safe wall of the old classic verse forms; still others are running the whole gamut between the two extremes. It is a day of experiment and confusion, where tradition has lost its authority, and where revolt has not yet proved its predominance.

A reader of "Eight More Harvard Poets" will find in the volume an epitome of this general chaos. He will find that on generalization about the work of these eight men is possible. Each one of them is worshipping his own god or his own idol; and obviously the Eight do not make a harmonious congregation. This is of course, as it should be: one is glad to note that there is apparently no "Harvard School" of poetry.

It would be wrong to take a book like this either too seriously or too lightly. Perhaps a mute inglorious Milton in hidden away here; but if so, he is well hidden. On the other hand, there is much work here of an interesting and serious character, and a few poems that show real accomplishment. Certainly it is a much better book than any that could have come out of Harvard in this reviewer's day, twenty years ago.

The contributors to the book are Norman Cabot, Grant Code, Malcolm Cowley, Jack Merton, Joel T. Rogers, R. Cameron Rogers, Royall Snow, and John Brooks Wheelright. All of them, in various degrees, justify their right to a place in the volume.

Among the most interesting work is some of Mr. Cowley's. His "Chateau de Soupir" has a dry poetic wit that is delightful; and the successful capturing of atmosphere in his "Mountain Farm" makes it one of the most beautiful poems in the book.

Mountain Farm

I watched the agony of a mountain farm,

a gangrenous decay;

the farm died with the pines that sheltered it

the farm died when the woodshed rotted away.

. . . . . .

Nobody thought to nail a slat on the corncrib

nobody mowed the hay

nobody came to mend the rotting fences.

The farm died when the two boys went away,