The Worldly Muse of A.J.M. Smith

Abstract

I am a biographer and it is therefore impossible for me to read poetry without reading the poet. The voice I hear within the beat of the line is never a disembodied voice, even when I may not know the countenance. It can be highly suggestive when it speaks with wit and intelligence; it is certainly civilized when it is controlled and disciplined; it is complex, inflected, nuanced, and produces delight when it talks of things human and humane with a kind of sovereign calm; it impels me to listen and to discriminate and be analytical. A poet's landscapes are himself; the private myth is made decently public. As Thoreau reminded us, the secrets of a poet's life are in his poems. In this sense all poetry is confessional. Not a poet exists who does not write the book of himself. He is never more personal than when he thinks himself impersonal. My problem in dealing with A.J.M. Smith after fifty years of friendship is to distance myself from him intellectually and not go aground on the reef of reminiscence. I have done this by rereading him with eyes fifty years older than when I met him. The experience has been salutary, at once a renewal of an old intimacy and at the same time the intervention of a long-trained critical intelligence I could not then possess. To be sure, things are a bit mixed: criticism and sentiment are there, but the challenge is also there to discover the poet in poems I have for too long taken for granted. Once I have brought this into awareness, I am able to see, and to have a renewal of feeling. Where does Arthur Smith, who can now be called the doyen of Canadian poetry, belong in our twentieth century of verse? What is his achievement? What are his shortcomings — his limitations?