NEW HOPE INTERNATIONAL REVIEW ON-LINE

The format and typeface of the magazine give the impression of a journal which is both well funded and professionally produced (although despite this appearance the volume contained a number of typos). The journal would seem to have an international readership, supported by the international flavour of the contributors, with submission addresses in UK, France, Australia and the USA.

Tears in the Fence provides a balanced content of poetry, prose and reviews and we are thrown straight into poetry after the contents page. The Editor, David Caddy, in contrast to many other journals, prefers to provide a quite substantial afterword. In this issue, Caddy considers our reading habits, but maintains a distinctively subjective view. His tone is serious and maintains a highly respectful stance on all things poetic.

The poetry is interesting and varied; both in subject matter and form, and the majority of poets are represented by more than one piece of work. The poems of Lyn Lifshin stood out for me as they reflected a higher standard than some of the other contributors to this volume. The prose, in general, seemed of lesser calibre, with the exception of LATTER DAYS by Ernest Swallow, a poignant story about coping with Alzheimer's and mental illness (although the opening paragraphs were in need of editing).

The reviews cover a large spectrum of writers and assume a certain level of academic knowledge in the reader. This causes some of the writing to be somewhat dry in tone, but nevertheless offering very interesting and informative views on their subjects. THE SLEEPING PHILOSOPHER: ANDRE BRETON, by Sean Elliott, was particularly interesting.

Tears in the Fence strikes me as a journal with a particular readership market. While it lacks the approachability and user-friendly tone of some journals of its kind (there is no letters section, for example), it doesn't confine itself to restrictive, academic substance either.

I have an aesthetic argument with the cover of this issue — black ink on very dark green paper gives a dull lie to the very useful in-depth reviews and a fair quota of the poems, all in very readable inside format of almost 150 pages and value for the sub. I am sure that David Caddy could fix on something more attractive. To a lesser degree previous covers have also been lack-lustre.

SELECTED POEMS OF BUDDHADEVA BOSE (OUP New Delhi) translated by Ketaki Kushari Dyson, is reviewed by Debjani Chatterjee. Bose died in 1974, but his influence was wide in the Calcutta Bengali community and other groups. He gave his efforts to trends in modernisation of poetry which grew in some protest from generations who sought their voices previously somewhat subdued under their master poet Rabindranath Tagore. The modernisation in Bengali poetry was long overdue and Bose's influence pioneered the change. A welcome, if late, review about Bose, itself overdue.

Also in the review section is an interesting essay by Ian Brinton on Gary Snyder, headed with a quote from Snyder's 1959 book RIPRAP, who in turn had explained (as many will know) that its title means 'a cobble of stone laid on a steep slick rock' used to make a trail for horses. Snyder spent much time working on the trails, far from the 'assets' of civilisation, and came to identify himself completely with the natural world. He was not just a poet of place but poet, place and poetry were one. Brinton digresses around in his essay on the place theme, mentioning the words or experiences of others to bring home this point. It is important because it seems to me that poetry can achieve a higher consciousness if this unificaton can be achieved naturally and the micro poet is submerged in macro nature, not just attached to or describing nature. By the same principle, in my opinion, a poet describing a point in history is a minor compared with one who can dream to the point where he was there and part of the atmosphere — so long as he/she does not distort fact. Brinton, quoting Snyder, tells us that the latter held archaic values:

They go back to the Neolithic: the fertility of the soil, the magic of animals, the power-vision in solitude . . . the love and ecstacy of the dance, the common work of the tribe . . .

	There are gates now at Selbourne,
	a series of gates, leading on
	to a wider view. Could you have coped
	with a wider view? You seem to have taken
	no notice of busy-ness, events or activities
	outside your walls. A world of upheaval and you,
	cocooned in a cameo with flowers and fruit.

	. . . book of nature
	ever open is beginning to close,
	for us.

	... 

	But there is time, you would have replied,
	for strolling along with a tortoise,
	for pairing of patridges
	and the last crocus of spring.

	    . . . as the weathers slam,
	igniting the sky, your death is something I trace
	in the hairs on the back of my hand
	that stand a little, as if to salute you.
	Where can I lead you now
	but through myself, through the imprint you leave,
	that limited download, complete and unmute?

	And he
	Ever faithful attendant
	Seeking to find answers
	Concealed in the cosmos

	'I suppose . . .' he suggests
	'For what it's worth,' he tenders
	'I'm not sure.' He openly confesses

	'Let's explore!'

	Only the dishes in the kitchen waiting
	Yet to be washed; these conquered, you will lay
	Your gentle weapons past.
	But now, inflating
	The room with urgency, the telly prattles
	Of tension, riots and international lies
	And you are posted from the litle battles
	Into a struggle with no compromise.