Argot Muddles On

It is about time that some student productions stopped being a vehicle for the dissemination of the more adolescent fantasies of aging poets. Argot No. 13 begins with a contribution by Louis Johnson, hopefully entitled "Poem," and manages to include what we trust are cast-offs of James K. Baxter. Once, it is true, Mr. Johnson forgets to write verse about writing verse—but he damages a personal reminiscence by an awkward tribute to theme which bears an uncanny resemblance to afterthought. Mr. Baxter does manage to graduate from muddle in a public bar to the more subtle, even attractive, incoherence of The Ngaio Tree—but in the main there is little more than the careful use of pornography to no effect. Mr. Baxter, even if he has nothing to say, should have learnt by now how to say it competently.

Richard Packer produces one poem, in which he manages to come on first-name terms with Beethoven, and to run on lines in the most arch fashion: neither the name—nor the style—dropping proves particularly exciting. Hilaire Kirkland, on the other hand, may stimulate very young readers, of a sentimental strain.

The fantastic adventures of Peter Bland require a wide definition of poetry, yet in their slightly racy prose they achieve something of honesty, something of an ability to laugh. So much of this verse desperately needs a sense of humour—nothing is quite as embarrassing as deadly serious incompetence. But Mr. Bland's quality is not repeated: Mr. Johnson's prose-poetry offers no justification for having been written; Paul Gray's Uncommon Man Goes Xandu was doubtless included, judging from earlier issues of Argot, through a misguided loyalty to the cult of nonsense, on the part of the co-editor, Dennis List.

But if the non-student contributors are generally to be objected to, perhaps there are more encouraging signs from the students? The 'poem' of Simon Kendall may serve to demolish any delusions on that score:

"Guaranteed hand woven—by Specialist"

the rug says.

I wonder if it is?

Guess not—probably Japanese or put together by some drunken bastard at the local Disabled Servicemen's Centre

in a brief moment of sobriety.

That, apart from a concluding obscenity, is it.

It seems that there is little hope for student productions of this nature. It is true that some of the contributors have not been mentioned—they offend in less conspicuous ways. One or two do have their moments: Barry Southam, and Mark Young in particular, are writers who quite obviously will produce a poem from time to time. Unfortunately this was not one of the times.

It is hard to believe that a University community cannot publish something in the literary field, which is, if not good, then at least less horrific than Argot No. 13. In the meantime we can only hope that the Students' Association will not again see fit to associate with ventures of such calibre.—Peter Robb.