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Another 5weet (Southern PoetRecently the Neale Publishing Company, o-f Washington, D. C-, ‘has brought out an attractive little volume of poems from the pen of Frances Guignard Gibbes and the critics ere saying some very nice things bout the work of this accomplished young southern writer. Her poetic taste asserts itself in the choice of her subjects as well as in the music of her lines, and she writes in an exquisite vein of sentiment which shows that she has not simply dropped into verse as many of our emotional friends are inclined to do at this season of the year, but has actually been on close and Intimate terms with the muses. Though not without the faults common to young writers, some of the poems in this little collection are as graceful as anything we have recently seen in print, and w’e congratulate the author upon the superior quality of her work. Such melodies are more than welcome in this sordid age ofcommercialism.Writing of Miss Gibbes, The Washington Post, her home paper, says:Miss Gibbes has lived In Washington for two years, and she has spent most cf that time in haTd, earnest work on her poems. She is a native of South Carolina, and her childhood was passed In Columbia, the city of her birth. She is -a descendant of Robert Gibbes, one of the colonial governors of South Carolina, and one of her ancestors on the maternal side was the noted son, of Gunston Hall, Md. Robert Globes, her grandfather, was one of the most noted men of letters the Palmetto State ever produced. In speaking to a Post'! reporter the other day Miss Gibbes said she had never had a poem published prior to the appearance of her work in book form.I suppose I was too sensitive.” she j said. Not even the members of my j family ever saw a stanza that I com- I posed. It was not exactly the fear of ridicule; it lay deeper than that. I shivered at the thought of sharing my dreams with anyone that would not un- j derstand and appreciate them. I did not care so much for myself as I did for the children of my heart. Poetry is not a product of the mind, as we commonly understand the term. Intellect is too cold, too critical. It freezes the imagination and the emotions.I know that many of my verses have faults of what is known as technique, but that will coine later. I believe that I have preserved the rhythm, for my love of music is a safe guide in this respect. But when It comes to a clash between form and feeling I prefer to preserve the feeling, although many will doubtless differ with me there.“I began writing when I was little more than a child, but I hid my verses from the eyes of everyone. Of course, nature appeals to me more strongly than anything else as a source of inspiration. I love poetry, and have always preferred it to fiction. Next to Shakespeare I care, more for Keats, Shelley and Heine. Thefr poems are better sustained, and their themes are not so Titanic that we cannot grasp them easily.”Miss Gibbes was the first woman to enter South Carolina university, where she put in several years of hard study. She says that at first she encountered some prejudice on the part of the young men who objected to co-education, but the natural chivalry.of the southernersoon overcame this feeling, and she was subjected to no unpleasantness.We quote this criticism from one who has carefully analyzed the author's work-In her ‘Interpretation of Titian’s Assumption’ we see an example of the highest poetic Inspiration. Other poems are full of what Matthew Arnold called the ’Celtic element,’ but which is peculiar to no race or people. I am confident that with closer attention to technique, which comes with time and experience. Miss Gibbes will show herself to be ir* line with the standard set by Edith Thomas and Imogene Cuiney.Undoubtedly Miss Gibbes may be expected to give us something which will silence the critics who cater so much to form in verse. The high, imaginative type of her work holds forth a brilliant promise. There is nothing cheap about the sentiment, while at the same timeFrances Gui^nard Gibbesthere is plenty of warmth. Even if she had done nothing else, the following would offer a bright augury:”1 heed no count of mortal years, my heartIs young as yonder song—his first love-songThat bird is singing as he soars, with strong,Swift wing beats, mighty in his love; my heartLoves with his, soaring, too, and is a partOf his deep joyousness. I sit amongThe grasses, ’mid the new-blown buds, and flongTill longing makes all sense of self depart.And I am young and tender with the bloomOf spring. Out in the world there form debarsCommunion. In the nlghtime, with the sod.For resting place, I soar from spirit*} tombTo feel the grand, hushed stillness of the stars.And I am Youth Eternal, one with God.
Newspaper Details
Atlanta Sunny South
Atlanta, Georgia, US
Sat, May 03, 1902
Page 1
Full Page
Clipped by
Jane D.
MD, USA 17 Feb 2021
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