Inspiration andnCraftnby David R. SlavittnCollected Poems 1930-1986nby Richard EberhartnNew York: Oxford UniversitynPress; $29.95nNew and Collected Poemsnby Richard WilburnNew York: Harcourt BracenJovanovich; $27.95na T ake these two books,” is annentirely arbitrary prompting bynan editor who happened to have themnaround on a shelf. Willy-nilly, here theynare together, and one looks at them,nshuffling through the poems, some familiarnand some not. And there is anmoment when the rightness of thenconjunction seems wonderful! A piecenorganizes itself: Eberhart is a poet ofninspiration, taking odd chances, fallingnon his face more often than any practitionernof comparable distinction in ourntime; Wilbur is a careful, consummate,nalmost intimidating craftsman who nevernmakes technical errors. Thus an ideanforms itself, whether, for a book reviewnor essay, or for a poem, or anything else,nI should think. And as honest as we cannbe about our recollections of what actuallyntakes place in that mysterious instant,nit seems pretty cleady to be somencombination of revelation and drudgery,nepiphany and skill, or whatever wenchoose to call these opposing dualities.nYou don’t get to choose what kind ofnwriter you’re going to be. It is a mercynthat most writers tend to approve of thenkind they are, but that isn’t alwaysnabsolutely the case. There can be somengenerosity of spirit (or even some envy)nby which you can see a blessing in thenother kind of gift.nEberhart is a winner of the BoUingennand Pulitzer prizes and the NationalnBook Award, a former consultant innpoetry at the Library of Congress. Henhas all the heavyweight credentials. Andnhe has a respectable number of finenpoems, even some “great” poems, ifn38/CHRONICLESnREVIEWSnthat word means anything. What Inmean by it is that he has written at leastna few poems many of us read in highnschool, studied in a curriculum thatnincluded Homer and Chaucer andnShakespeare and Pope. When we looknback now at the texts of those schoolnset-pieces in a freshly printed volume —n”The Groundhog,” “The Fury of AerialnBombardment,” “If 1 Could OnlynLive at the Pitch That Is Near Madness,”nand one or two others — I findnthat those pieces were not overpraised,nor at least they haven’t dated any. Theynstill seem solid and lively, and intricatenand passionate. Whatever poems arensupposed to do or be, whatever kinds ofnexcellences poetry is supposed to embody,nthey do and are, and this does.nOn the other hand, there are, in thisnnot-very-well-produced 444-page volumen(no index of titles or first lines, a lotnof show-through in the paper, and bindingnthat even Doubleday would havenbeen ashamed of in the worst of its badnold days), poems that seem amateurishnand deplorable. The elegant rhymesnand off-rhymes of “Aerial Bombardment”nmust have been as much a gift ofninspiration as Eberhart has alwaysnclaimed, because the clunky and deplorablendemonstrations of some of hisnother rhymed pieces prove there wasn’tnanything reliable working like skill ornproficiency or even taste. (It’s okay tonwrite terrible things if you have the goodnsense to throw them away soonnafterward — one wonders on thenstrength or weakness of some of thesenpieces how well Eberhart can read!)nBegin at the beginning, with a piecenthat is actually a fragment of a longnautobiographical poem, the openingnpoem in this volume, “This FeversnMe,” which starts well enough:nThis fevers me, this sunnon green,nOn grass glowing, this youngnspring.nThe secret hallowing is come,nRegenerate sudden incarnation.nMystery made visiblenin growth, yet subtly veilednin all,nUnunderstandable in grass.nIn flowers, and in thennnhuman heart.nThis lyric mortal loveliness.nThe earth breathing, andnthe sun.nThe young lambs sport,nnone udderless.nI beg your pardon? “None udderless?”n”That it has a meaning — no lambnis without a mother with an udder—isnalmost secondary to its astonishing dopiness,nthe cracked-gong rhyme withn”loveliness,” the break in the tone. Itnwould be churiish to advert to suchnlapses if they were rare, but they aren’t.nThey’re common, even usual. Morenthan half of the poems in this booknought to have been suppressed on thengrounds that they were loaded withnsodden abstractions, marred by clankingnand inept rhymes, deformed by a windynpreachiness that lards over authenticnand honest observations and juxtapositions.nAnd yet, there are the othernpoems, not all of them great but manynof a high order of accomplishment, thatnmake it worth your while to hacknthrough the linguistic underbrush, oftennwith a machete, to get to the good stuff.nAmateurish, I have said, and thatnseems more and more to be the rightnword, for the gifted amateur relies onninspiration, is open to almost anything,nimprovises what his craft can’t supply,nand is therefore liable to make gesturesnthat a more traditionally and reliablyntrained practitioner might never thinknof. Emily Dickinson was an amateur,nwhich is one reason she is so impossiblyndifficult to imitate. Eberhart’s amateurishnessnis evident even in his famousnand “great” poems. How else can onenaccount for the third line of “ThenGroundhog”:nIn June amid the golden fields,n1 saw a groundhog lying dead.nDead lay he; my sensesnshook . . .nWho else would risk hoots of derisivenlaughter that any shrewder operatornmight have predicted with “Dead laynhe,” which, against all odds, does worknsomehow? And what other 20thcenturynpoet of any competence ornreputation would risk the windy elevationnof the end of the poem? It oughtn