"No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine-" A quote from Keats, Ode on Melancholy on the title page explains the title choice, and that is an interesting poem itself. This book isn't the best Powys (or book of poetry) that I've ever read. (I enjoy his fiction much more.) I'm sorry that I feel a bit ambivalent about it, I'm so rarely on the fence with a book, it leaves me unsettled. I take a very long time reading a book of poetry, taking it one at a time. I'd pick a poem, read it, the first few lines would be fine and then I wander off... They didn't pull me along like his run-on sentences, happily full of semi-colons and commas, skipping words like stones flung across the water. I think if he just gave up on trying to rhyme he'd have a better time and go "fuck all" free-verse all the way. (Personally, I'm a crappy poet and I know it, so I free-verse all over my poe-ems, if I ever rhyme it's by accident, and I'm probably doing it to be funny.) There's a sense of JCP's familiar brooding, death (lots remembrances of dead folk in the ground), and of course life especially nature, birds, trees, fog and flowers, rainy, earthy and lush mossy passions typical of him. I thought a lot about Wolf Solent (1929), his walks and pondering about life and death, daydreaming... his mythology.
Wolf's-bane.
Don't know, I'm probably reaching to make that possible connection with the beloved novel, but this thought makes me like this book a little more; enough to rethink and revisit. I normally do keep poetry books handy for a spell after I finish reading them just in case I missed something between the lines.
I happen to be reading from an original 1916 hardcover copy, not a Nook as noted here.