The three books under review here promote no generalisation about the condition of poetry, the health of the beast, unless they call to mind the difference between poems which are interesting from line to line and those which somehow resonate as wholes. R.H. Morrison, the eldest of the three poets, is the one who most often produces whole poems, at least to my ear.
Morrison is someone who has been around for years, writing a good deal, and translating poetry from several tongues. As far as I know he has not had wide recognition or publicity, and his latest book, Poems for an Exhibition, is not at all flash in its production. It is a subtle collection, though, suggesting that Morrison may well have had less than his due.