Robert Francis's A Certain Distance is an ill-conceived project. In his introductory remarks, Francis refers to the "erotic impulse" which has prompted artists, through the ages to concentrate on the female form in their paintings and poems. He avers that the same impulse has led him to write this group of poem-pictures of the male form. While I can sympathize with the motive and the interest, it seems to me that Francis is, perhaps, working out of a tradition which dooms his project to just the embarrassing sentimentality and simpering obliquity which characterize this volume. There have been volumes by individuals, and anthologies as well, of homoerotic poems. None has yet risen above maudlin self-congratulation. A revolution in consciousness and form is necessary if this situation is ever to be alleviated. If an example is needed, we can look at one of the typically failed-Keatsian efforts:

                 Boy over water,
                 Boy waiting to plunge
                 Into still water
                 Among white clouds
                 That will shatter
                 Into bright foam—
                 I could wish you
                 Forever bronze
                 And the blue water
                 Never broken.

That kind of eroticism must remind us that Faust was damned the moment he stretched forth his hand to stop the fleeting moment.