Mr. Fuller's post-war poetry has generally been that of a quiet, contemplative family man who uses the trivial happenings of domestic existence as a starting-point for an analysis of the larger horrors of modern life. His viewpoint is suburban rather than metropolitan or rural, his tone is wry, ironic and dryly critical, his mood tends to be gloomy. The experiences out of which his poetry is created are rarely beyond the reach of the ordinary commuting man: his attitude to them is deprecating, rational, closely observant. His poetry could be said to put dullness under a microscope, to restate the familiar commonplaces of human life in terms that are sometimes amused, sometimes tragic, but always to the point. His style, as befitting his subjects, is sober, neat, unadorned: the wilder passions, the deeper fantasies, the more beguiling landscapes are outside not his range, not his experience, not his...