Poets are mad. To which tired statement we would usually find ourselves obliged to append ’as the received wisdom goes’; sadly, we can now dispense with that obligation, at least in part. The evidence that poets belong to the most mentally unstable of professions is now statistical as well as anecdotal...
Poets are mad. To which tired statement we would usually find ourselves obliged to append ’as the received wisdom goes’; sadly, we can now dispense with that obligation, at least in part. The evidence that poets belong to the most mentally unstable of professions is now statistical as well as anecdotal.* The systematic interrogation of one’s own unconscious is dangerous and perhaps foolhardy work; but poets have no alternative, if they are to access those darker corridors of the memory and imagination from which they might recover the true poem. The doors to these rooms often open more easily than they close, and the consequent leakage between the two worlds is poetry’s unique occupational hazard, like drummer’s tinnitus or miner’s emphysema. No surprise, then, that when it comes to that most delicately fraught of subjects - themselves - many poets are either legendarily reticent or evasive, both strategies deriving from a strongly and sensibly self-protective urge. So this booka guide to the work of almost all the major poets published in the UK in the last fifty years, written by the poets themselves-would have been impossible either to commission or to edit; it had to be got by surreptitious means.