I Saw The Figure Forty-Five

I am 45 today. Perhaps not the Big 40, or indeed, 50 - or any later numero grande - but enough to make me wake up early and smell the coffee (then drink Roibos Tea instead). It helps that London is undergoing a Mediterranean Spring - it seems we are facing days of full sun and temperatures in the 20s. I have been taking stock lately, and I count myself lucky to be here, today. I am pleased as punch to be at this mid-stage, and still standing.

Five years ago, we all went through hell in my family as my Dad died of brain cancer. Shortly thereafter, three of my closest family members died. Then, three years ago, I received news that I had a rare condition (not one I want to write of here today, but suffice it to say I explore it in my poems these days) which changed the dreams of my wife and I forever. My heart broke, and I became very ill with esophagitis, and depression. Fortunately, my wife assembled a crack medical team, and after two years of treatment or so, I am able to work again, and write, and teach, and enjoy most things I used to. True, there's no more caffeine, chocolate, alcohol, or orange juice in my diet, but I found replacements for those, and forged ahead.

At 45, I guess I once wanted other things - maybe a large family, maybe more literary success. The last few years allowed me to mellow, and yes, mature. I now realise a few things. Be glad for whatever life throws your way, and don't expect any favours from fate. And - anyone who writes poems for anything other than love of the art is barking up the wrong hat-stand.

I am turning in my PhD dissertation in the next few months. I have a job I enjoy. A fantastic partner. A faith that is stuttering back to life in fits and starts. Spotify to bring a million songs. Great friends and contacts all over the world. And several poetry collections on the way, in my native Canada.

In my darkest hours, about 18 months ago, I never imagined that I'd ever have two poems in Poetry magazine. That I'd be jogging in the sunlight. That I'd ever be happy again.

That's being blessed.

IQ AND THE POETS - ARE YOU SMART?

When you open your mouth to speak, are you smart? A funny question from a great song, but also, a good one, when it comes to poets, and poetry. We tend to have a very ambiguous view of intelligence in poetry, one that I'd say is dysfunctional. Basically, it goes like this: once you are safely dead, it no longer matters how smart you were. For instance, Auden was smarter than Yeats , but most would still say Yeats is the finer poet; Eliot is clearly highly intelligent, but how much of Larkin 's work required a high IQ? Meanwhile, poets while alive tend to be celebrated if they are deemed intelligent: Anne Carson, Geoffrey Hill , and Jorie Graham , are all, clearly, very intelligent people, aside from their work as poets. But who reads Marianne Moore now, or Robert Lowell , smart poets? Or, Pound ? How smart could Pound be with his madcap views? Less intelligent poets are often more popular. John Betjeman was not a very smart poet, per se....

Poetry vs. Literature

Poetry is, of course, a part of literature. But, increasingly, over the 20th century, it has become marginalised - and, famously, has less of an audience than "before". I think that, when one considers the sort of criticism levelled against Seamus Heaney and "mainstream poetry", by poet-critics like Jeffrey Side , one ought to see the wider context for poetry in the "Anglo-Saxon" world. This phrase was used by one of the UK's leading literary cultural figures, in a private conversation recently, when they spoke eloquently about the supremacy of "Anglo-Saxon novels" and their impressive command of narrative. My heart sank as I listened, for what became clear to me, in a flash, is that nothing has changed since Victorian England (for some in the literary establishment). Britain (now allied to America) and the English language with its marvellous fiction machine, still rule the waves. I personally find this an uncomfortable position - but when ...

"I have crossed oceans of time to find you..."

In terms of great films about, and of, love, we have Vertigo, In The Mood for Love , and Casablanca , Doctor Zhivago , An Officer and a Gentleman , at the apex; as well as odder, more troubling versions, such as Sophie's Choice and Silence of the Lambs . I think my favourite remains Bram Stoker's Dracula , with the great immortal line "I have crossed oceans of time to find you...".

E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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