P. J. Kavanagh
A poetry highlight of the year was a new Collected Poems of Louis MacNeice (Faber, £30, edited by Peter McDonald). The previous Collected (1966), by E. R. Dodds, MacNeice's classical mentor and friend, had difficulties with chronology and, good as it is, has an air of rush about it. Here all is satisfactorily tidied up, one imagines for good. A hugely enjoyable poet, MacNeice (1907-63) had a dull patch in his middle years but by the time of his early death had come brilliantly back into form.
Another Collected of a poet I enjoy was Anthony Thwaite's (from Enitharmon) — he was, incidentally, a junior colleague of MacNeice's at the BBC. What these two poets have in common is clarity of form, interest of content and skill. Their poems, unlike some, do not read as though translated from Arabic and probably better in the original. I still cannot understand why more people don't read poetry: when it is good it is quicker.
Previous page
