Two farewells by two grand old poets — but only one of them has been awarded the Nobel Prize. True, Hill has belatedly been knighted; and his election to the Oxford chair — the same one that provoked Walcott's line about "the jealousy, the spite, the nastiness" — has provided him with the platform he needs to expound his poetics. Yet Hill is still, even as an octogenarian, writing against the tide in his lone struggle to bring "the energy of intelligence" created by poetry and its criticism to bear on public life. For his mythopoeic archaism, Hill has been mercilessly, perhaps deservedly, mocked, notably by Wendy Cope in her parody of the first of his Mercian Hymns, "Duffa Rex". Here is Hill:
And this is Cope:
Yet Hill is no obscurantist and his tireless advocacy occasionally breaks through. The late Seamus Heaney, in his 1995 Nobel acceptance speech, echoed Hill's connection between form and value. For Heaney: "Poetic form is the ship and the anchor." In tempestuous times — in his case the Troubles that tore apart his homeland — Heaney invoked poetry to remind us "that we are hunters and gatherers of values". He entitled the speech Crediting Poetry and so he did. But Hill has devoted, not just a speech, but his whole life to the pursuit of an altogether more ambitious and demanding conception of what Michael Oakeshott called "the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind". The Nobel prizes will always go to the Walcotts and Heaneys, who delight the ear but are content to go with the flow. Hill is an ancient mariner who will not let us go so easily: his manner is importunate and even his beard is rebarbative.
For Hill, we who are privileged to dwell in the land of Shakespeare and Milton are in danger of squandering our most precious inheritance: our literature, and especially our poetry, which is the enduring source of our national identity. "The writing and criticism in depth of poetry is an essential, even a vital practice," he told the Oxford audience. "We are in our public life desperately in need of the energy of intelligence created by these pursuits." Only poetry and its rigorous criticism can discern "how the uncommon work moves within the common dimension of language". Politics is no less dependent on language than poetry, but it is a great deal less attuned to the uncommon work. Poets, if they could only raise their sights from their navel-gazing, could and should be the unacknowledged legislators of our hearts.
The gauntlet he throws down to those in the public square is a moral imperative: speak as though your words mattered so much that even if they were never to be forgotten, you would still stand by them. Geoffrey Hill speaks like that. So should we all.
King of the perennial holly-groves, the riven sandstone: overlord of the M5: architect of the historic rampart and ditch, the citadel at Tamworth, the summer hermitage in Holy Cross: guardian of the Welsh Bridge and the Iron Bridge: contractor to the desirable new estates: saltmaster: moneychanger: commissioner for oaths: martyrologist: the friend of Charlemagne.
"I liked that," said Offa, "sing it again."
And this is Cope:
King of the primeval avenues, the municipal parklands: architect of the Tulse Hill Poetry Group: life and soul of the perennial carousals: minstrel: philatelist: long-serving clerical officer: the friend of anyone who's anyone.
"Pack it in," said Duffa, "and buy me a drink."
Yet Hill is no obscurantist and his tireless advocacy occasionally breaks through. The late Seamus Heaney, in his 1995 Nobel acceptance speech, echoed Hill's connection between form and value. For Heaney: "Poetic form is the ship and the anchor." In tempestuous times — in his case the Troubles that tore apart his homeland — Heaney invoked poetry to remind us "that we are hunters and gatherers of values". He entitled the speech Crediting Poetry and so he did. But Hill has devoted, not just a speech, but his whole life to the pursuit of an altogether more ambitious and demanding conception of what Michael Oakeshott called "the voice of poetry in the conversation of mankind". The Nobel prizes will always go to the Walcotts and Heaneys, who delight the ear but are content to go with the flow. Hill is an ancient mariner who will not let us go so easily: his manner is importunate and even his beard is rebarbative.
For Hill, we who are privileged to dwell in the land of Shakespeare and Milton are in danger of squandering our most precious inheritance: our literature, and especially our poetry, which is the enduring source of our national identity. "The writing and criticism in depth of poetry is an essential, even a vital practice," he told the Oxford audience. "We are in our public life desperately in need of the energy of intelligence created by these pursuits." Only poetry and its rigorous criticism can discern "how the uncommon work moves within the common dimension of language". Politics is no less dependent on language than poetry, but it is a great deal less attuned to the uncommon work. Poets, if they could only raise their sights from their navel-gazing, could and should be the unacknowledged legislators of our hearts.
The gauntlet he throws down to those in the public square is a moral imperative: speak as though your words mattered so much that even if they were never to be forgotten, you would still stand by them. Geoffrey Hill speaks like that. So should we all.
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