Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

The publication of RS Thomas’ last twelve years of poems may have a particular resonance for some among our group. Longer serving members will recall that Cannon Poets was one of Thomas’ sponsors when he was nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996. That Thomas was not awarded the prize is neither a reflection on our judgement nor on his stature as a poet. We knew we were pushing our luck only a year after Heaney - another English-language poet and fellow Celt to boot – but we had the satisfaction of endorsing perhaps the greatest Welsh poet of the century (and the Nobel Prize went to a poet in any case – Wislawa Szymborska of Poland).

In more general terms, however, there may be many who will initially resist the work of an octogenarian Welsh clergyman as he approached the 21st century (which he just made). What relevance could his poetry have for younger minds grappling with the issues, problems and, indeed, the terrors of our globalised, shrinking planet? Given that Thomas’ preoccupation is with God his chances look slim. The fact that he, a lifelong cleric, appears to question the traditional view of God may hold a clue: ‘What God is proud / of this garden / of dead flowers, this underwater / grotto of humanity / … / a sacrifice prepared / by a torn god to a love fiercer / than we can understand.’ (‘Geriatric’.)  The interest is in the shift from ‘God’ to ‘god’ in the space of a few lines. What Thomas is doing is redefining the canonical view, as becomes clearly evident in other poems which owe more to his identification with the work of Kierkegaard than the Old Testament.

Thomas has been accused, in his latter years, of trying to tackle too much. Indeed, he has a go at many things – war, politics, technology – but his modifying view is always that of the poet. If poetry has a function it is to offer an alternative language as a tool with which to examine and express. His opinions, which may not be everyone’s, are made clear in his poems, as in ‘Hark’, when one classical subject – Echo – warns another – Narcissus: ‘Yet the scientist still bends / over his cloning / … / irrefutable beside the gene pool.’ The wry, almost Joycean, word play reminds us that Thomas is not without humour.

It is Thomas’ uncertainties, the frequent questions he asks, that probably have the widest appeal. Here is a man whose prejudices clearly showed earlier in life – his pro-Welsh posturings are well-known (‘…he didn’t object to the odd holiday cottage going up in smoke,’ as John Greening has said), now offering to share his doubts. In his best poems these often find their expression in his favourite theme, the Welsh landscape, its mountains, valleys, woods, its mammal and bird life – especially the last: ‘There is a tremor / of light, as of a bird crossing / the sun’s path, and I look / up in recognition / of a presence in absence.’ (‘No Time’.) This is one of many poems written to his late wife, some of the most tender and haunting in the book.

There is often an assumption among critics that artists must fade away towards the end and they feel quite affronted if one is seen actually to gain strength. As with Beethoven’s last quartets, it may prove that this artist still has much and more to tell us, in an even more challenging way. Thomas saved some of his best till last and if I were to sum up this final collection in a word it would have to be ‘rewarding’. That surely gives hope to us all!