Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Great Regulars: And, after the poem has stopped,

it's as if it's still going on somewhere, the buffeting wind and flying mill-sails, the birds being bird-like, and the pigs grubbing up the acorns which are still falling, just beyond our view--and beyond Romantic convention. Even without the dialect, [John] Clare ensures his poem is wind-blown, moving, alive.


from Carol Rumens: The Guardian: Poem of the week: Autumn by John Clare


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