‘The process by shy courtesy, with a touch of caution’

Richard Church is an almost-forgotten name now; minor poet, critic, novelist, editor of Dylan Thomas at Dent. I came across a book of his essays last weekend – Calm October, from 1961, secondhand, rather faded and worn. I flicked through and a couple of things caught my eye. He writes about his teenage poetry enthusiasms in a manner no-one would now use. It would be embarrassingly old-fashioned. It’s worth quoting:

‘Edmund Spenser – the first poetry to come upon me with a flash of lightning and a drum-roll of divine thunder. I shall never forget how, at the threshold of manhood, I came upon The Faerie Queene, reading it with no discrimination, totally undeterred by its confined and somewhat sanctimonious allegory. I waded through those thousands of stanzas, collecting each one as though it were a deep-sea pearl for which I had dived, to come up with aching breast, but the treasure in my hand.’

I must admit I rather envy him. I don’t think I ever had that kind of early experience, certainly not with Spenser. I had poets I became keen on – there they are, in the photo above – but it was more like a gradually dawning sense that these might be books I would want to buy, and re-read, for my own interest, not just because I had to read them for school. Mostly men, I admit (the Plath is a more recent replacement for a battered copy) and some I read less often than I once did (Adrian Mitchell) but I don’t regret my adolescent choices. They seem very mainstream poets now, but I can still remember the mixture of excitement and awkwardness when I brought them home from the bookshop. It was a peculiar thing to buy a book of poetry.

I once heard David Constantine talk about the blue Edward Thomas volume at the London Review Bookshop. He said it was his first experience of Thomas, and he knew very quickly this poet would matter to him. That puts it nicely – these poets didn’t turn my world upside down, but I knew I wanted them around.

A little more of Richard Church’s prose. I think it’s worth a brief salvage from secondhand obscurity:

‘I was browsing the other day through a new book of poems. That’s the best way to approach a poet’s work. I would call it the process by shy courtesy, with a touch of caution. Then, if the savour is right, and if we feel that here is matter to our spiritual and aesthetic betterment, we can plunge in, give ourselves up confidently to the new music of a word-artist who deserves this expense of time and attention.’

I wouldn’t talk of ‘spiritual betterment’ but I think he’s right. We dip our toes in the water before we plunge in. Not everyone is worth the effort.