John Clare (1) (1793–1864)

Clare is great for nature poetry, but gets dull quickly because he never looks *into* things; he only sees the surface. Wordsworth, by contrast, though often thought of as a nature poet, doesn't describe things with any detail most of the time, but his nature is somehow more real by being transcendent (or transcended, perhaps).

Clare's lack of punctuation and capitalization also tires one a few poems in. Sure, it's easy to get used to it and figure sentence and clause breaks, for the most part, on the fly, but it's more work than one really wants from poetry, or rather not the *sort* of work one wants. Think of it like reading Spenser (or whomever you like) without the spelling modernized or even reading Middle English: it's that much work without any of the fun.

The poems are full of repeated thoughts and lines, and one would be forgiven for never reading another line of Clare the first time he uses one of his favorite words, "pooty," for "snail." I'm not sure which is worse between that and "diaper" used by Herrick to mean "with an interlacing pattern."

When Clare's poems are about natural objects, they are interesting enough taken in small portions. Interest rises when Clare writes about himself and/or love. Sadly, the poems with love as their subject are almost exclusively from the period of Clare's madness, as are his only satirical pieces (included in this selection, anyway), an attempt at "Childe Harold" and "Don Juan." One hesitates to say that a man is more interesting when mad, but it seems to be the case with Clare.

I can't say I'm sad to be done with this book. Perhaps a smaller selection would have been wiser, but I have wanted to read Clare for some time, and I have a thing about getting all or most of a poet's works in one volume when possible. I see that the Penguin edition has considerably fewer poems than this Oxford World Classics, but it doesn't seem to have added punctuation either.

I don't think I'll ever read another poem about a bird's nest again.… (meer)

I do not know this collection, but John Clare's poetry is one of the most moving bodies of work anywhere. I feel much akin to Clare, as someone who emerged from the most backward of rural places, and who is haunted by the fact that that place made me, created my potentials, gave me its sensual and harsh nature, so I feel responsible to it.

John Clare bore this burden much more heavily, and more responsibly, than I, as he was the only--the only--voice saying anything like what he said, and somehow noone really understood its import. In some ways he himself did, but his role was not one that could be borne alone, and it broke him.

I first heard his name in a John Berryman poem, where Berryman calls him "that sweet man, John Clare." No better phrase, no better praise, could be devised.… (meer)