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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry: Consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and Other Pieces of Our Earlier Poets. Volume 1

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The poet John Clare (1793-1864) wrote in a letter of 4 July 1820: 'Drury has sent me 3 vols calld "Percys Relics" -- there is some sweet Poetry in them and I think it the most pleasing book I ever happend on -- the tales are familiar from childhood' (Letters, p.82).

He later wrote in his Journal of 5 Nov 1824: 'Read in Bishop Percys poems the 'Relic of ancient poetry -- take them up as often as I may I am always delighted there is so much of the essence and simplicity of true poetry that makes me regret I did not see them sooner as they would have formd my taste and laid the foundation of my judgement in writing and thinking poetically -- as it is I feel indebted to them for many feelings'

When one realizes that Clare was one of the very greatest poets of the Romantic Period, these remarks come as high praise indeed and it would be difficult to find a better recommendation.

Geoffrey Grigson, one of his early editors, tells us that "Clare was a great man, a great poet [of] such crystalline ability, such lucidity, such incandescence of mental substance..." This too is very high praise indeed, and one wonders just what it was that a brilliant man such as Clare found so appealing in the collection of poems so lovingly gathered together by Bishop Percy; exactly what was this "essence and simplicity of true poetry" that he felt was of such great value?

The word "Progress", as providing an official rationale for the modern age, is much bandied about today. But what does it really mean? So far as I can see, all that "Progress" has really involved is a massive movement from the natural to the artificial, from simplicity to complexity, and some would go even further and add from vitality to sterility.

Can we really claim that what is signified by "Progress" has been in accord or harmonized with our true nature? Isn't it rather the case that we live today in a world in which we have been fobbed off with a profusion of artificial substitutes for real things, substitutes that fail dismally to feed the spirit?

Clare lived in a world in which this Juggernaut of artificiality was making greater and greater inroads into life. As a natural man, and, as Grigson points out, a poet centered in "being" as opposed to pretense, I think it must have been a manifestation of "being" itself, a depth that nourishes the spirit, that he found in these wonderful old poems.

I think that reading them must have enabled him, and can enable us, to escape, even if only temporarily, from the stultifying pretentiousness and superficiality of the modern world. These seemingly simple poems feed the spirit by awakening our deepest feelings; they return us to what is natural; they reach into and touch our true self. And this, perhaps, is the reason for their great appeal.

As for those lovers of poetry whose interest may now have been awakened in John Clare, a man cruelly marginalized by the establishment and who is in consequence not nearly so well-known as he deserves to be, an anthology of his works that can be highly recommended is: John Clare Major Works (Oxford World's Classics)

If you don't already know Clare you are assured of the poetic discovery of a lifetime.