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Love of the land

Love of the land. A phrase so easy to say, almost a cliché. And yet it’s what Edward Thomas laid down his life for. There is a long, long tradition of poetry in English inspired by it, uplifted by it. Many of Carl Tomlinson’s poems are firmly in that tradition, and potently so.

Some of the time this land love is right in your face, like in the opening poem, ‘Baling’, where the poet remembers a childhood in which ‘We lived with the itching and the seeds in our hair / because that was the way we were made’. Or in ‘Coming to grief’ where

the breath of beasts on a winter day
and the sweetness of cowshit and hay
surprise that grief back into me.

The ‘grief’ in that poem is for loss of land, ‘fifty acres of gentle land’ sold by auction.

But it’s a grief that’s also a kind of joy. Because right now the poet is back farming land that is, in every sense, a rich source for him.

In ‘They moved our sky’, he celebrates ‘riches’ that are now

                 gathered here
by will and trust and deed
in the fields that I tread every day
to check the sheep,
or to see what’s new
among the trees

Even when his feeling for this territory isn’t obvious, it slips in round the edges, bringing different elements together. In ‘New forest’ ‘seeds are flown and blown / beyond boundaries [ … ] / They land in gardens, they muscle into hedges.’

In ‘To David on your 50th birthday’ (which is about the author’s brother, long dead), the poet mentions how ‘This morning the air is chill in my lungs / as I check up on things in the field’.

And in ‘Cherwell Valley nightscape’, the air is what the land breathes out as a kind of gift:

I borrow a breath of this shining air.
The vastness swallows what I offer in return.

But that’s how it is when poetry is imbued with love, whatever that love is for.

Here it’s for the land. You can’t miss it. (I loved it.)

Helena Nelson