Jen Hadfield is the youngest poet ever to win the T S Eliot Prize. She is mightily gifted and has a voice that melts the legs and caused a mild palpation in this gentleman's chest! Hear her read on the magnificent Poetry Archive-(Very well done indeed Andrew Motion). 'Nigh-No-Place,' her second collection reeks of the harbour-smells of Scottish islands-those God-droppings set in sapphire seas. Shetland in particular forms her muse and thank the Gods for poets who actually love the land, who love her fiercely and passionately. The landscapes of city-dwelling poems are mute by comparison. There is a lilting thread that gently weaves a skein through all these poems. Language used like brushes of gentle light to articulate the moods of weather, the blashy-wadder, the inner moods. Here sheep and cats and dogs are characters as much as people. There is a refreshing sincerity in Jen's poems. When I went back to my own work I was struck by my poetry's gravitas, its metropolitan disdain or pehaps the frown it wears as it looks around for victims (I mean subjects!)... Ahem. Jen's poems have none of that-they are indeed fresh, open and full of youth's yearning outwards to the world. My favourite was "Odysseus and the Sou'wester". My favourite line-"The heron like a sickle reaps an Iron-Age sun." I wish her well in what promises to be a very fruitful career.
Buy the book and read it slowly rolling the words inside your skull as you would a good wine in your mouth. There's iodine from the seaweed gathering in your nostrils as you read this verse. Sit with it and carry the poems around for a few days. There's a waft of Lagavulin here. These poems take you back to what really matters-they mind you what poetry's for.