No-one teaches metre. Absolutely no-one. I had some excellent English teachers, but they all seemed to be bound by some Masonic vow not to disclose its secrets. I know a published poet, naturally gifted, a mobile library of learning, and utterly unable to communicate enjoyably even the basics of the lost rules of verse.
Stephen Fry steps in like a concerned uncle and jovially dismisses the nonsense preventing us from growing up and writing proper poetry, better, he accompanies us beyond the foreword so that this, if you ever had any doubt, is never a dry book. He imparts something at least as valuable as laughter (also included), a sense of achievement gained through real knowledge that you can apply, not mere trivia.
Even if you already write free verse and won’t give it up by the end, even if you never really intend to write poetry at all, this is an invaluable aid to understanding the great poets; your hat size will increase, other British people will be grudgingly impressed and grateful sons, daughters, and cute English students will want to spend more time with you, doing their homework for them.
Encouraging the population to write poetry could be a toxically dangerous thing to do, but not, I think, if they read this book.
