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Poetry on love biography

This obscure 19th-century Northamptonshire "peasant poet" (Clare was a casual agricultural labourer, forced by a crumbling rural economy to turn his hand to whatever he could to scratch a living) captures, as no other poet has, before or since, the peculiar raptures of nature-observation - that intense happiness which is born of self-obliterating precision, an art of pure "noticing" which is a form of love.Once one has read Clare, one can never forget him - his phrases lodge themselves in the mind. He is particularly evocative in his descriptions of the quality of light, which is why his many poems about autumn are so good. Walking in the past few weeks through the fields of Sussex, phrases from Clare constantly floated into my mind: autumn sunlight does make "the distance look downy"; and one re-appreciates starlings at dusk as "the starnel crowds that dim the muddy light". Clare is the poet of "a sweetness nothing could destroy/ The sunlight in the stream".It is shocking, but not surprising, that the poet who experienced and still transmits such intense joy should have spent the last 25 years of his life in a lunatic asylum, imagining that he was Queen Victoria's father, Lord Byron, Shakespeare or a prize-fighter; or that he was Wellington or Nelson and had had his head shot off in battle, letting all the words inside dribble out.He still, however, wrote poetry, often of an extraordinary and heightened lucidity. Many readers who are left unstirred by "nature poetry" will admire his poems of suffering. I Am, indeed, is one of the greatest poems of sheer despair ever written.One of the many good things about Jonathan Bate's biography is that he makes clear the connection between Clare's poetry of "wonder-seeking happiness" and his depression - without falling into cliches about genius and madness. Rightfrom the start, Clare's "simple" joy was sharpened precisely because he was possessed of a painfulawareness of its fragility. His poems of celebration are also poems of loss - actual or threatened.Loss began at birth. John Clare was born, as he wrote, "on July 13, 1793, at Helpstone, a gloomy village in Northamptonshire". He was a twin, of "waukly constitution"; but it was his sister, "a fine lively bonny wench", who died a few weeks later.His father was a flail-thresher and labourer. Clare attended the village schools, for a few months of each year, until he was 12 - earning the pennies to pay for his own education by threshing with his father, tending flocks, bird-scaring and the like. At school, he fell in love - "a romantic or Platonic sort of feeling" - with a farmer's daughter, Mary Joyce. Clare never forgot his first lost and innocent love: it became, indeed, an obsession.Schooling and childhood ended early, when Clare's father became crippled by rheumatism, and Clare was forced to support the family. He returns to his childhood again and again in his poetry as an Eden, a rural idyll - but sentimentality is checked by the superb energetic particularity of his memories, whether climbing the church porch to cut names upon the lead or pelting a snowman (nicknamed "Buonaparte"). Yet he wrote so vividly of the simple joys of childhood precisely because such simple joys were lost to his adult self.Even his passionate love of the local landscape offered no comforting stability. Rural England was being transformed by enclosures: between 1809 and 1817, the fencers and hedge-planters moved in on Helpston. Clare was devastated. Jonathan Bate is excellent on the social, ecological and emotional impact of enclosure upon Clare's way of life: his compulsion to record village rituals (Dusty Miller, Fiery Parrot, Bottled Hay . . .) was born from his knowledge that they would soon be gone for ever.In 1818 he found a publisher, capitalising on the tail-end of a vogue for "ploughboy" poets. He was "discovered" in the nick of time: his family, two years in arrears with the rent, were facing eviction from their tiny cottage. Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery, published in 1820, made him famous.But the fad for "untutored" rural poets was almost over.

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