Madam, - Our finest poet - as gauged by sheer quality of output - has written a piece of prose reportage that we should read and re-read until we become sufficiently ashamed of ourselves to do what he suggests, namely, to - eek! - actually buy the books of those living poets whose work cuts under our fog and goes straight to the heart and, tougher, the brain (John F. Deane, "The death of poetry", Features, January 4th).
Here's a suggested start: Dublin airport. You arrive, assaulted everywhere by glitzy giant posters of our four Nobel Literature laureates meant to demonstrate to the world that we're still a cultured country. You go into any of the airport bookstores and find that not a single one of their works is stocked, only glitz and much that rhymes with glitz.
It is, however, possible for us to open our brains and our wallets at the same time, and that, I believe, Mr Deane shockingly suggests we do, before we sink back into a primal bog that we can't blame England for this time. - Yours, etc.,
RICHARD W. HALPERIN, Paris.