for Robert Bloomfield
26,000 copies. Twenty-six thousand
sold within two years, The Farmer’s Boy
by Robert Bloomfield, Suffolk-born
self-taught peasant poet. Blum-field.
Too weak to work on the land, he left
for London to learn a trade and wrote
the verse that made his name. Hero to John Clare
who treasured a scrap of his handwriting,
for Byron he was The Cobbler Laureate
whose success robbed us of a great shoemaker.
Poor Bob. He couldn’t forget his poverty, writing
to brother George, The sunshine of fortune
may require an umbrella. And the downpour
was constant. He buried a daughter,
his family exploited his kindness, his wife
gave their money to a religious sect, his publisher
went bust, his income dried up, his health (never good)
grew worse – headaches, rheumatism, eyesight
failing. His words though, hammered out
to the rhythms and din of the workshop
were re-read for a century or more,
became poems people found on their tongue,
recited from, they memorised reams, lines
he had carried in his head, given his mind to
until he could nail them down for good.
from The Swan Machine (2016)