Roddy Lumsden is dead. This isn’t the first time that phrase has been written down. With an upper-case ‘D’ on the fourth word, it was the title the St Andrews-born poet gave to his third collection published in 2003. The book contains a sequence of 42 poems under that collective title, which began with a piece called My Pain and ended with one called My Spring. This time, alas, it’s for real. The lower-case ‘d’ is the giveaway. It’s the sort of semantic detail that might have mattered to him. Either way, as of January 10 th 2020, Roddy Lumsden is dead, and one of the greatest poets – some might say the greatest – of his generation writing in English has left the building aged a far-too-soon 53. Roddy’s death isn’t much of a surprise. He’d been seriously ill for four years, and for the last two lived in a care home. But for anyone who knew him, read him or fan-boy-and-girled him from afar, it still hurts. Roddy’s poetry was a beguiling glimpse into the strange and complex world o
An archive of arts writing by Neil Cooper. Effete No Obstacle.