The Poet: More Important Than King

Years ago, I heard poet David Whyte say that the title of ‘greatest poet in Ireland’ was once considered more important than ‘King’. He was recounting a tale about mythic Irish warrior-poet, Fionn mac Cumhaill, who indeed had this highest of blessings bestowed upon him.

In many ancient cultures, qualifications as a poet were essential to secure a military ranking. I’m reminded of the old adage, ‘never give a sword to a man who cannot dance’. As it was, Fionn was the last commander-in-chief of the Fianna with many of his adventures narrated by his son, the famed poet Oisín.

Once upon a time, poetry stood at the heart of culture. In the centre of the village, so to speak. Here in Australia, while less visible, the words of Dorothea Mackellar or Banjo Patterson are still woven into the very fabric of life in this sunburnt country. They are the threads themselves, allowing us to find our place in the greater Australian story.

Earlier this year, Australians were offered a new cultural policy, Revive, which carried with it the tag — “a place for every story, a story for every place”. It included the establishment of an Australian poet laureate, to be selected by a new literary funding body, Writers Australia.

The common understanding is that Australia has had only one poet laureate, a former convict, Michael Massey Robinson, who was appointed around 1810. He was given a couple of cows from the government herd for his duties.

On closer inspection, however, it seems the title Robinson earned was actually clerk of the government secretary’s office, and it was historians who later dubbed him poet laureate due to the official odes he wrote for royal birthdays, such as this one:

ILLUSTRIOUS QUEEN! exalted WIFE!
Ador’d thro’ ev’ry Stage of Life
By Nature’s Impulse taught to share
THY CONSORT’s ling’ring Hours of Care.

Robinson was an educated man — he obtained a law degree from Oxford — but was charged at the Old Bailey for attempted blackmail, found guilty and sentenced to death. This was changed to transportation, and he arrived at Sydney harbour in 1798.

It turns out his true crime was threatening to publish a poem — more a quip — he had written about a reputed London alderman who had been accused of murdering an employee.

This brings us to another ancient idea. Robinson is in effect ‘calling out’ through his poetry, and it nearly cost him his life. This was the role of many early poets, who even went by the name of skald or scop — which essentially means to mock, and are the roots of words such as scald and scope.

These poets brought some intelligent humour to the court through their artful mockery and also grounded the king or queen in some kind of humility, so they didn’t get swallowed whole by the exalted position’s intoxicating energy.

It was dangerous business for the poet, but they often had the private ear of the monarch.

Over time, this led to the ‘bards’ we are more familiar with in history. Once better paid, their work turned to one of praising their employer to the highest. Poet became publicist.

Maybe we see this very same pattern in our own ‘first’ poet laureate? From shining a light on alleged murderers to writing Hallmark cards for the Queen?

Nonetheless, it makes me wonder about the shape of our incoming poet laureate. I doubt we will see Michael Leunig, for example, receiving the honour. In a way, he has now assumed the role of scop — an unacceptable position to occupy these days. Like it or not, his direction-finding duck has been banished from the internal exploration of individual and collective soul; sent outwards beyond the horizon.

It reminds me of the bold appointment of the broody, yet irascible Ted Hughes in Britain. More Crow than Duck, however.

Hughes rekindled a tradition created by King Charles I in 1630, which provided an annual ‘butt of Canary wine’ for the poet laureate. For this, he received 720 bottles of sherry.

Humour aside, perhaps now we can see more clearly what’s at stake here. The nomination of our poet laureate is a matter of vital importance. The poet reflects our national consciousness, seen and unseen. For the latter, the poet operates in deep time, the shamanic keeper of keys to a door behind which something sacred stands.

They are a mythic bridge between the horizontal and vertical planes of life, keeping spirit alive and moving us to a different way of seeing.

“The poet lives and writes at the frontier between deep internal experience and the revelations of the outer world,” says David Whyte. “There is no going back once this frontier has been reached; a new territory is visible and what has been said cannot be unsaid.”

In many ways, this is an indigenous way of thinking. It speaks to the timeless, akin to the ‘dreamtime’ — something that is happening not just in the past, as many would have it, but in the present and the future, all at once.

It is in keeping with the true story of place, and it would make sense for our poet laureate to have just such a voice, one closer to circular breathing.

There a multitude of deserving candidates.

Consider Yankunytjatjara woman, Ali Cobby Eckermann. Among her many accolades is Yale University’s Windham Campbell award, the world’s richest poetry prize, which she won in 2017. Her work feels as rich and ancient as the land itself, speaking of country and culture, not to mention her grief-soaked memories of growing up in the stolen generation.

As well as being a Literary Fellow on the Australia Council, Eckermann has been the Australian Poetry Ambassador to Ireland. A role more important than the Prime Minister? Perhaps not, but I’m left wondering why she is not a household name.

Does she fall between the cracks of being indigenous? A woman? A poet in a culture where poetry is no longer deemed relevant or important? All of the above? From a writer’s perspective, none of these have commanded national conversation until relatively recently.

However, change is on the wind. Jazz Money is a young poet of Wiradjuri and Irish heritage whose multidisciplinary work has caught the eye of many. She was awarded the David Unaipon Award in 2020 and was most recently recognised as a Sydney WorldPride artist.

Bundjalung woman, Evelyn Araluen, is a Stella Prize winner whose searing poetry is as deep and complex as the Australian stories she unapologetically confronts.

Our commitment to name an Australian poet laureate carries within it a recognition that indigenous culture and story is the foundation of who we are. It is an attempt to re-establish a connection to ourselves, to each other, and to the land upon which we live. It is opening our ears to the ancient language of soul.

A royal is defined as ‘one in service to the kingdom’. The poet is in service to life.

Let us choose wisely.