Back in the 1990s, when I was starting
out on the poetry scene, Tobias Hill had just emerged as a stellar figure. I
recall being more than slightly jealous and envious of his good looks, flowing locks of hair, major
prizes and subsequent contract with OUP.
And then there were the terrific
poems. His writing was extremely visual, packed with startling images and turns of phrase, while his poems about life in Japan really hit home,
especially as I myself was newly arrived in Spain at the time.
Over the years, he moved on. From OUP
to Salt and Faber on the demise of the former’s poetry list. And from poetry to
prose, like so many others, forging a successful career for himself as a
novelist.
However, I was especially reminded of
his poetry a couple of years before the pandemic hit, when I acquired several
volumes from Peggy Chapman-Andrews’ private library. Chapman-Andrews had been
the long-serving secretary of the Bridport Prize, which Tobias Hill won in his
early years. In fact, that triumph pretty much set him on his way.
Anyway, back to those volumes. Among
them was a copy of his first short collection of poetry from a long-vanished
small publisher. And tucked inside was hand-written correspondence from Tobias
Hill to Peggy Chapman-Andrews, reacting to news of his win. The young poet’s
excitement shone from every word!
Today’s belated announcement of his
death in August follows on from several years of little news about Hill since a
stroke in 2014. I’ve been keeping an eye out for news about him over the last
few years, putting him name into Twitter searches every now and then in the
vain hope of finding he might be writing again. Nevertheless, all I encountered
were fewer and fewer references to his work.
Yet again, I’m reminded of the
ephemeral nature of poetic fame. Tobias Hill was a significant poet less than
twenty years ago, a point of reference for many readers of the genre. In 2023,
his work seems to have faded from view. Here’s hoping the grim news of his
death might at least remind people of his excellent poetry…
It’s been a while since I read Chris Edgoose’s admirable and enticing
review for The Friday Poem, here, of Geraldine Clarkson’s second full
collection, Med...
What a shame. That is so sad. I'm grieved that he's gone, and so young. As usual, my immediate reaction is to think I should have noticed him more. And your post has helped to remedy that at least posthumously. Thank you.
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