God tried to teach Crow how to talk.
“Love,” said God. “Say, Love.”
Crow gaped, and the white shark crashed into the sea
And went rolling downwards, discovering its own depth.

“No, no,” said God, “Say Love. Now try it. LOVE.”
Crow gaped, and a bluefly, a tsetse, a mosquito
Zoomed out and down
To their sundry flesh-pots.

“A final try,” said God. “Now, LOVE.”
Crow convulsed, gaped, retched and
Man’s bodiless prodigious head
Bulbed out onto the earth, with swivelling eyes,
Jabbering protest—

And Crow retched again, before God could stop him.
And woman’s vulva dropped over man’s neck and tightened.
The two struggled together on the grass.
God struggled to part them, cursed, wept—

Crow flew guiltily off.

—Ted Hughes, “Crow’s First Lesson”¹

Ever since it was first established with the appointment of Ben Jonson in 1617, the office of the Poet Laureate in England has often been misunderstood. It is commonly assumed, for example, outside literary circles at least, that the Poet Laureate is somehow to be regarded as England’s “best” Jiving poet; that the Laureateship, in other words, represents quality or even greatness. But this has rarely been the case. The Laureateship has seldom been conferred solely on the basis of great talent or great achievement, and more than a few mediocre writers can be counted among those who have held the post. Colley Cibber (1671-1757) is only the most famous of these—famous, that is, forhis