So Much For Life

The artist who is discovered posthumously, an all-at-once unsealing of a voice that almost lost to us, is seductive. Mark Hyatt was practically never published during his lifetime and he never lived on his writing. He was a gay Romani man who was born in South London and died by suicide in Lancashire in the 70s. He spent some time on the edges of London's 60s bohemian scene but he was fringe and it sounds like he struggled in life and love. And he wrote poems.

I'm crap at discovering and reading new poets. All the poetry I've ever read was put in front of me by others and while I've never regretted reading it, I've never sought it out. This book was a thoughtful birthday present from the person I love and it's the life of a man told in arrestingly direct and passionate verse. He talks about wanking, cruising, fucking. He talks about friends and betrayal and money.

His friends saved his poems and now they're seeing the light of day with a nice little foreword laying all this out for me. It's one of those works that makes you think about a life, what mark you leave behind, and whether you'll be known and understood by anyone when you're gone. It's ugly and beautiful.