As worries grow over the cost of culture – barely a week goes by without an actor complaining about theatre ticket prices – one form of art remains absolutely free, in London at least. On the underground, there is still poetry, as there has been since 1986. The new verses for spring – this is the 116th set of poems – include the lovely Riches I hold in light esteem (also known as The Old Stoic) by Emily Brontë: scant lines about freedom and courage that may just make weary commuter eyes leak a little as the train clanks between Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square.
I’ve always loved Poems on the Underground, a scheme supported by the Arts Council, among others. It is among the most important public art of my lifetime, running a close second to Antony Gormley’s Angel of the North. So when I heard its archive had arrived at Cambridge University, I took this as a long overdue acknowledgement – of its power, its scope, its high-minded ambition.
