In an exceptionally gifted generation of American poets, Robert Lowell was, in his lifetime, number one. That was the critical consensus at least after Robert Frost’s death in 1963 left space at the head of the table. Since Lowell’s own death in 1977, however, his reputation has waned, while others in his circle – especially his friend Elizabeth Bishop – have outstripped him.
Born to one of the grandest families in the US, Lowell was a difficult figure. His early work was all hellfire and bombast, leaning on Milton and his zealous Catholicism. It won him acclaim, but the brimstone fervour was accompanied by what we would now call bipolar disorder, resulting in bouts of “enthusiasm”; short-lived love affairs, hospitalisation and stultifying regret.
