Published: 24 June 2010
by JOHN HORDER

ELAINE Feinstein’s most irresistible poem in her new book Cities,  published this week, is “Long Life”. Like “Old Age” in her Selected Poems,
it joyfully resonates with the reader long after it is read. Here are the last two stanzas: 
These days I speak less of death than this miracle of survival.
I am no longer lonely, not yet  frail, and after surgery, recognise each breath as a favour.
My generation may not be nimble, but, forgive us, 
we’d like to hold on, stubbornly content – even while ageing. 

After describing how “the most loved records lie/without sleeves” in the messy flat of the great poet Janos Pilinsky in “Budapest”, Elaine concludes more reservedly: 
 
He longs for the Lord, to bury him in his embrace but “the old are alone”, he says, “and believe in nothing”. 

“Christmas Day in Willesden Green”, for her autistic grandchild, has  the same haunting poetic atmosphere as Grimm’s Fairy Tales: “At fourteen, his eyes are as dark as wood resin,/ his hair red-gold, he is an elf-child/ with delicate lips, and pale unblemished skin.”   
Elaine Feinstein is  that rare poet in a billion, steeped in the oral tradition of storytelling. 
When is she going to receive the Queen’s Medal for Poetry? 

• Cities. By Elaine Feinstein. Carcanet Press £9.95