What’s in a name?

The first poem I studied in secondary school began: "The pig lay on a barrow dead, motionless". Poet Laureate Ted Hughes' ensuing nine sickeningly graphic, non-rhyming stanzas made me want to vomit and scuppered any chance that Wordsworth, Byron or Shelley might offer the  key to my romantic soul. It was not surprising, therefore, that the death of Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney a…