A couple of years ago Stanley Moss renewed his driver’s license. Now in his late nineties, his license runs to his 104th year. He has produced such an immense volume of work in his long life that it seemed necessary for his readers, old and new, to essentialise this mass of work into a portable, liftable single collection of highlights, which these 200 pages represent. It has been hard to confine him to this limiting measure because he still, every week and sometimes every day, produces a wholly new poem, surprising his editor and also, always, himself. As he says in ‘The Ocean Slaps my Face’: Yes, Poseidon, you may call me the F-word, I’m a fluke and flounder. I am a rogue wave, I am a rogue wave! ‘Undaunted, outrageously alive,’ Rosanna Warren said, ‘Moss flaunts more colours than the Grim Reaper ever dreamed of, laughs in his face, rhymes with abandon, makes a joyful noise unto the Lord, and struts with Baudelaire.’ He asks what John Ashbery called ‘unthinkable questions, but when he formulates them, they take on the quiet urgency of common daylight’.
