Iain Sinclair, The London Review of Books:

The substantial gold brick of the Collected Poems, now excavated by Carcanet, is a daunting thing. It is a daunting task to handle it, to work a way through its 576 pages - which are presented as a run (previous titles swallowed up, with no break). This is a double marathon made up of sequential sprints. A relay that takes the reader, hanging onto the baton, to the point of exhaustion. There can be a surfeit of appreciation, applause ringing out in party conference quantities. The hands bleed. And playing alongside this sense of a life, a life's writing, is the image of Raworth in performance. The late Mike Hart, a fan and promoter of Raworth's work, described one of these readings to me. The poet steamed. The audience struggled for breath. The poet tipped a glass of water over his head and continued.