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A.C. Jacobs (1937 - 1994)

Books by this author: Nameless Country
  • About
  • Reviews
  • A.C. (Arthur) Jacobs was born in Glasgow into an Orthodox Jewish family in 1937 and grew up under the shadow of the Holocaust. An erudite and committed poet from a young age, he became a self-made migrant, a wanderer through countries and through other people’s more settled lives. He was a Jew in Scotland, a Scot in England, and a diaspora Jew wherever he travelled. Nameless Country returns selections of A.C. Jacobs’ poetry to a 21st-century audience. His poems compel our attention because they bear the stamp of their long-ago moment but in their embrace of complex identities, speak clearly to our own.
    Praise for A.C. Jacobs (1937 - 1994) 'These are poems that speak with directness and integrity not just of and to Jewish experience but with an understanding of exile and disconnection that will resonate with all dispersed people [...] He should be required reading for those who try to insist that migration should mean the abandonment of other places, other lives.'
    Jenni Calder, Jewish Quarterly
     'I like Jacobs' poetry immensely, and wonder how he crafted it without the usual forms poets find helpful when learning their art. Among the 'early poems' is one called 'Oy'. I love this one because it was crying out to be written, and only Jacobs had the chutzpah and wit to write it... a thoroughly moral, elegant poet.'
    Leah Fritz, Acumen
     'In our time of Trump and Brexit, with anti-immigration rhetoric on the rise, the poetry of A.C. Jacobs achieves a new relevance in its celebration of humanity and diversity, and in its deep understanding of the importance of an inclusive and expansive understanding of where and how we might belong.'
    Will Burns, The Bottle Imp
     'Jacobs's poetry is far too good to be pigeonholed in the way he himself did so self-deprecatingly.'
    Mark Glanville, The Jewish Chronicle
    'His unassuming, deliberately prosaic style itself seems a kind of resistance to all forms of grandiloquence and conceit, and it provides the ideal vehicle for his stubborn, Forster-like affirmations of the validity of small private tragedies, measured against the din of history.'
    Times Literary Supplement
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