Ian Hamilton Finlay, poet, artist, gardener, and proponent of concrete poetry died yesterday.

Prudence Carrison, whom I think is his publisher, describes the common theme of his work thus:

Common to all of Finlay's diverse production is the inscription of language - words, invented or borrowed phrases and other semiotic devices - onto real objects and thus into the world. That language inhabits, for Finlay, a material or real dimension gives rise to the two seemingly opposed but signal characteristics of his work.

And one of his poems:

The Dancers Inherit the Party

When I have talked for an hour I feel lousy –
Not so when I have danced for an hour:
The dancers inherit the party
While the talkers wear themselves out and
sit in corners alone, and glower.