At the Singapore Writers Festival recently, Sir Andrew Motion, his wavy hair, eyebrows and lids already slightly gray but still blazing with manic Blakean fire, his patrician chin, cheek and jaw supremely sharp as to frame his face elementally like the gods of Parnassus, tall and lean and stooping politely to get to the level of his medium-height Singaporean hosts, cut a most dashing, almost Byronic figure, and if that passage is ridden with clichés, tendentious speech, and gross rhetorical crimes according to the book of the Samuel Johnsons and the guardians of the English language, then this writer pleads guilty. After all, it is not everyday that Asia gets to meet Britain’s Poet Laureate, the Empire’s chief minstrel and myth-maker, even if, strictly speaking, he’s already retired.