You might be blissfully unaware of the fact, but when Liz Lochhead’s term as Scots Makar ended, on the last day of January, the post fell vacant. So if there is a political coup, or a panda produces triplets, or an astronomer at the Royal Observatory discovers a new galaxy, what will we do? Headlines will be made, but there is no chance that these mind-blowing events will be officially captured in sonnet, quatrain or limerick until at least the end of the month, and possibly later, when the next National Poet is appointed.

This might not sound like a major crisis of state. It’s not as if the First Minister has gone awol, or the Queen switched off her phone while she catches up on her box sets. Yet in some quarters this hiatus is cause for concern, and rightly so. Since the appointment in 2004 of Edwin Morgan as first holder of the title, we have had a bard under public patronage on whom to call when occasion demands. It is not vital to the nation’s well-being, and yet without it we would without doubt be a smaller, more inward-looking country.

As civic positions go, the Scots Makar looks like a decorative post, more a statement of cultural credentials and aspirations than anything more politically proactive. Or so some would prefer to think. After all, what poet could stand between the MOD and its weapons of mass destruction and halt their production or launch? Could any versifier turn alarm at an exodus of refugees from the middle-east into words that would soften a nation’s prejudices? The answer is probably not – at least, not in a way that can be scientifically measured.

But you can never be sure what influence a writer’s ideas, words or books will have, even generations later. It was Shelley's conviction that "poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world", their work the first expression of humanitarian concepts that would one day be codified in law. As society caught up with its poets, this slow but civilising process put the worst-paid writers in the vanguard of change.

These days even those who think poetry is an adornment and not a necessity rarely dare to say so. That’s progress of a sort, as is the Makar’s post. If nothing else, it acts as a reminder of the potential value of verse to everyone in the community. But is the post intended to be primarily a vehicle for the Makar’s own work, an encouragement to would-be poets, or a chance to spread the balm and inspiration of this highest literary form to those from every class and creed?

In the case of Morgan’s and Lochhead, during their tenure words did not spill from them like water from a burst mains. Thank goodness for that. There could be nothing worse than a poet who felt the urge McGonagall ought to have curbed, to pontificate on everything that caught his attention. While they wrote official poetry that might endure, their presence as champions of their art has been equally important.

During this interregnum, before a new Makar is installed, a shortlist of five contenders will be drawn up later this week by a panel selected from the National Library of Scotland, Scottish PEN, the Literature Alliance, the Scottish Poetry Library, the Association for Scottish Literary Studies, and Stanza poetry festival. I wish I could eavesdrop on that discussion, which promises to be lively, to say the least. If a Parliament is a snake pit, it is as nothing to the world of poetry, where rivalry and jealousy are fed by every prize and honour, and snubs and slights can be nursed for a lifetime.

As the panel deliberates, they must define, again, what purpose a National Poet fulfils. There could not be two more different writers than Morgan and Lochhead, yet each was a hard act to follow. The same could not always be said of the British post of Poet Laureate, which has been held by a slew of the great, the mediocre and the reluctant. Nor could anyone describe its current incumbent, Carol Ann Duffy, as sitting in the establishment’s pocket. When no lines were forthcoming on the arrival of Princess Charlotte, for instance, some were affronted. Wasn’t it part of her job description to wax sycophantically about such an historic birth? That Duffy stood firm in maintaining her silence was a proud moment for those of us who do not believe poets should be tame.

Yet there is an inherent contradiction in being a National Poet. Although awarded and funded by the government, this position sits - and ought to sit - at odds with the powers that be. The next Makar will ultimately be chosen by three former First Ministers – Henry McLeish, Lord McConnell and Alex Salmond. Nicola Sturgeon presumably also has a say, since it is she who will make the phone call offering the nominee the post. You can’t help wondering, in the current climate, if it is remotely possible that a No voter will take the honour? And what if once in post a Makar repeatedly takes a stance that runs counter to the government, deliberately provoking or ridiculing the hand that feeds it? After all, since the first poem was recited around a Neolithic camp fire, poets have poked fun at authority, and called it to account. Even a Makar who takes the state shilling cannot be co-opted to any political party or cause.

Other awkward issues also lie ahead. When the Makar’s position was created, assurances were offered that all three of the country’s main languages would be fairly represented. So far we have had a poet who wrote mainly in English, and one for whom Scots was her preferred voice. Already champions of Gaelic are whetting their arguments, eager that their language has its day. While the number of Gaelic speakers is small, their political clout is considerable. At the very least, I would bet there will be one Gael on the shortlist. And if that happens to be the well-respected Aonghas MacNeacail, then he might go further than that. But beyond Gaeldom there are other excellent names in the frame, from the likes of Jackie Kay – who lives in Manchester but would be a natural successor to Lochhead – to Kathleen Jamie, Tom Leonard, Robert Crawford, Douglas Dunn, Ron Butlin, Stewart Conn, and Don Paterson – and several more besides.

The exceptionally active and sociable part that Lochhead has played over the past five years will make the choice even tougher. Is the Makar predominantly an ambassador and advocate? Would a shy, bashful figure, who prefers his or her own company to that of schoolchildren or OAPs or festival-goers be considered, no matter how superb their work? In the wake of Lochhead, one suspects they might not. Her diary these past five years has been hectic, as she races between the Royal Society of Literature one day, a women’s refuge another, and a shopping mall and food bank the day after that. Such commitment and verve in the service of poetry is impressive. As must be whoever follows her.