Sunday, February 18, 2007

Forty years ago

in answer to a questionnaire, I wrote:
My main concerns with other people's poetry are: how close to my heart is it? how does it sound?
That attitude hasn't changed, though I would perhaps now add: how does it look, what is its balance? They're subjective, not objective, criteria which I still use; a kind of matrix. Fine for passing personal judgment, but fuckall use for writing constructively —or even destructively— about something.

I've become more conscious of my inabilities over the last few years. I'm blogging, editing, even writing fucking reviews. I feel I should be able to say something more, write about a book rather than just my reaction to it. Write at length about it. But I can't. I emote, structure my emotion. I write about me.

Maybe that's why I started a magazine. The mute editor, signing my likes for all to see.


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