It starts in childhood, with the books read to you at night. The words are still fluid, and the dramas become quickly diluted into dreams. I remember: a rabbit running wild along a country path, a ginger cat curling up in a nest of flowers. It continues with the books loaned to you from libraries, … Continue reading Lost Books
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My Copy Of Robinson
I’d like to say that I discovered Robinson for myself, but as usual someone else had to show me the way. I seem to require jumpstarts like this to overcome the indolence, which seems to be my natural state. Alarmingly, as I grow older, I seem more in the grip of this laziness: a paralysis … Continue reading My Copy Of Robinson
Tom Raworth
It's taken me a while to get to writing about Tom Raworth's death, partly because life doesn't always allow room for the losses which affect us, partly because such things always take me a little time to get right. I met Tom Raworth in the mid-nineties. He will always feature on the short list of writers … Continue reading Tom Raworth
Walking
'Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty London.' Edgar Allan Poe My daughter wants to be a detective. I’ve explained to her that this is a high aim. The other day, two men passed us on our way to school. … Continue reading Walking
Pascal Garnier and The Ideal
'He left the room and shut the door behind him. No point saying goodbye to a dead man.' Pascal Garnier I recently picked up the novel How's The Pain?, by Pascal Garnier. You know what it's like. You go to a bookshop with a list of things to buy, but none of them feel right. You … Continue reading Pascal Garnier and The Ideal
Genre and the Edges
'In the evening, I'd pour myself a glass of very strong rum on the rocks, and I'd write hardboiled poems...' Pedro Juan Gutierrez I've spent my writing life on the periphery. It's not only a matter of success, or lack of, although that certainly plays its part. You stand watching the dance floor with your … Continue reading Genre and the Edges
Beneath the Telescope
We drove to the coast. I like the feel of surf upon my chest. My eyes closed, my back against the sand. Sun a red blur through my eyelids, the universe calling. The pulse and froth of water, the beat of the moon. She called it work. I would never call it work. Red sun, … Continue reading Beneath the Telescope
