Saturday, January 16, 2016


I've noticed that writers go for months complaining that nobody reads them, nobody pays them any critical attention, nobody knows what they're doing. Then comes, maybe, a blast of recognition of one kind or other--an award, a big publication, a ceremonial honour, a burst of braggadocio--which is fun until the writer wishes everyone would go away so he/she can get back to work. Chronic grumps, chrumps, some writers. If they were content, they wouldn't be writing, I suppose. This all comes to mind because something has to. Last night at the poetry slam, most of the participants offered a version of poetry heavy on the confessional but light on craft--a slim model of poetic (I thought, munching on a strudel at the back) that no one seems to know how to explore. 

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