Monday, 24 December 2007
O The Constant Falls Of Words As Winter Snows
Apologies to all those currently waiting on responses to correspondence: sometimes it just all piles up and you just want to leave it for a week or two, snug in the embracing negligence of the inbox. I'm trying to give myself some time to myself, and find again my centre, especially concerning poetry and work. I'm actually in a situation at the moment which I've never experienced before, in that three or four editors have asked for new poems, and this has made me look at possible work with a new, and particularly critical, eye. It's a very common situation, the fact of feeling suddenly less liberty for the simple reason that these words are no longer simply entirely private and intimate, and this eeks into the space of the poem. Anyway, it's a stage to get through. So, after the expected Parisian snowfalls, the silence will be broken. Happy Christmas everyone. Paris is up in lights.