There was a time when I couldn’t have gone, and I haven’t forgotten it.
It’s a gorgeous thing when a poem arrives at a felicitous rhyme, a choice word that pops up by happenstance.
We ‘did’ Frost for O level.
Poetry history is taking place in Perthshire. It's doing this in glorious sunshine, with leaves brandishing all the shades of Autumn and rowan berries gleaming like jewels.
Sometimes, obscurity exercises its own spell. It’s the bit you don’t understand that does the trick.
Keats was dead at 25, Shelley at 29, Dylan Thomas at 39, Sylvia Plath at 30. Chatterton didn’t even make it to 18.