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.
Well, now. Until Saturday I would have said (nay, shouted) NO!
Ah yes, well. Please buy some HappenStance pamphlets. You know you want them. Sigh.
I woke up thinking about a poem. For some reason, it isn’t well known, though I can’t think why not.
Poets should only be allowed to publish as many poems as they can learn by heart.