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!
I made two firm offers to poets during July's reading window. What did they have that the others didn’t?
Ah yes, well. Please buy some HappenStance pamphlets. You know you want them. Sigh.
I’ve never knowingly stolen anybody’s poem but I can see how I could.
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