‘Is it true – what Shelley writes me that poor John Keats died at Rome of the Quarterly Review?’ [Letter from Byron to John Murray, 26 April 1821]
There are many ways.
I love the word symposium. I don’t know why.
These days there’s a lot of interest in what poems look like.
Each year the apples take longer to ripen than you remembered.
After publishing Charlotte Gann’s book, Noir, I’ve started to think of noir poems as a genre — poems with shadows; poems that set up the dark/light opposition. Poems that expose.