The coincidences in the poems sent in to me during the December window ARE uncanny.
Forget horses. Today it is wasps and rats.
Yes, it's a new year but I'm still reading poems from the old window.
Thoughts from the reading window.
The first three or four lines of a poem are make-or-break territory.
The reading window is open. The envelopes are stacking up.
‘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]
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