I’ve been camping, hence the radio silence. I wrote the following article for The Dabbler and it was published there a week ago, but I wanted to share it here as well. Enjoy, if you dare.
It is a sad truth not often recognized that the glory days of bad poetry – no less than the glory days of good poetry – are behind us. In the dewy springtime of bad verse a sorry line or a limp sonnet was received with joy. “Dalkey, you know, has written a truly rancid couplet,” you might say to a friend over coffee in 1781, and he would foam at the mouth till able to confirm it for himself. In our own benighted era, the best that Dalkey’s great-grandson can manage to elicit is a shrug or a fart.
The trouble is not that people no longer write poetry. A casual browser of blogs…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 