But I Suspect That All Writers Come

Contemporary Poetry Is A Kind Of Reykjavik, A Place Where Accessibility And Intelligence Have Been Fighting A Cold War By Proxy For The Last Half-century.

I Never Mind The Accusations Of Domesticity, As Long As People Recognise That All Of Us, Even The Luckiest, Will Live Lives In Which We Have Our Hearts Broken, Suffer The Loss Of Loved Ones, Worry Ourselves Half To Death About Our Kids.

You Need As Much Ballast As Possible To Stop You From Floating Away; You Need People Around You, Things Going On, Otherwise Life Is Like Some Film Where The Money Ran Out, And There Are No Sets, Or Locations, Or Supporting Actors, And It's Just One Bloke On His Own Staring Into The Camera With Nothing To Do And Nobody To Speak To, And Who'd Believe In This Character Then?

Everything's Complicated, Even Those Things That Seem Flat In Their Bleakness Or Sadness.

So Now What? What Happens When Words Fail Us?