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Happy New Year. I’ve been a scoundrel at updating this. 



A friend and I were chatting a couple of weeks ago about making poems out of the letters of poets/writers. I don’t know your opinion on found poems – mine varies wildly depending on frequency and quality, but it is a rather pleasing intellectual exercise.


So, here is mine from this morning: a ten-minute scratching before I start my real work!

From this letter here, from Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf.




From Vita to Virginia.

I am reduced to a thing that wants

You, with all your un-dumb letters:

a little squeal of pain.


I have brought it to a fine art,

across the Lombard plain,

and Italy all blanketed in snow.


With me it is quite stark:
we’re going to start again.


Send me your found poems please. And yes, I will be trying to post more here. I am, after all, far too fond of my own rabbiting on.