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!
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.