Reprinting a poem for Angela to read (without express written consent of the publisher)

[entropy_14]

There have been oodles of times I've read this and thought you might enjoy it. The poet, dead in his grave for three or four years, was something of a fixture at a number of  local pubs, at the university ... all over town and perhaps this whole bloody island, now that I think about it.

I might live next to the sea, but you write about it in ways

Comments

[stitchedupkitty]

I love it, H!

It also speaks to something I feel lately, something very old in concept but new to me: the inability of language to capture feeling.

We get cocky, us writer folk, molding at the level of the line. Lately, language fails to do the job I need it to do.

I wish I could see the sea up there. I've never seen a sea in the North. Ever.