Before I get on with the main business, a digression, also a confession. 

While moving house I uncovered some mouldering old books, buried since the antediluvian eras when first they was writ. For long ages of man they had slumbered, the nightmares within their pages lost to recall, until I was fool enough to empty all those boxes that I’d just been shunting from place to place, with the intention of fully inventorying even my most obsolete possessions. And there I found them, lurking…

 

That’s right: two thick books of student poetry, and all of it mine. My oh my, was that an interesting walk down memory lane. Anyone who’s gone through a student poet phase will probably have near identical blasphemies stashed somewhere, in case of apocalypse. Like any artist, I went through distinct phases:

 

-         the “doesn’t know the first thing about scansion” phase

-         the “mechanically-reclaimed sonnet” phase

-         the “starting to get the hang of it so I’ll write a poem about any damn thing that comes into my head” phase

-         and of course the all-important (1) “whine whine whine whine whine” phase. (2)

 

Of course, a great deal of it is poetry as catharsis, so I suppose it had some manner of purpose to serve in assuaging the pangs of passion and soothing the savage liver (3).  Some of it still strikes the odd spark, but dear Lord, should I ever actually make a big splash in this writing game, and get sufficiently complacent as to start bringing out the poetry then you have my permission to hit me with sticks.(5). If I should by some mischance become obscenely well known so that my estate brings the stuff out posthumously, I’ll disinherit them from beyond the grave (6)
Enough. The digressional booth is closed. Onwards.

 

(1)   and self-important, mustn’t forget

 

(2)   The blue period, if you will.

 

(3)   The liver, of course, being the traditional seat of the emotions, although a scandal of etymology (4) has installed the heart in the popular imagination and robbed us of such classics as: “dying of a broken liver”, “from the bottom of my liver”, “Don’t step on my broken liver,” and such glorious lyrics as, “Don’t go breaking my liver,” “I left my liver in San Francisco,” and “That’s not the shape of my liver.” The language is poorer for the substitution. Further entries gladly accepted.

 

(4)   No, not insects this time, the other one.

 

(5)   legal note – it is not legally possible to legally waive responsibility for injury and/or death.

 

(6)   Legal note – it’s a skilled piece of trust law, but it’s possible.