Look, if I had wanted you to know about me – my fascinating life and my jet-setting career amongst the rich and famous, or alternatively my desperate life on skid row offering quickie blow jobs in exchange for gutter-drugs – whatever – I wouldn’t have used an obvious pseudonym for the blog, now would I?

Instead all I want is for my poems to be read.  And preferably commented on.  Because while I think they have some worth I’ve no way of telling what other people think because I’ve shown them to almost no one; most have only ever had one reader: me.  So WordPress gives me a nice safe way to learn the best and the worst.  Anonymity is the single greatest achievement of the internet.

But if you ARE going to comment – don’t hold back.  I don’t want you to bolster my ego.  If you hate, loathe and detest my poems – say so; but please say why too.

Naturally I would prefer it if you felt that I was Tennyson, Frost, Owen and Sassoon** rolled into one.  But somehow I think that is (shall we say) a trifle hyperbolic.  I think my poems have some merit, and at least some of the lines and imagery I am very happy with, but I have no illusions about greatness.  If you like them – great; and please say why too.

I’m looking for feedback, not least so I can improve.

So: just comment – please?  No matter what you say I promise not to take offence or get into a flame war.  And I will publish every comment, unedited, no matter what you say. [Except for spam, naturally – no penis extensions, no Chinese Herbal Viagra, no “earn $50,000 a week while watching TV”, no Russian mail order brides, no loan sharks – this list is not exclusive; if I think it’s spam, and/or Akismet thinks it’s spam, it’s toilet-time for your comment, OK?]


**Why no women poets in that list? – merely that those 4 poets are my favourites, the ones that will live with me forever, the ones I never tire of reading and rereading and rereading again; it just so happens they are all male.  And while Elizabeth Barrett-Browning and Emily Dickinson and Oodgeroo Noonuccal and Sylvia Plath are moving and evocative and memorable they are not my favourites.  I sincerely believe that this is not sexism, it is simply personal preference, and to use a trite phrase: “there’s no accounting for taste”.