
“Nymph, in thy orisons Be my sins remembered!” Fair game was I naïve and nubile; hackneyed nothings pitter-pattered from your lips filling my being – summer showers on desert sands. A gull, a dull fool never was there to sense…
Poets don’t allow poems to take an aeroplane; they are afraid of the heights it might take their lines to. They believe that poetry should stand firmly on firm ground. If it flies, it should fly on its…