One of the recurrent themes of my last book is a attempt to come to terms with – even celebrate – some of the autodidact oddities and doomed eccentrics you come across if you read poetry or look at art for any length of time. And I’ve ‘facilitated’ enough writers’ groups and workshops in my time to know whereof I speak.
Our mistake was writing too much
for people like ourselves, when
people like ourselves were thin
on the ground. We were all in love
with this world, that city, or some wife,
but it was unrequited. Type
rattled off glass. Philosophers
say that there can’t be such a thing
as a private language, and they’re right.
But only by the skin of their teeth.
Put it down in your own words,
our teachers said. It was not good advice.