It has to be said that I may not have mentioned Anald in these jottings of mine. Indeed until Sue Vincent jogged my memory I’d entirely forgotten the incident. Anald was perhaps one of the finest cozeners I have ever had dealings with. A person of immense charm, he had spent nearly twenty years separating … More Bucolic abandon
Neethlie Mossot was destined for great things by her mother. She aspired for her daughter to be a quaintrelle, a social butterfly, an ornament to society. Neethlie rather spoiled that by running away at the age of sixteen with a Partannese soldier of fortune. Just between ourselves there is some controversy over her age at … More The Mother of her people
Talopian Hearsan was one of those people I just somehow never took too. I’m not sure why to be honest; he was always polite and respectful to a poet of my status. The problem was perhaps that he was too polite and too respectful. In the same way he was always too nicely dressed, too … More Too nice?
I confess I rarely have many dealings with erotic novelists. This isn’t snobbery on my part, it’s just they tend to be so much more generously remunerated than a mere poet. Still I do have a friend who is renown within the genre. I was going through a poorly remunerated period when he bumped into … More Technical matters are best left to skilled tradesmen
You know how it happens, there are two of you sitting drinking and then, suddenly and before you know it, there are three. So we sat in companionable conversation with our new friend Edard and swapped experiences. It struck me at one point that we were three men, no longer as young as we had … More Another glass?
It is, apparently, fashionable for one to interview fellow artists. I’ve always been wary of this practice, feeling that perhaps, in some barely understood manner, it pandered to the undistinguished tastes of shallow people. But in our modern and democratic age, it seems that pandering is no longer the social kiss of death that it … More A Conversation
Obviously as a poet, I do not need an editor. I am the poet, the editor and indeed the calligrapher as well. What is an editor going to tell me, that ‘te dum, te dum dum, te dum’ ought to be ‘te dum, te dum, te dum’? Will the editor criticise my symbolism, mock my … More Editing
Can a poet be expected to recognise madness? Indeed if you speak to my lady wife she might insist that one cannot be a poet without being touched by madness. Still I would suggest that not everybody fingered by madness is a poet, although, at times, their actions seem driven by poetry whose form and … More A rustling in the walls?
Madam Alena was, at the time, my oldest patron. A petite slender lady with short cropped white hair; she would from time to time summon me to her home to entertain a group of her acquaintances These were never events of great formality, more gatherings of friends who’d grown old together and knew each other … More Port Naain by starlight
It is with good reason that the collective noun for a group of artists is ‘a brawl.’ Yet as individuals, no more peaceable people could be found anywhere. Well perhaps I exaggerate a little for dramatic effect, but still, we’re quiet enough if left alone. Yet more than that, patrons rely on us to ensure … More The season of good will