I adore Sylvia Plath and Philip Larkin. I'm desperately preoccupied by form in my own work a lot of the time. I don't really like a lot of my poems. I don't know what to say. I'm not as miserable as I probably come across to be.
As children, we would say our forevers
Beneath the sun; cradled by its warmness.
Each child is as another to a child;
Rank or station does not thwart endeavours
...
He died upon the cross tonight,
As God reclaimed his mortal son
The world around was stripped of light.
...
An old woman once told me
That she’d met Thomas Hardy
When she was just a nipper.
I confessed myself impressed
...