I trust the gentle reader will forgive a shorter than usual notice this week, on account of a whole lot of not much happening down in the Archive. It seems that some weeks, not much is doing in the poetry world, and we can take things easy and give the unpaid interns some unpaid time off.
So, on with the Workshop, where poeticising is still in full swing: Michael Harris has been finding love in a coffee shop, and Doig Simmonds has been gazing upon a modern madonna and child, while John Hurley recalled an old sailor long home from the sea. Caroline Am Bergris could be found attending a beautiful, seasonal funeral, and Peter Francis has been watching the pigeons as they race. The dance of the coming Spring has been stirring the feet of Pat Francis, and newcomer Sara Cornejo has been imagining a violent origins legend where the Old World clashes with the New. Martin Choules has been musing on some marvellously misnamed creatures, before handing the tiller to Alan Chambers as he enters the Zuiderzee. Daphne Gloag then juggled her metaphors flawlessly and Owen Gallagher looked back on his mute father with sadness.
Lulls are nothing new, and were common enough in Sir John’s day, thanks largely to the combination of laudanum and lethargy brought on in such sensitive sorts. Indeed, some workshops were convened where not a single attendee had written so much as a couplet, and the anachronistic conch was rapidly passed round the circle and back into the lap of the host inside a minute. After a couple of minutes of embarrassed shoe-buckle gazing, retiring to the saloon of The Red Lion would be suggested by someone (usually ‘wrist-raiser’ Byron), and the heroic muse was sacked before she’d even got her lute in tune.