No workshops for forseeable future

It is a sad state of affairs when a miniscule, unthinking scrap of life should be our harshest critic, but while the current situation continues we will not be convening at The Questors, nor even at The Grapevine.

But that does not mean that all literary endeavour need be at an end – apart from this being a suitable time to finally get down to writing that novel, an attempt will be made to share our poems by email for friendly critiquing and to generally keep the old grey matter ticking over.  Keep an eye on your inboxes, and if you hear nothing then leave a comment below.

Finally, don’t forget to wash your hands for twenty seconds, and here are a few suggestions of short poems to recite while you scrub to help you keep time: W B Yeats’ poignant He Wishes for the Cloth’s of Heaven, William Wordsworth gloomy The Sick Rose, Emily Dickinson’s optimistic Hope is a Thing with Feathers, or even Robert Frost’s apocalyptic Fire & Ice.

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