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Throughout most of my teens and adult life I have turned to poetry as a consolation when the pain I believe humans call emotion ceases to have any healing effect and becomes merely alarming. Lost loves, ocean metaphors and lack of money seem to figure prominently. Not reading it, I find most poetry embarrassingly artificial, but writing it.
Writing poetry does something for the endorphins, small marine creatures I keep in a tank and feed on agents with a double-oh prefix. Not all poets are nice people.
Romantically, I lent my collected works to an annoying woman I slept with once, about forty years ago. And at that point, I got fired from the office where we worked together (not for that reason!), and I never saw my poems again. I have always envied writers who can commit their work to memory. When do they find the time to write?
Here then is a selection of my immature works, taken from the approximately three poems I have written in the past five years….