WN Herbert

  • I shall be in Welwyn Garden City in August, so perhaps I should take some Glyn Maxwell – and maybe I will. I’m also looking forward to reading a sequence of obscene sonnets by Alistair Elliot – not yet publicly available, but instead you could try his latest, Imaginary Lines (Shoestring) or, if you can

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  • Ruth Padel’s Radio 4 programme “Poetry Workshop” is back for another series. I missed the first one in its entirety, and only noticed this evening when I wandered to the iplayer for “The Verb” that it was back for a second round. So I listened and enjoyed. I listened even more closely when I heard

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  • A huge thank you to Ajay Close for inviting me to do the workshop at the Writers Day in Perth on Saturday, and to the participants, who included my fellow HappenStance poet Patricia Ace: I had a great time (although it might have been a good day for a stroll in Hyde Park as well).

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  • It’s a good season for poetry on Radio 3. The Essay last week was deeply under the influence: five contemporary poets each on a poet who influenced them. I’d recommend in particular Michael Symmons Roberts on David Jones; WN Herbert on Edwin Morgan (don’t ask me what the picture of Eilean Donan castle is about!);

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  • I was saddened to hear yesterday that the poet, publisher, critic, designer and typographer Duncan Glen had died. He was not someone I knew well, although I did meet him once or twice. My contact with him came through the Scottish Poetry Library, with which he was closely involved. Indeed, he designed many SPL publications,

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  • As you’ll know if you’re a regular visitor to these virtual parts, Rob A Mackenzie and I swapped manuscripts nearly a fortnight ago. I’ve had a read-through of Rob’s MS and will comment properly on it in due course, but suffice to say for the moment that it’s very good and a lot of fun

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  • I can’t help but think that last night’s Shore Poets event could have shown some of Thursday night‘s slammers a thing or two about how imaginative and contentful something that might be described as a performance poem can be. Nowhere was that more the case than in the closing set, from the night’s main reader,

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