I'm wanting in pity, lax in sorrow, lethargic in apologies so why do I think I have something to offer a reading public. Readers, who abhor writers like this, desire to watch them fail, to see them twist in the wind, and watch them trip over their own words. Shame on me.
But, my readers are few and far between and, those I have, though quite sparse, are probably rather loyal. Even, that these personal charges I level at myself are untrue, I labor under their delusions. Truth is, it's a bedeviling, unnecessary crutch for a writer to be introspective since he works in con cocked imagery quite independent of, or with, the facts.
I mainly write poems which, I suggest, are more sermon like than they are poetic in the traditional sense. Too early old, too late smart has essentially caught up with me.
The modern poet, though, as I read their poems in the Poetry magazine, come across quite oblique in words and structure. Seems to me, they closet their thoughts in some lockbox which opens only to a fraternal few. I'm not one of these disciples, but only an old bloke who pokes away one fingered on an original IPad with a smile on my face every day, just because I've wakened in the morning.
Ronald C. Downie