Honor The Miraculousness Of The Ordinary.

I Deeply Adored My Mum. She Was An Extraordinary Person, Even For The Prejudice I'm Likely To Have. She Was Beautiful, Amusing, A Tremendous Elaborator Of Things Into Comic Proportions And Extravagant In Her Imagination.

But I Can't And Don't Ever Want To Write Bell-yanking Confetti-tossing Hat-throwing Poems.

I Write Between 5.30am And 9.00. That Way, I Hope I Carry Over Something From My Dream Time.

Jenni Fagan Is The Real Thing, And The Panopticon Is A Real Treat: Maturely Alive To The Pains Of Maturing, And Cleverly Amused As Well As Appalled By What It Finds In The World.

Each Sudden Gust Of Light Explains Itself As Flames, But Neither They, Nor Even Bombs Redoubled On The Hills Tonight Can Quite Include Me In Their Fear.