August 5

 

No, I do not identify with your love life.
I do not even identify with my own. Everything
That has happened to me happened
To someone else.

August 4

 

The lake lies calm and hushed . . .
I hear nothing from anyone

August 3

 

PO

em in
the sty

le of
Mar

k

Goo
d

win

August 2

 

You have been for a stroll across the fields and been “buzzed” several times by a lady part in a light airplane for whom death by slamming into the side of a tall building would be too quick an ending. Thank goodness you have your M16 with you, a very good deal on eBay.

August 1

 

Your wife/husband/ball and chain (delete as appropriate) has just told you she/he/it/etc. wants a Lego set for Christmas, one of the super-duper big ones that let you build an entire world in the play room. You are trying to remember the last time you were “intimate”. What year was “Je t’aime… moi non plus” a hit? And how old are you?

July 31

 

You get bored, don’t you? Doing the same thing day in day out for a hundred years, and then you die and go to Hell where you find yourself doing it all over again. The same thing. Nothing’s changed. And you thought coming back as a cockroach or a sausage roll was going to be your punishment.

July 30

 

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Sir,

I am hoping you will be able to settle a dispute that has rendered our family dining experience unsettling, to put it mildly. I maintain that the predominant metrical pattern of contemporary British poetry is the Alexandrian-Petrarchan-Caesarean pentameter with an occasional sprinkling of Herculean-cum-Poirotean dactylic right shoe. Lady Ipswich Borough Council contends that it is a Shakespearian-Miltonic hybrid moderated by a constrained enjambment and a deft use of the trochee when it is convenient. The situation is confused by the opinion of Miguel, our butler, who when asked for his opinion suggested that British poets did not really understand any metre more complex than the iambic foot.

Yours,
Lord Ipswich de Pointless etc.

July 29

 

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Sir,

I am conducting research for a book I am writing which exposes the corruption, nepotism, and general miserable state of British poetry since 1966, when we won the World Cup thanks to the lads from West Ham. I wonder if you could give me the addresses of all the British poets you know. I hereby undertake not to visit them where they live and hurl abuse at them from the street until the police arrive to take me away.

Yours,
Alfred Christine Charlemagne

July 28

 

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Sir,

Do you know when Lux Massage is going to re-open? I have been telephoning them non-stop for several days but there is no reply. You would have thought they might have an answering machine, but evidently they do not – unless it’s not switched on.

Yours,
Sid (“Slip Me One”) Sideways

p.s. I enclose a sonnet I wrote recently, called “Trixie’s Magic Touch”.

July 27

 

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Sir,

I have recently been left a spectacularly huge amount of money by an aged (and now dead) uncle, and wish to use some of it to support a needy poet. I have always been an admirer of verse, and am aware that most poets are quite poor – understandably, for the most part. I wonder if you might recommend one or two “candidates” for whom an annual stipend of some several thousands of pounds would mean the prevention of starvation and penury?

Yours,
Trixie McManamanamanamanaman etc. (Miss)