Last week, I was tricked by the weather into taking the tram, thinking that the little yellow sheds that shriek their way between the cobbles would be any warmer and quicker than taking my bicycle down the hill into down. Now that I have been late for everything by at least fifteen minutes and I know that I won't ride into a snowdrift I can begin to ride again. But it means I cannot read poetry, only think about it.
My mum buys me only books for Christmas, usually two or three. Generally, I don't read them, I stash them on a shelf in her house. They are usually things I've recommended for her to read that she doesn't buy, forgets, re-remembers and then presents to me. Last year, however, she bought me a Bloodaxe poetry criticism anthology, which features poets on poetry.
John Kinsella re-emerges from the pages, someone I saw read once in a deserted lecture hall in Newcastle and will never forget. He has much to say on collaborative writing and the anti-pastoral, much to make time on the metro tram and the u-bahn pass. Particularly apt, as I mediate between frantic emailing sessions, frantic list authors and IRC client holders, are his short passages on internet discussion lists, with the list itself as the author, an unknown collaborative project with a collective voice, a prose-poem that locates itself within us and the world.