Clich├ęs – that old ball and chain !

Not too long ago, I was having a conversation with some fellow poets on a piece I had just performed, when somebody said I had a type. By type she meant there was a particular way in which I performed my pieces; a stance, a way of enunciation and intonation, a certain judiciousness of gestures….

“I inherited poetry..”

I inherited poetry. Before I loved it and made it mine, it lay in those corners of my house that my mother called clutter. Those havens of disorder had been reclaimed by my father and filled with old, torn and used books picked up from pavements. My mother disapproved, but grudgingly yielded; as several of…