Poetry may be a dying art. Certainly it died in my art (!) several decades ago, but I kept a few remnants and preserve them here.
The oldest ones of this bunch, the only ones I published, I rediscovered by chance in the Poetry Library of the Royal Festival Hall one busy day out on the banks of the River Thames. Living in London is an amazing experience, another thing everyone should try once, and it blew me away to realise that parts of me were already there in the library.
That day was many years after these poems were written, and is now even longer ago than that, so some of them are really old (meaning young) poems.
How to introduce them? Crazy immature symbolist Rimbaudian free verse with Bruce Dawe aspirations, hmmm… I’d say late-80’s, right? Early 80’s! OK.
Thank you Alter Ego #3
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M Gaelen Evans 