So this is what it's like.
We perk up in the mornings when there are unfranked stamps to peel off envelopes.
Dinner happens late.
A glass of red wine may be spilled over poems, but only in the evening.
Much pencil sharpening goes on.
Punctuation, and sentences (especially short ones) feel like old friends.
Good poems cause excitement.
We scrutinise interesting poems like other people do crosswords.
We wonder why everyone doing a Creative Writing MA includes at least one prose poem.
There are no days off, though there are days when everything is off.
Sometimes one of us walks round the house muttering bloody poets bloody poets bloody poets or what the f***!
Sometimes that same person says, ‘Aren’t there any orders today? Why don’t they BUY something?’
Sometimes he also says, ‘There’s a roomful of pamphlets upstairs already. Shouldn’t you sell them before you print any more?’
We don’t care how old you are. Or young.
We worry a lot. About upsetting people. And about metaphors.
Poetry is our bread and butter. Except poetry is more like cake, and you can’t live on cake. Well you can, but you wouldn’t want to, would you?
We think of poets as adjective-prone.
‘We’ is mainly ‘I’.
We are fallible.