BOOKISH FINDS: Blood Work and Rupture

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Poetry, I’m afraid to say, is a writing form I’ve disregarded in the last few years. Part of it is down to the way it was taught in school, but largely it’s to do with the fact that I’ve prejudged poetry based on my own cringe-worthy attempts as a teenager. Luckily they are all buried in the abyss known as ‘Documents’, and I’ve come to realise that just because I read two or three drab poems in a classroom, and wrote a hundred more angst-ridden ones in my bedroom, doesn’t mean that all poetry is the same. It’s like saying every novel is the same. It’s ridiculous.

I’ve been introducing myself gently through poetry events at The Bluecoat, which I didn’t just tolerate, I enjoyed. I bought the books to prove it.

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