From The Centrifuge

Ed's dead, baby. Borrowed, with thanks, from the Independent I was unsure whether or not to write a post, post-election, on my post-election blues. For the most part, this was because I'm sure that political commentators, bloggers, activists, and people with far more understanding of the political landscape and the effect that the latest result would have on the lives of those for whom the spectre of a Tory government was only a bad dream, a shade that haunted at night when the lights burned low and the wolves howled at the door, had already used all of the adjectives and metaphors of despair in ways far more eloquent than anything I might come up with. I find however that I must say something, even if it doesn't help matters, to explain to myself more than anyone else why it is I feel so miserable. I will probably have no right to bemoan a Conservative government - my country still has a socialist leader, in theory if not in practice - particularly as I did very littl

I've completed a poem a day for thirty-two days. I should feel proud, happy that I am able to call on that which I've always doubted I had, imagination, to write something concrete, real, new, every day for a month, but I am not, at least not entirely. Worryingly, I feel more negativity than positivity at the result, although there are positives to take. - I never struggled for long for an idea - I could work with limited time to produce something interesting - Humour was evident, even if it was bleak... The negatives mount up though. - It's all too prosaic - I can't recall any real insight or observations of depth - I was very lazy - first drafts were often the only drafts, and I rarely read the poems out loud, instead trying to put down what was in my head regardless of quality or scansion - When I did struggle for ideas, I was too quick to write about the challenges and shortcomings of my writing instead of investing time in thinking a little longer and in more depth

Toothpaste For Dinner, thank you, Drew.