I wonder if most people who write poetry experience the following, ( you’ll note I do not call myself a poet , I would never take the liberty) but  for a year now I’ve noticed that writing is not a pleasure more of a compulsion.

It maybe because I write every day and very early in the morning  that has lead to the shine has rubbing off . There is a lot of prevarication before I sit down then it’s like starting a very old motor...there’s lots of turning over the brain until it gradual...

Some of the poets in the summer issue of the magazine have received complimentary comments about their work; whilst I was busy emailing this praise to the respective parties, I felt there must be a more immediate way of doing this. So having a rummage around other on line magazines, I noticed that many employ a nice bi line inviting readers to simply click on a button and the comments are emailed to them. 

Half a day  and many emails  later, I have managed to create the same for the magazin...

The other day the post exploded through the letter box and amongst the letters, I found a very crumpled envelope with my hand writing on it. This used to be the signal that I had a rejections slip in my hand yet I haven’t sent work out snail mail for years due to financial constraints and preferring to publish on the internet .

However when I opened it, it was indeed a rejection slip from a rather well respected journal. ‘Sorry for the delay’ some anonymous person had written possibly...

One of the perks of reviewing and in fact being a ‘gentleman ‘ editor is that I receive poetry collections I would never normally access ……and for free.

Having started the virtual bookshop , I have received a copy of Ruth Sabath Rosenthal’s new collection. What touched me most was the address …. a street in New York City …’’Well’’, I thought ‘’it’s the closest this dizzy gal will get to that longed for place.’’