Chocolate And Cuckoo Clocks (2009) - Plot & Excerpts
If it were not for poetry, Postman Pat would have a black-and-white dog. Poets, however, are another matter. While I derive much joy from what they do for a living, primarily because of the manner in which they do it, when they deploy this manner where it has no business, I derive no joy at all. I go up the wall. I kick things about. For, though I relish the ellipsis and elusiveness of poetry, though I am more than happy to tangle with the ambiguity, the obliqueness, even the downright inaccessibility which poets needs must bring to their tricky trade, I abhor their apparent inability to talk straight when straight talking is required. Never ask a poet what a spade is; you will be there all night. Oo-er, I hear you murmur, something has clearly upset him today, he is normally the most equable of men. His wick must have something major on it. We are entitled to an explanation. Let us go then, you and I, to the works of T.S. Eliot. Not to the wondrous conundrums of his verse, but to a letter he wrote, on 26 April 1911, to his cousin Eleanor Hinkley in Boston.
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