Goalless
Yesterday, Don Paterson won the TS Eliot Prize for poetry. The Guardian asks him the all-important question about poetry: “When on earth [do you] find time to write?”
“It’s a slow process,” he acknowledges ruefully. “I get a few lines [of a poem] down, but then it never takes less than a year to complete.”
Before reading this, I knew the poet’s name because of his 1993 collection Nil Nil, which seems to be the perfect title for expressing existential and footballing ennui, and all that. Haven’t read it yet. I read one poem a year.
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