Don't Be Surprised If I Demur, For,

Between My Finger And My Thumb The Squat Pen Rests; Snug As A Gun. ~from The Poem "digging

Then As The Years Went On And My Listening Became More Deliberate, I Would Climb Up On An Arm Of Our Big Sofa To Get My Ear Closer To The Wireless Speaker.

Yet There Are Times When A Deeper Need Enters, When We Want The Poem To Be Not Only Pleasurably Right But Compellingly Wise, Not Only A Surprising Variation Played Upon The World, But A Re-tuning Of The World Itself.

Loyalism, Or Unionism, Or Protestantism, Or Whatever You Want To Call It, In Northern Ireland - It Operates Not As A Class System, But A Caste System.

A Public Expectation, It Has To Be Said, Not Of Poetry As Such But Of Political Positions Variously Approvable By Mutually Disapproving Groups.