I had a good holiday in the south of mainland Spain. I wish I could say I feel refreshed, but a four-year-old on holiday and a mountainload of work waiting for me on my return have put paid to that fantasy.
On holiday, I read Edwin Morgan's New and Selected Poems, which I'll try to write something about soon on this blog. I'd read plenty of Morgan's stuff before, like any self-respecting Scottish poet, but reading his Selected cover-to-cover with a degree of concentrated attention showed me how good he is whether he's writing a metrical sonnet, an experimental wordplay, a metaphysical exploration, a science fiction narrative, or the most fluent blank verse you could hope to find. His poems make me think, they move me, they challenge me as a writer. Morgan doesn't have a single voice that travels through every poem, but every poem has its own distinct and memorable voice - intelligent, quirky, and bold. Brilliant.
Now I must go and open my massive pile of mail. Most of it will be rubbish and end up instantly in the bin, but I have to open it first to make sure. There is something deeply unfair about this.