Last night I had a strange poetry dream. I was sitting in my living room with two other poets, both fairly well known. I had met one of these poets once before, a few years ago, and I’d met the other briefly on a couple of occasions. We were each reading a book. I can’t remember what I was reading, but one of the others was reading my copy of Selima Hill’s Gloria: Selected Poems.
“It’s highly inventive work,” I said.
“But not in terms of form,” said the poet.
“I mean, it’s inventive in terms of content, the way she deals with her subject-matter,” I replied.
The other poet silently went back to the book and didn’t look up again.
Then I woke up.