"One of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different than that from which it is torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion."


Let's all be good thieves together.

Monday, 10 August 2009


Tonight I was privileged to witness the cruel beauty of nature first hand. I was taking a walk to the shop when I spied a young cat lurking in the grass, its tail twitching in anticipation as it looked upon its unsuspecting prey. Young though it was it was already wise in the ways of the hunt, patiently it waited for that single moment of inattention that would signal its prey's doom. Indeed so intense was its concentration that I became caught up in the spell holding my own breath as I waited to see the outcome of this matter of life or death. Then seemingly without any warning the fatal moment had come to pass, and with a burst of acceleration the cat tore on silent paws across the grass. The rippling muscles in its legs bunched for a flickering moment to propel the cat through the air, its razor sharp claws extended and a twisted feline smile of victory upon its face as those deadly claws did their fatal task... Aye that was one tree that would know its place in future.