In my younger years, poetry was a flower: gather enough of them and you got yourself a pretty bouquet. When I think of my first collection of poems, I see a compendium of (ostensibly) pretty lines penned by someone I scarcely recognise, much less know, someone whose primary purpose seemed to be getting praised for his work. My mind turns to art, artifice, artificiality.
Transparent Strangers came out almost 7 years ago. Much has changed since then.
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