Ron's rages are sincere and — according to his wife — healthily cathartic. But can these splenetic outbursts loosen the grip of capitalism at its most monstrous?
ANYONE who found themselves strangely unmoved by the recent row in the broadsheets about this year’s TS Eliot prize should get hold of a copy of Too Much Toothache (Penniless Press, £11.99), a new book about the contemporary poetry scene by poet and editor Alan Dent.
The prize is awarded for the “best collection” of new verse and one of the sillier claims made for this year’s winner Sarah Howe was the author’s “powerful use of blank space.” Which brings to mind the advice of Chilean poet Nicanor Parra in Young Poets: “Write as you will/In whatever style you like... In poetry everything is permitted./With only this condition of course,/You have to improve the blank page.”
Too Much Toothache is a collection of Dent’s criticism over the last 20 years in the small magazines he has edited, Penniless Press and Mistress Quickly’s Bed.
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