People ask, "What is your Favourite...?"

And I am always struggling to answer.
My favourite music?
My favourite food?
My favourite author?
Film?
Story?

I can't answer. They change, by the day, by the hour, by the moment, by the mood. Today's answer is neither tomorrow's nor yesterday's.

And if I say I like a particular book, or a particular painting, it does not follow that I am delighted by every book by that writer, every painting, nor does it mean I am uncritical of that item, maybe something in it is not quite as I would wish it, maybe I think it could be better in some way.


Poets? There are a few, well quite a lot who, from time to time I think of as favourites. T.S. Eliot is one, four quartets is something I can read over and over, but it does have some lumpy lines.... "T.S"., I'd say, "That's no good, take it back and do it again...."

e.e. cummings though. oh e.e., how did you get that vision? how did your mind work? why did you eschew capitals? was your shift-key broken, or did you just hate it? were you a one-finger trypist like me?

Oh, you were so lucky, you died before you  could ever meet the f@*%ing capslock key.

Here's one of your poems. I wish I could write poems like this.


i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)