In glancing through–and attempting to deep-read–the poems in the anthology I was gifted with, I am reluctant to make comment.
Because I really, really, even with making all sorts of allowances for my resistive nature and my frustration with much of what passes for poetry these days, can’t find anything structurally sound in the poetry, nor any more than some great images lumped together that still manage to make no sense.
Therefore, until I decide one way or the other, whether it’s me or the poet, I will refrain from commenting further or naming the anthology in question.
Personally, I’m leaning towards my suspicion that it’s another case of the emperor going nude.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology