In my teens I was in the thrall of the Romantic poets, especially Keats and Coleridge. I began writing poems 'in the style of', which, in hindsight, were woeful. I do remember a line that opened one such example, 'Sweet seems to me that tree' and upon this I rest my case. Fortunately nothing remains, the loose sheets of paper long degraded in a local tip.

But imagine if I had digital access and reproduction back when these pieces were first composed. They would be swirling about in the ether, so to speak, for as long as humanity had not destroyed itself. The latter appears to be closer than one might think, by the way, the parlous state of the planet and the human condition being a millstone about the neck of the ever hapless homo sapiens species.

But I digress. The fact is that everything produced today is extant and is probably reproduced over and over. I have to contend with this fact whenever I write in this blog and sometimes I forget the severity of not paying attention to the flashing red lights. I guess that there are still many poems that I would like to disappear but now it is too late.

I will just have to graciously accept the laughter that ensues.