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Showing posts from January, 2014

Sinead Morrissey wins TS Eliot for Parallax

I know; its been ages. It's not you - it's me. Really. Can we stay friends? Look, the fact that I've even taken notice of the TS Eliot Prize, announced this evening, means that there's still a flame.


So Dr Sinead Morrissey, creative writing lecturer at the Seamus Heaney Centre for Poetry, and Belfast Poet Laureate, receives garlands galore. And £15,000. Not bad. The first book I bought this year was the Forward 2014; and I have yet to read one that's had me by the throat - I've not read them all; barely had time to read my weekly New Yorker let alone anything else. But a sign that I'm reconnecting is that I recently wrote a poem - first in months - a year, even.

I recently heard an acquaintance - a man who's no stranger to high-powered roles - declare that he had accepted a new role. But that he felt only flat. He'd been able to take a year off before then, during which time he had engaged the poet within, and he was now feeling flat because he …