Circumstances took me into W.H. Smiths the other week (my son’s urgent need for Thomas the Tank Engine books!). Glances along the shelves provided a brutal reminder that a poetry section doesn’t exist there (in the Chichester branch, at least), although “True Life Stories” seems to be growing at an alarming rate.
And there was me thinking poetry was also a genre that excels at bite-sized morsels of Faction.
Shy of the Squirrel’s Foot: A Peripheral History of the Jargon Society as
Told through Its Missing Books, Andy Martrich, The University of North
Carolina P...
You make an interesting point. I suppose that it's not so much the bite-sized morsels of fiction, as all the other stuff that poets load on the reader's fork (to try to run with this metaphor) that isn't to the taste of the standard W.H.Smith customer?
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