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.
Now that the pain of my frozen shoulder has considerably lessened, I’ve
been better able to concentrate on and enjoy reading, which is just as well
because...
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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