For me, a poem is a thing of reckless variance. A poem is never just a pattern of words. There are certain people who strike me as perfectly contrite ‘poems’ within themselves. There are cities that for all their multitudes and empty spaces, constitute a kind of slant verse. There are sculptures and animals and horologiums that are ‘poems’ before a word has even been summoned. I believe that there are only two ways to be , either you are poetry or you write poetry. Poets are unicorns, druids, soldiers and wives. Poets seek magic in the most terrifying places , with the oddest kind of happiness one can imagine. There is no reasonable explanation for an undertaking so dependent on mere sentiment, but for many the raking of such private flamboyance is the only way to articulate their place in the world. The Missing Slate has been a space where so many art-forms have converged, so many intelligent conversations have been sparked, and where I hope to encounter all types of brilliancy.
In my time at The Missing Slate I hope to showcase work that is experimental, ambiguous, disturbed, marginal, surreal and ambitious. There is so much to say about the world we live in and so many ways in which to say it. I hope that with the discovery of sparkling, singular voices on our pages we are able to communicate the vitality and the immediacy of being contrary and above all things , of being true.