'TERENCE, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'
Reading aloud, now adding Shelley, Keats, in addition to T.S. Eliot, it's good practice - often taking a few pages before I settle into the rhythm of the verse, scanning ahead for unfamiliar - or rather, more familiar but never pronounced words, to work them into the rhythm. It gets better, like meditation, seldom am I ever anywhere close to Zen but I imagine, I fancy that with a bit of practice I'll get better at it.
But the quality of reading - especially when reading the likes of Shelley and Keats and Eliot, well, it rather infuriates me. These people were writing a poem or 2 a day; I have no excuses, for the doggerel that I'm writing there's no high bar, I should be cranking out a book a day, and so, really, what the fuck is up? Both inspiring and chastising...