He was quite good at being impartial and, with poetry, he was supremely impartial. And he did – he put several into each category. “I came to him with a stack of my poetry that was several inches high and asked him to put them into three piles: good, bad and indifferent. By then, she had been secretly writing poetry for a decade, filing it away in a shoebox. He also liked her poetry and encouraged her to write, although she didn’t allow him to read any of her poems until she was 34. Her father loved her paintings, she says. Every inch of every wall is covered with her dramatic, large oil paintings of birds and abstract shapes. She is 56 now and we are sitting by the fire in the lounge of her old Welsh farmhouse, eating delicious homemade banana cake and drinking tea.
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