by cyclopscinderella

I was talking to someone the other day about the Russian poets I had studied and mentioned I had liked Tsvetaeva best of all, and liked her still; she is, along with John Betjeman, my favourite poet (though I turn to each, I think, for different things). They said as I spoke of her, ‘that doesn’t surprise me’, and though it rather pleased me I wondered what it was about my  manner that in their eyes had linked me to her.

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