I've had a few enquiries (or is that "inquiries"?) in the poetry community about the mysterious disappearance of that near-mythical Welsh bard Bryn Fortey, publisher/ editor of the best-ever poetry magazine "Outlaw". It seemed to some that he just dropped off the map, after breathing new vigour into the post-Beat scene with the aforementioned little mag.
Why are they asking me? Well, in global terms, Bryn and I are near-neighbours for one, him being just a short hop down a long road and a few jolting hill crests away. And I made no secret of the fact that I admire the hell out of him, and may not even have been writing today without the encouragement he gave me to continue when absolutely everybody was treating my poetry like barely-warmed-over dogshit.
But anyway. I had a note from him today following on from one of mine and he has asked me to extend his apologies to anyone who was expecting correspondence from him and didn't get it. Aside from having a few problems at home, which I'll leave him to tell you about, Bryn had a mountain of correspondence (inevitable when you are the Great Grey Hope of poets everywhere thanks to your impeccable judgement and counter-cultural daring), and he just fell behind with it. Happens to us all: I have inadvertently insulted many a poet, including some major leaguers, by losing their correspondence, losing their submissions, taking their money and giving them nothing in return. We are poets who run magazines, after all: you don't get too many head wraiths who are also great office workers.
He will catch up on his correspondence when and if he can. The important thing is that he's still with us, and according to the note I had, he may even get back into the game sometime. And when that happens we'll all get a lesson in how it's supposed to be done.
The post-Beat scene awaits his return with beer bottle suspended in mid-air, roach flame winking in the fading light.