I am attending the Sydney Writers Festival this year, and have arrived in Australia early. It’s a new frontier, a land of milk and wagga-blood. The enemy have built many camps here in the universities. I am living with an Australian artist, Garry Shead, he lives on Scotland Island, an hour outside of Sydney. It’s a strange place with many chicken wire cages (empty ones) around the outskirts of the property. Last night I was taken upriver by a alcoholic fisherman called Bill, a memorable evening to put in mildly. I must tell you that the seeds of your blog have grown here, taken root in the hearts of many young poets, they have grouped together under the banner of The Waggaists. Deluded and with red chips on their shoulders, writing echoes of your earlier work, searching constantly for quietude so they may disrupt and smash it until it yodels like a strangled chicken. There is much to answer for, they are awaiting your presence, like a Second Coming. The Red K cannot understand why you have not featured any of his numerous publications on your blog, he is swinging wildly from one camp to another, the Poetry Wars of the Great Southern Land are about to explode and there will be fearful consequences.
Robert Penn Warren