Sympathetic Sybil is Write Out Loud's own Agony Aunt, send your problem to sybil@writeoutloud.net

Dear SS,

Having read your column assiduously over the last few months I’m sure you must have taken many poetry workshops to pass on your vast knowledge to us less experienced poets.

Is there any chance you could guest at one of our workshops?

Sean.... no, it’s no good, I can’t read your last name darling... looks like it might begin with a ‘K’ but frankly my dear your hand-writing is appalling – almost like a doctor’s scribble...

Oh Darlings,

How I’d love to even be part of your workshop experience but here I am, incarcerated in the Erato Home for Fallen Muses, with no hope of an early release. And anyway, there is that ridiculous restraining order which means that I can’t come within 2 miles of Julian Jordon.

Honestly, anyone would think I am infatuated with the man, but it’s the poet I see and want to get close to and help grapple with his art; throwing him to the ground and assisting him with his deep breathing exercises is just my way of showing my appreciation, and there is no way I’m responsible for the perpetual sleep terrors that keep him on the edge of a permanent nervous breakdown.

Physically I’m not at my best either, especially now I have this restless leg syndrome which keeps me agitated all night unless I’m rubbed vigorously upon retiring, and without the aid of my ladies maid and a stiff snifter or two, my poor tootsies can only describe a parabola which collapses into me spinning into ever decreasing circles until I’m in danger of spiralling into me own fundament.

The first workshop I experienced was with WB (Yeats? Ed), or ‘Big Willie’ as I knew him.  This was after he’d had the ‘Steinach operation and was going through what he called his “strange second puberty the operation has given me.”

At least he called them ‘workshops’ though they largely just involved the two of us, with me usually naked as he decanted verse at me in a thrilling and unusual way, followed by oddly totemic bouts of wild love making.

“Dame Sybil” he would moan, “you are my nude muse!”

Ah, fond memories! How many other poets, apart from dear Julian, would say similar things to me over the years? (Where’s my calculator? Ed)

Why I even remember WH (Auden? Ed) was so enamoured with me during the war that he once showered me with presents after one of my ‘workshops’. Yes, a packet of lard, three potatoes and a turnip. He really knew how to spoil a girl.

As you can imagine, therefore, I’d love to workshop with any of  you young and, particularly priapic poets but time, the great horned onion, has laid your great and unique workshop leader low, oh so low.

Though I hope to see some of you soon

Love

Dame Sybil