A small satirical reflection on the life of anthology editors. Posted with a few intentional and unintentional 'editorial opportunities' still attached, including a groan-worthy forced rhyme in the first stanza of this otherwise free verse.
His heart sinks to his boots at the mountian of work that suits - much are rejectable at first glance - but some needs a second glance. The majority is best described as 'fortnight tea'. Getting to grips with diffent registers, varied poetic voices and levels of growth, make for a couldron of flavours catering for differnent tastes - editors are expected to wear many hats. This is before rhyme can be checked - mistakes are argued away as poetic licence - and getting to grips with dialect and varied stressed syllables ... This is just scratching the surface. AI can be helpful - up to a point: It does not 'get' idiom and many metaphor which the more seasoned poet employs. Poetry is a living, breathing medium - it can't be difined by an algorithm.
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