STAGS: Nine students. Three blood sports. One deadly weekend.

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Nobody talks to scholarship girl Greer. It gets her down, but there are other ‘misfits’, like Shafeen who dares to be Indian, and Nel, (short for Chanel.) Nel’s father has more money than half the other parents put together, but he made it by inventing a smart phone. Smart phones are out at STAGS. The Internet is for research purposes only. Most forms of technology are ‘Savage’. Nobody wants to be ‘Savage’. Everybody wants to be ‘Medieval’.

Probably stay at a country house hotel - somewhere like Chillingham Castle in Northumberland, which is owned by Baron Sir Edward Humphrey Wakefield. It's bristling with stags' heads! The book is indeed the summation of the creative writing poetry which has come to dominate contemporary verse– so it’s not surprising that it’s a summary of everything which is wrong, false, and disappointing about American poetry today. It’s a landmark in what has to be one of the dreariest, most uninspired, and least creative (surely there has never been a less creative literary movement than Creative Writing) periods of poetry in history. Then they all decide not to tell the police because they don't want to ruin the lives of the evil snotty kids who were trying to kill them. What?Then there's this lovely snippet: - The last thing we needed would be for some hillbilly Lake District community to start doing weird witchcraft and setting fire to us in some straw effigy[sic]...

They decide to snoop around the house in the dark, and find a series of hunting books in the library that documents that the de Walencourt's have been hunting people since the middle ages. They take a bunch of photos for evidence and decide to formulate a plan for tomorrows fishing trip.As to the subject matter, the personal agonies of the speaker are, to be sure, presented with the painful honesty which is held nowadays to ensure poetic quality. I don’t believe it ever does, but to say anything disapproving about such sincere disclosures of anguish would leave me open to the accusation of not being a warm, caring human being, a charge which I would find so woundingly hurtful that I feel I have no choice but passively to allow emotional honesty to fulfill its role of forestalling criticism, and be silent. About the style of this verse, however, I feel no such reticence.