Guest Post : “They fuck you up”

“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.” Robert Graves

Our Myfanwy agreed to write about poetry for us today, and there’s a second part coming later…

Let’s play a round of word association: what does the word “poetry” make you feel?

Embarrassment, awe, fear, joy, anticipation, memories of school exam torture, boredom: all of these flit through my head – and I am a poet (and neurodivergent), so heaven knows how the rest of you experience that word.

If reading is the transference of an author’s thoughts almost telepathically into readers’ minds, the most fraught relationship between writer and readers might be with poetry, because this is where the author gives us a distilled essence of their emotion plus (often) vast leeway in interpretation.

Poetry As Human History

Yet poetry is our oldest form of literature, stories being told in verse long before writing was invented, probably from human’s evolution of speech. Even after a select few could record words on clay or bark or vellum, memory and repetition were the mainstay of learning and participating. Think of the Bible’s psalms, or the fireside tale Beowulf, set in 6th century Scandinavia, which may have been created long before being written down.

“Hwaet!” is the imperative beginning Beowulf, which can be translated as “Listen [up]!” addressed to an eager audience, hunkered around a fire that makes the darkness beyond even blacker.

And my Methodist turned Quaker mother often quoted this :

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me

beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of

righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy

staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine

enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

Pslam 23 (King James Bible)

Although most of us prefer to ignore it most of the time, many of us turn to poetry at emotional times. There are anthologies of poems marketed for funerals, memorials, bereavement, weddings, troubled souls. And we accept it carefully curated into collections for the time of year, or by theme.

How Not To Do It

Back to that word association, if someone mentions poetry to me I am instantly wary because poetry means such different things to different people – and too many enthusiasts are keen to share their back-of-a-beermat scribbles. Poets at all skill levels argue hotly about what poetry is or should be. My father used to write amusing doggerel and, (with hindsight) being autistic he had no idea when to shut up, causing me endless embarrassments in my teens, especially as he was generally as close to naked as was legal in 1970s Somerset, particularly painfully with his jaunty multiverse epic, I Want a Belly Dancer.

(I was born on his thirtieth birthday. So, for his sixtieth – my thirtieth, please note – we went out for lunch with all his friends and he read the poem and then we had an actual belly dancer. Certainly not what I’d have picked as my ideal celebration. I remember forcing my face into a frozen smile and enduring the entertainments. “Worse things happen in war,” my late mother might have said with stoic, Methodist patience if she’d heard of it (but she’d been dead over a decade). The only high spot was Dad’s look of intense irritation when the dancer, clad in not very much and jingling with tiny bells, sashayed into the pub, interrupting his declamation somewhere in verse six million and twenty-three. I swore I’d never write poetry, but then one day (after finishing my first novel’s first draft) a poem mugged me, followed shortly by a better poem that I allowed to stay. But I digress. Also, this probably isn’t selling the idea to you as I intend.)

So someone pushing their own poetry at me with guppy-like enthusiasm will cause panic, until I learn they are able (a) to write or at least (b) to learn and (c) to show some self-control. Other listeners may have a more generous reaction but poets are renowned for infighting and neurodivergence. It’s half the fun (sometimes).

I remember an elderly lady at a local writing circle declaring in a whisper (that could be heard by the entire room as she and her friend were exceedingly deaf), ‘That’s NOT poetry! in tones of deep disgust as a slam-winning poet finished his performance. She was wrong: he was brilliant. Poetry is many things to many people.

A Swan’s Feet are very busy

Since my house burned down

I now own a better view

of the rising moon

Mizuta Masahide, translated

Written centuries ago, this is a gem that still speaks powerfully now. Haiku written in English are generally 5-7-5 syllables, which makes it an ideal beginners’ basic form (the original Japanese is more complex).

later that night

i held an atlas in my lap

ran my fingers across the whole world

and whispered

where does it hurt?

it answered

everywhere

everywhere

everywhere.

That’s the end of a poem about becoming a refugee, What They Did Yesterday Afternoon, by Warsan Shire. A few years ago it went viral and you can see why. It has that “Ooft!” factor.

Another poem about dealing with displacement that I love is:

A Portable Paradise, by Roger Robinson*

And if I speak of Paradise,

then I’m speaking of my grandmother

who told me to carry it always

on my person, concealed, so

no one else would know but me.

That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.

And if life puts you under pressure,

trace its ridges in your pocket,

smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,

hum its anthem under your breath.

And if your stresses are sustained and daily,

get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,

hostel or hovel – find a lamp

and empty your paradise onto a desk:

your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.

Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope

of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.

It includes the feel of the fabulous Welsh word, “hiraeth”, and hiraeth is all about that longing for something, not necessarily nostalgia, or even a place that existed as now imagined. Good poetry captures strange or difficult feelings and makes it look effortless.

What is good poetry?

Poetry is everywhere, in local open mics, on TV ads, in old anthologies and new. If you want to explore, you can find older books in libraries, hundreds of websites for modern poems, and cutting edge insta poems on, er, Instagram.

Poetry is everywhere and every reader/listener will make value judgements. Good vs arsedribble is a highly subjective reckoning, but there are some things we would almost all consider markers of one or the other. We all see things differently, as someone reminded me recently, but we do need to write our best if we want to perform or publish to our full ability. To write our best, we need examples of the best, perhaps discussed with other readers/poets.

What do you like? Start with that. Maybe humour ticks the box for you, so follow Brian Bilston on Facebook or comedy zine Spilling Cocoa over Martin Amis (after Wendy Cope) where you can submit your own funnies once they’re up to scratch.

There are online zines devoted to wildlife, music, form and pretty much anything. If there’s a gap, you can always start one. My favourites include Ink, Sweat and Tears (home my first ever poetry submission – and publication) and Atrium (run by local friends). There are even still paper magazines, mostly at the high end of the market (because, cost) from Poetry Review to Prole.

Anthologies such as Ledbury Poetry Festival’s 20 year celebration, Hwaet!, the annual Forward poetry collections, Too Young, Too Loud, Too Different (from Malika’s Poetry Kitchen – including Roger Robinson), and many others, are packed with brilliant modern poetry. Support the poets/organisations by ordering direct if possible.

Pick a poem that you love or that eludes you. Read it. Read it again. Read it aloud. Read it before you sleep. How does what you find inside it change? Why does it affect you? Sometimes poems are like the Tardis: there is far more inside than expected.

Next time there’ll be more about writing poetry

* Shared in full with permission

Myfanwy Fox -

Biologist now running a charity shop, interested in ecology, psychology and communication. Poet and writer of science fiction.

Check out her website here - Fox Unkennelled