12 micro-poems that follow the arc of the start of a summer to its end. These vary from traveling the subway, favourite ice cream flavours & to ‘memories – fleeting passengers / all of irregular shapes,’
Poems taken from my book Here comes the Sun. Published in 2017.
I was looking for a picture to pair with this poem, and it begs the question. What does poetry look like? I imagine it might be something different for all us. What kind of visuals do you associate with poetry?
Yes, for me it is the dirty great London underground. Travel, movement, big cities, and people.
my love of poetry began as i turned sixteen in the bathroom at college scribbling this idea into threads of lines a poem? damn i hate poetry
i thought that then
yet i pursued poetry as a detective would a lead whilst growing into my own skin reading pages of other poets through poetry i discovered my identity and made friends too experimenting with styles, and topics what i liked, what others enjoyed feeling the power of my punctuated thoughts punching through people’s perspective of who i was
now do you see i am a poet – writing is my superpower.
There are writers I have spoken to that have confirmed this, as well as from my own first hand experience, our minds are always ticking over. We are writing stories in our heads as we brush our teeth, travel on the Tube, eat our lunch, put out the bins, watch television, and so on. As a poet I am puzzling over titles, over used cliché alternatives, end lines, or chewing over the niggles of new inspiration, trying to join the dots, and mould words into something coherent. So if it were to gradually recede, or to suddenly stop, when the hubbub dims it can seem that the dreaded writers block has hit. I don’t believe in writers block. I think when we hit a rut in our lives seemingly everything begins to unravel, depression sets in, and your mind is far from putting bums in seats, pens to paper, and fingers on the keyboard. You have to nurture the part of you that wants to write, that wants to live on a deeper level. You have got to find a way to feel alive again. When you fee the sharp ends of every one of your five senses, you start to imagine the possibilities, and what those possibilities can become. I like to walk, to be with nature, to feel the wind, to smell the air of a wood, to hear the faint noises of the roads encompassing the green space. I like the movement of travel, of going on the Tube, the rush as the train approaches, the swish of the doors, and the crush of people, the discomfort of it all. That is what gets my muse singing, and then it as easy, and as difficult, as putting bums in seats, pens to paper, fingers on the keyboard, and writing. Even if it is a string of choice words, get the cramp out, and enjoy the sensation of writing again, being immersed into something that is entirely your own creation.