more than words

I wonder what you think of when you hear the word poetry? More often than not when I've introduced the topic to a class of teenagers there follows a collective slumping of shoulders.

And for a while, even in adulthood, I may have been inclined to agree. But just as I balk at the absurd suggestion when I'm told that someone doesn't like books - they just haven't found the right one for them yet - I have come to the same conclusion with poetry.

There is a poem (and poet) for everyone. And I reckon you need to start with the subject. What is it you're interested in, what experiences have you had and what in this world sparks your emotions?

I've never been a fan of the long and breezy poem that meanders with floral contortions over hill and dale. Nah. A couple of my earliest poet loves were Michael Rosen and Roger McGough. Two men who appeared on kid's telly with humourous rhymes I could relate to (and in the case of Rosen - the most hilarious facial expressions; us kids were glued).  Moving through secondary school and coming to understand the term ' ethnic minority' I devoured the words of Jackie Kay who in just one poem summed up my high school experience (go to page 13)

You see it didn't matter whether these poems rhymed or not, used fancy words or slang; I got them because they got me.

And so I continue onto my womanhood, mix in a little higher education, love and lust and loss and a whole heap of black women...well now...let me just rest while I cool myself with this here fan...Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, ntozake shange, Valerie Bloom, Jean Binta Breeze.

Poetry has power. I connected with the words which lead me to search for poems that would reach out and make sense to the closed ears in my classrooms. To do this I leant back to the poets I loved because then my enthusiasm for the poems I read out loud would be infused in each line. Luckily the exam board I taught thrust the likes of Simon Armitage and John Agard onto the curriculum so I dragged students and staff out to see them...LIVE!  Being a busy working mum of three my nights grooving at gigs may well and truly bitten the dust but here I was cheering and brap, brap, brapping with a bunch of year 11s at these two blokes who picked their words off the page and kicked them off the stage into a raucous crowd.  But you see, these kids...they got it.

We have come full circle in my house of poetry as I read Michael Rosen's poetry that makes my daughters double up in hysterics.

And so have I.  My teenage angst was penned across years and pages and whilst I may cringe a little, I have learnt to celebrate the me from then. And the me from now has re-discovered my love for my own poetry once again. Words and phrases seem to flow, just now, borne from an image in a photograph, sensation from a song, memory from my past, a face in my present, wishes in my future. All in all I am wrapped up in my poetry.

So that's what I'm writing these days.

This post i in response to the What I'm Writing linky week98

more than words

I wonder what you think of when you hear the word poetry? More often than not when I've introduced the topic to a class of teenagers there follows a collective slumping of shoulders.

And for a while, even in adulthood, I may have been inclined to agree. But just as I balk at the absurd suggestion when I'm told that someone doesn't like books - they just haven't found the right one for them yet - I have come to the same conclusion with poetry.

There is a poem (and poet) for everyone. And I reckon you need to start with the subject. What is it you're interested in, what experiences have you had and what in this world sparks your emotions?

I've never been a fan of the long and breezy poem that meanders with floral contortions over hill and dale. Nah. A couple of my earliest poet loves were Michael Rosen and Roger McGough. Two men who appeared on kid's telly with humourous rhymes I could relate to (and in the case of Rosen - the most hilarious facial expressions; us kids were glued).  Moving through secondary school and coming to understand the term ' ethnic minority' I devoured the words of Jackie Kay who in just one poem summed up my high school experience (go to page 13)

You see it didn't matter whether these poems rhymed or not, used fancy words or slang; I got them because they got me.

And so I continue onto my womanhood, mix in a little higher education, love and lust and loss and a whole heap of black women...well now...let me just rest while I cool myself with this here fan...Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, ntozake shange, Valerie Bloom, Jean Binta Breeze.

Poetry has power. I connected with the words which lead me to search for poems that would reach out and make sense to the closed ears in my classrooms. To do this I leant back to the poets I loved because then my enthusiasm for the poems I read out loud would be infused in each line. Luckily the exam board I taught thrust the likes of Simon Armitage and John Agard onto the curriculum so I dragged students and staff out to see them...LIVE!  Being a busy working mum of three my nights grooving at gigs may well and truly bitten the dust but here I was cheering and brap, brap, brapping with a bunch of year 11s at these two blokes who picked their words off the page and kicked them off the stage into a raucous crowd.  But you see, these kids...they got it.

We have come full circle in my house of poetry as I read Michael Rosen's poetry that makes my daughters double up in hysterics.

And so have I.  My teenage angst was penned across years and pages and whilst I may cringe a little, I have learnt to celebrate the me from then. And the me from now has re-discovered my love for my own poetry once again. Words and phrases seem to flow, just now, borne from an image in a photograph, sensation from a song, memory from my past, a face in my present, wishes in my future. All in all I am wrapped up in my poetry.

So that's what I'm writing these days.

This post i in response to the What I'm Writing linky week98

i'm still standing

I've been really strict with my writing after the long summer holiday. Really I should have gone back to the day job but I'm dragging my 'new direction' out for as long as possible.

The writing calendar is adhered to. The coffee mornings have been declined. The housework is neglected (not sure I can blame writing for that one.). Although the novel is floundering as I consider a narrative / target audience change I am focusing on my poetry, short story and blogging writing with a mind to finding as many submissions as I can. I realised that sitting alone hiding with my writing won't do much good so it was time to get it out there.

And there lies the rub...

Whilst I know there will be rejections, it don't 'alf sting when yet another submission / competition email bears no positive news. And I haven't been doing it that long so I am aware there may be many more to come. But still. That moment when runners up are tweeted every day of the week and when you don't see your name on the penultimate day, there burns that little flame of hope - maybe, just maybe.

The announcement of the winner's name not being the same as mine can often colour my whole day - I'm still working on the whole dust myself off, pick myself up and start all over again routine - but I think it's because the length of time between any kind of 'win' seems to be stretching a tad too far for my liking.

But I suppose I won't appreciate that elusive win if I haven't felt the losses, right?

Right.

* picks up pen *

Time to start again.

This post is in response to the #WhatImWriting linky  

another place to fall

Last September I tentatively paused my hectic life of teaching to enter the world of writing. I had struggled for years attempting to spill the numerous creative ideas in my head onto paper during school holidays with bags of marking and planning puksing like Poe's tell-tale heart in the corner of whichever room (or tent) August would find me in.

I had visions of me curled up in my cosy living room - sans enfants - typing fantasy whirlwinds for hours on end.

But I forgot about the power of the 'off' telly; the overwhelming desire to make green the red standby light and catch up on all of those marvellous box sets on Amazon Prime.

I had to leave the living room.

So off to the kitchen I went; surely the kid's homework desk with a view of the garden would generate the perfect creative atmosphere. Never before had I noticed the beeps, bells and whistles that fill a house (why does your washing machine need to tell you so often that it's finished?!) or how important it was to do all of the washing up ,sweeping, feeding the cats, making cups of tea, putting out the recycling...yes you get it - the ultimate distraction: housework!

 I had to leave the kitchen.

I'm fortunate to have a log cabin in the garden (previous homeowner had a childminding business out there) so I thought maybe it could stop being a dumping ground for stuff to one day be posted on gumtree or netmums. Having persuaded the GeordieLad to clear out the bugs and beasties, buy a new funky lamp and of course, a whole bunch of new stationery, I moved in and my new routine was borne.

Blog stuff (writing and reading) in the morning whilst listening to the lovely Vanessa on BBC Radio London. Research time coinciding with Radio 4's Women's Hour. Followed by a long afternoon that stretched out with hours of words with the four women who were being constructed in my first ever novel.

With the rain tapping on my wooden ceiling and the sun streaming through the skylight, there I am hunched over an old dining table filched from my sister; day after day after day. By myself bar the occasional visit from a cat or two. The day broken up with a squirreled lunch and copious cups of tea or cawfee.

When literal cabin fever sets in I surface to explore new places to write; coffee shops (too noisy and expensive, calorific sustenance); libraries (lovely every now and then but I admit I spend most of the day character-creating inspired by the zillions of people who fill these glorious venues); museums (way to much distraction because I loves a museum); parks (it's summer, there's rain, 'nuff said)

So crawling back to the cubby hole of my cabin, I welcome the silence and accept the loneliness that arises in the pursuit of writing heaven.

This post is linked up with What I'm Writing linky:wk83