It has been a summer of clearing and cleaning and taking
stock. One of the clearings has been a load of old paperwork, and in the
process I turned up lots of stuff, including an old Aspects programme from
1995. I was one of the readers; my first inclusion in the programme for a
literary festival and launching my very first publication, Kissing Ghosts, a chapbook from Lapwing Press. Seeing the programme
brought back lots of memories; I remember what I was wearing and how nervous
but excited I was. My mother was not very well, just at the beginning of the
long illness that would rob her of her memory, but she was well enough though
to attend the reading, the only time she heard me read my own work. I always
found her a difficult woman to please, but I felt that she was proud of me that
evening, if a little concerned that I was breaking the family code of ‘whatever
you say, say nothing’.
Much has changed for me in the nineteen years since then but
there have also been constants. One of these is that I’m still writing poetry.
This may not seem much of an achievement in itself, but it feels like it. I’ve
stuck with it, that desire to craft words and thoughts and experiences into
something truthful and maybe even beautiful. I’m in it for the long haul and
somehow that feels like the real achievement. I have stayed with that part of
myself, writing in hours snatched from other things, through periods of doubt;
through good times and bad.
I’ve seen discussions on social media as to whether it’s ok
to call yourself a poet. Well, I’m going to claim the title. I’m a lot of
things – and one of them is poet.
