Poetry

My poetry appeared to… spring - out of a long winter of the soul. I’d written the odd spot, as a teen or at uni. Suddenly, in my late twenties, I was a poet, and that identity felt indelible. It was therapy (I can hear my own groans) that unlocked me and I realised what an unpoured person I was. The things I learned, in those white walls, felt like revelations of biblical proportions. My poems were an attempt to communicate a hellscape but also penning them was what dug me out. I’m proud of my raw early pieces - I call them “traumaps”. They’re place-based in that they’re trapped and they use place metaphors - walls, doors, maps - to find a way. They show me opening - from placing my own biography, to where within family, then relationships, and onto community at large. These days, I find myself writing about towns, cities, nations, the universe(!) and even imagined localities like a “word bank”. I’m excited that now my poetic topics seem to be in the same ballpointpark as my prose and professional interests. I’m making a place for them, I suppose - and visitors are very welcome.