Rae of Light

Recently in my writing group we had a very interesting conversation about poetry and why so many people feel they are unqualified to comment on it let alone attempt writing it. Both myself and another very accomplished poet argued that poetry should be for everyone and the reason so many people are put off is because their introduction to it has been stultifying. We are made to feel that if we don’t understand form, method, metre, then we’d best step aside and leave it all to the professionals. But I believe we all intrinsically grasp poetry because it is first and foremost about the sound of words. Us humans relish rhythmic sounds. It’s why we listen to music, sing and dance. I stand by this opinion as I have to teach children about poetry and am met by their fear of it coupled with the idea it will be too difficult to understand. In a classroom full of resistance to poetry I start with just one word. Your basic, everyday common noun. I ask them to list several objects: book...

XV An antique Coliseum arch frames the scene of this long forgotten crime Your toga rising at the shoulder you lift your arm muscles tensing In flagrante delicto paparazzi s nap the shot your guilt for all to see The dagger sits between his blades and Caesar’s lips gasp one last breath Reflected in his eyes the shock of your betrayal His whispered words echo down the corridors of centuries Et tu… A bubble of blood emerges on the blue tinged lips … Brute His final words no-one records but you see them written out in blood stains no remover can ever clear Mio amico… He sighs inside his silence his disappointment ringing loudly in your ears clanging on and on and on Written in 2007 but edited more recently

I wrote poetry long before I became embroiled in fiction. I was 12 and had just started school at St Barnabas College . My English teacher got us to create an anthology of favourite poems. I spent hours trawling through books in the local and school library. I'm talking here about the dark ages before the internet. At any rate, this first dip into poetry soaked the form into my bloodstream through my fingertips as I licked pages to turn them. I didn't always understand the poems but they stirred the embers of a certain something in me. A something my 12 year old self couldn't quite name but felt compelled to rake up into the steady flicker of a pilot flame. And so it began.  While other girls my age were writing in their diaries, I was filling a notebook with poems. Some of these I shared with my mother – my harshest critic. Others I kept to myself because, they voiced my teenage angst – you know, the kind only a teenager can possess. ...