Hello! I hope you’re all well and enjoying the first signs of spring – I have daffodils poking up all over the place and the birds are definitely pairing up – I fear I may have pigeon wars again this year.
If you’ve been a subscriber to Kathryn Anna Writes for some time (thank you!) you’ll have noticed some changes to my content over the last few months. In an attempt to streamline things a little, and also to be part of the growing community of writers and thinkers on Substack, I’ve switched some of my more writerly content away from this website to make space for more about my new venture writing personalised wedding poems and making poetry prints. My initial idea was to copy all my new musings over to here, then I remembered Google hates (and I mean hates) duplicate content, so I’ve had to make the decision to make a more definite split.
I’ll still be posting updates and news on here, but any longer essays and poetry film are on my new(ish) publication This Wild Feeling. I’d love it if you’d join me over there (it’s completely free) and I’m ever grateful for your continued support, which ever platform you choose to use stay in touch.
One of my goals for this year was to commit to regular updates on my blog. I’ve been a keen blogger for a while – it’s very much a diary as well as a way of connecting with people. Last year I lost my way a little (I suspect grief may have been a driver for this) and tried all sorts of ill-fitting hats. I want to get back to writing in my own voice and valuing my own thoughts and ideas – a blog is the perfect place to do this, and my new platform, Substack is a veritable feast of ideas and excellent writing.
My aim is to post regularly. For me this means posting at least once a week with a regular update of what’s going on for me as a writer. I also intend to longer form pieces that look at ideas and thoughts about writing in more detail. I aim to post every other week alternating with my poetry films.
The best place to see these updates is Substack – you can subscribe for free, and you’re guaranteed to see what I write. You’ll also find some of the most interesting new writing on all sorts of subjects and by all sorts of people. It’s as far from mindless social media scrolling as you can get – other than going to an actual library and reading of course, but that can be tricky to do in a snatched few minutes between all the other things we all have to juggle.
Just a word on visibility; you’re probably familiar with the fact that social media is a woeful way to keep up with all but a very few folk (I think I see about five friends!) – it’s almost as though all they’re really interested in is getting me to advertise… if you’re keen to keep up with how things are going keep an eye on your inbox. My original WordPress site is still very much alive too, so you can always look me up there if Substack isn’t your thing.
I’m excited to see what this year will bring, and as with everything, it’s always better when I’ve got my friends with me.
On to this week’s round up then. I’ve had a week of solitude, which has been rather nice. I’d like to say I’ve devoted it to writing, but domestic duties have got in the way. We’ve had the last two windows replaced in our little terrace, so things will be much less draughty. As with any job like this the dust was, shall we say, exuberant, and much of my week has been devoted to calming it down.
As well as my role in dust control (always the poet) I’ve spent more time tweaking and fretting about my commercial venture Kathryn Anna Writes Bespoke, written another article for one of my lovely content writing clients, before finally finding time to write and review some of my own work. I’ve sent off a mini round of submissions, caught up with some of my What to Look for in Winter notes and still not started Poetry Projects to make and do! Top of the list for next week.
What I love about writing is that it gives me a sense of who I am beyond anything else. It’s the most important thing I can do in terms of self-care, and the most important thing to make time for. I’m making changes to the way I structure my week which I hope will have a positive impact on my writing. I’m also making changes to how I use social media – you can read more about this on Wednesday!
Sunday saw me take Kathryn Anna Writes Bespoke out into the big wide world. I loved every moment of the wedding fair at the Hundred House Hotel – having people read my work (and even shed a tear!), admire the prints and generally fall in love with the idea of a poem being written for them made my heart sing.
Starting your own business is fun. Tough, terrifying, exhausting,fun. I feel like all my skills in talking to customers (thanks to years of selling specs), learning how to write and use SEO (thanks to years of writing content for anything and everything) have joined up with my greatest love to create an opportunity that’s too good to miss.
When I began writing poems for family and friends I was amazed that people were interested. They were, and they loved them, but you know there’s always that nag that perhaps people are just being kind. Changes to the content writing landscape early last year (AI I’m looking at you) meant I had to make a decision. Either pursue content writing as a fully fledged career or find another way to use my words to make a (modest) living.
Content writing is an art. It demands understanding of SEO, understanding of marketing and a supreme desire to work within the consumer-driven world. After a couple of months exploring courses and tips from marketing gurus I realised that this was not where I wanted to be – and was probably not a world where I would thrive. I’ve never been a natural business person, and never really enjoyed the conventional corporate world. Shoehorning myself back there felt like a step backwards, a betrayal of all I’d learned about myself and what matters to me.
What else to do? There is precious little money to be made from poetry, even for the uber-poets who grace the airwaves and are part of the national psyche. The main ways to gather an income are by running workshops, winning competitions and simply (ha!) selling poems.
I love the idea of running workshops and delivered two successfully – training skills kicked back in and I genuinely enjoyed them. The challenge as a person with M.E. is sustainability. To give a good workshop I need to be at the top of my mental and physical fitness – something that is unpredictable and often lets me down at the last minute. I had to go back to the drawing board.
On the back of my successful exhibition with Maggie Cameron last year, I decided to make cards. The cute little flower poems were pretty, appealing and ideal for spring and summer birthdays. Or so I thought. Sales were poor, Etsy fees took over half my revenue and to be honest the poems felt like they were written by someone else.
Where to go? Dare I try to sell my poems to strangers? To ask them to trust me to write something for a big birthday or even a wedding. I can rarely resist a challenge and so Kathryn Anna Writes Bespoke was born.
I struggled a lot with the poem style at first. The work needed to be accessible enough for people to enjoy, but good enough that I felt happy to put my name to it. I toyed with the idea of using a pen name, but felt that meant I was writing work that I wasn’t proud of. People deserve better than that.
My moment of clarity came during a conversation with a dear friend who simply said “you’re writing for people who aren’t necessarily that interested in the academics of poetry, the just want something that sounds nice and means something to them”. A perfect description and that’s what I do. I get to know my clients, build a relationship. and write something that they love. I always say that I write to connect with people, and honestly there are few better connections than getting a letter saying how much my words have meant on such an important occasion.
So here I am, on the threshold of a new year. Who knows what it will bring for both my commercial and literary work. I’m proud that I keep trying, I’m proud I’ve reached out for support and I’m proud that I’m following what I love, however difficult it may be. I’m proud that I can say this. And yes I still hear the warning whisper “pride before a fall” but I’m not so far from the ground that it would hurt.
Thank you for reading – please do share my new venture far and wide – it’s one of the main ways to support me. Until next time
One of my most rewarding habits is to devote the first hour of my morning to reading or writing poetry. I don’t manage it all the time, but when I do it’s a wonderful way to begin the day.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve used this hour to read and reflect on Jean Atkins’ latest collection High Nowhere. Each morning I’ve found something new, found poems that move me in a different way. This is a collection that commands attention. I’ve enjoyed rich description, honest fury, chilling insight and the sheer pleasure of reading a carefully constructed collection. I hope you’ll enjoy reading my review.
Review of High Nowhere – Jean Atkin , published by Indigo Dreams November 2023
‘I think that by retaining one’s childhood love of such things as
trees, fishes, butterflies and – to return to my first instance –
toads, one makes a peaceful and decent future a little more
probable, and that by preaching the doctrine that nothing is to
be admired except steel and concrete, one merely makes it a
little surer that human beings will have no outlet for their
surplus energy except in hatred and leader worship.’
George Orwell Some Thoughts on the Common Toad
A book that opens with one of my favourite George Orwell quotes is always going to have impact. High Nowhere does this but somehow combines chilling insight about the damage we have done and are doing, with threads of magical realism and familial tenderness. This collection took me on a journey through the high lonely places, through majesty, into fable and fairy tale before rejoining the tentative hope of day to day living.
Brink
My boots left earth.
I tasted leaves.
The birds fly from us
Brink places me in the role of explorer. I embark on a journey through the multiple insults rained down on the natural world, through ignorant loss and foolish decision. These poems express simmering contempt, inexorable sadness and simple frustration.
We blinked, you vanished, in the disappearing trees.
In twenty nineteen, you were classified extinct. We
found you, named you, lost you, in less than twenty years.
Ode to the Cryptic Tree Hunter
The plaintive cry of the opening poem Ferme d’Isson hints not only at the global crisis, but the unique problems that England is facing as it moves to an ever more hostile attitude towards the natural world. Brink is a pointed battle cry, a warning we have an opportunity to listen as well as being a tale of tender sorrow at all we have lost.
Spread
Behind the socially distanced queue blow dandelion clocks.
With deft intertwining I am taken back to the suspended reality of 2020. Spread recounts a world of cautious crowds and cauliflowers stacked like clouds. Lockdown Heron is particularly poignant, capturing those moments of heightened observation that lockdown brought for some of us, while The birds fly fromus takes me to a place of delicate, uneasy wonder each time I read it. Everyday observation and authentic experience mingle with brutal anger at the errors that placed us in this situation – and that the fact that these errors exist at all.
Stall 29 alone gave up five positive samples, four of the, from
the wild taste trade. From a metal cage. From a machine to remove
fur, or feathers. From two handcarts for wheeling crates
of creatures in, for banquets, snacks, or pets.
Yewei
Image by Jean Atkin
Source
Here gallop the millers of air,
Grinding the winds of nowhere.
The combination of perspicuous description and furious insight threads through the collection, rising and falling in line with the theme. In the third chapter, Source, I am taken on another journey, through industry, the travesty of the beleaguered Winner oil rig before reaching one of my standout poems of the collection. With the millers of air melds tender admiration with clever insight. It’s a feast of a poem, packed with rich description, and one that is a joy to read aloud.
Up there they borrow and re-make its power. Each gleans
the air for tangential spin. Electrons dance magnetic fields
to pass and re-pass coppered coils. They cannot tire.
They reap as long as the wind can blow.
With the millers of the air
Image by Jean Atkin
High Nowhere
My boots lean into rock and fly peat water.
The mountain runs and stands.
My journey through time and place continues – we reach Iceland, the physical and metaphorical centre of the book. I am excited for this. Iceland is a country of legend and myth, landscapes that defy logic, the kind of progressive thought that is becoming increasingly alien on these shores. It’s a place that is made for poets, musicians, artists – a place of magic and majesty.
High Nowhere captures these qualities with ease. I am taken from the miniscule image of a “bird’s skull without memory” to the eerie terror of Hekla and the profound insignificance wrought by hearing the roar of Fagradalsfjall
And everyone, friends
beside strangers, called out at once because in that minute the
volcano rumbled, spat orange fire through smoke that billowed
into towers of cloud. We all heard it roar. We knew what insignificance we’d
brought to this place, for all our effort.
As I travel this landscape with Jean I am given a window into the depth of emotion and ideas that this landscape brings. These are poems that embrace all our senses. Alongside the power and threat of volcanic activity I discover what feels like a love song for Glymur, Iceland’s second tallest waterfall.
Cold water flickers depth and light I stretch out
my arms above its race and don’t look down,
walk the log’s road to land and love, yes love
these steps that will not come again
Glymur and the Crossing
Looking back through the notes I made during my first reading of High Nowhere, I talk of light and movement, noting that I sway as I read Hekla. The sense of journey, rhythm and being transported is captivating. I’m struck by the thought that High Nowhere is inside me, these landscapes exist within and without.
The brutality and unease of this country is ever present. I found Hestar particularly moving and admire the skill with which Jean weaves legend and modernity. Again, the construction of this collection is outstanding. A particular example of this is the juxtaposition of the incisive insight expressed in Powerlines and the heart wrenching tale inspired by legends of Dyrhólaey. While both poems work perfectly as single pieces, the impact of reading one after the other enhances the sense that life and landscape mingle, breathe together.
This chapter also include various “translations”. These short, sharp poems focus on a microcosm of experience and language furthering my sense that High Nowhere is a collection that has built and refined itself over time, growing as events enhance and crystallizes the poet’s acumen.
I continue on to Blahnúkúr, a volcanic a mountain in the Landmannalaugar region. This pair of poems is richly textured and includes this beautifully original description of a rainbow.
I waited for the rainbow.
It grew and arched its back. Hidden behind
the rock, I watched it shy like a horse, then fold
its legs, and lay down across the pale gold mountain
Blahnúkúr 1
My journey through this majestic landscape concludes with the portentous melt with these devasting final lines:
We mourn the glaciers. We spell our hearts to cope.
We walk the human path of slightest hope.
Melt
Fable
The gardens glow.
And nothing, nothing happens.
Fable contrasts stark reality with a world of magical realism in which Jean deftly blends folklore and first-hand memory. Again, I feel I am gaining an insight into both the poet’s and my own mind – which is exactly what I want from poetry. It’s a sense of connection and understanding that is hard to achieve by any other means.
I learn about the impact of the seemingly insignificant alongside the undebatable impact of numbers on the temperature gauge. I learn of winged hares and a Wendy house that gapes a pink door, of The little hedgehog gods and grandmothers who are not all they seem. These are folk tales read and written against a background of potential devastation and unheeded warnings.
Path…and opposite
path: In High Nowhere now we’ve no idea
when seas will rise and night will fall.
This tender ground is full of paths and graves.
The dead are always doing something new.
Meanwhile the living breathe the air. We eat the plants.
We love. We’ve work to do.
Image by Jean Atkin
And so, my journey reaches its end. This final chapter is calm, but not silent. The warnings are still present, the call to action still cried, but there is a feeling that the natural world may recover even if we destroy the parts of the planet that support us as humans. In this chapter Jean focuses on the minute, the details of nature.
her webs tie the lambs to the soil
she’ll roll up her life like their wool
build the softest nest for her eggs
and leave us a thread through winter
in Owlpen a spider came out of an egg
Path concludes with the wonderful PS The cat considers important things, a poem which captures the sense of joy and disquiet that threads through the collection.
This collection has been a superb companion to my pre-dawn December mornings. Like the landscape at the heart of it High Nowhere is a collection ever in flux bringing new insight and ideas with each reading. It’s a collection to read and revisit as it mirrors the ever-changing environment and the things the earth can tell us. We have an opportunity to listen.
I am returned! November is always a time of reflection, celebration and in latter years preparation for the assault of mourning that December brings (and yes it does create some manic conflict with Christmas).
I have been bewildered this year. I am realising how very much living with cPTSD affects every aspect of my life (the fact I still feel so uncomfortable describing my diagnosis is yet another symptom). I realise I temper myself, modify, dampen, reduce my impact and space in the world. I shy away from opinion, gnaw at myself for days after social situations and generally fight the fact that I even exist.
I feel like a fraud when I describe myself as a trauma survivor, as though there is some kind of trauma Olympics and I am a mere bronze medal recipient. Yet here I am, experiencing Hypervigilance that is so acute I yelp at the sound of my own (very lovely) husband coming home, am suffused with Oscar worthy panic if the phone rings unexpectedly, and constantly have to wrestle my mind back from imagining the deaths of those I care about.
This is exhausting and terrifying. I’ve learned that these symptoms ebb and flow, and so am more prepared for their onslaught at times when my physical and mental capabilities are challenged. I am used to it and understand that it’s a part of the way I live. I am reaching a point where I know that those that matter understand it too.
This state of hypervigilance makes socialising very difficult. I am constantly second guessing those around me, constantly looking for clues as to who is safe and who may be a threat. This happens without me really realising, but I have learned that it means I make instant (sometimes inaccurate) assessments of a person or situation and modify my behaviour accordingly. I seek to mask the storm in my mind, in order to function and of course to make my escape intact. The flip side of this is that when I encounter those who seem safe, who give me some sense of connection then the bond can be intense – almost too much the other way.
It occurs to me that this tempering of behaviour impacts my writing. I have been wrestling with myself as a writer over these last few months. Where do I fit? How do I “get in” to all these groups and gatherings of poets that are so kind and welcoming and yet still terrify me? I am not sure I can find the pathway, never mind walk on it. I have notebooks filled with work that I’ve “toned down” or reworked to make them a bit less sad or serious. I read work that is oozing with poetic devices and concepts that I would cut from my own poems because of fear that it seems too “poetic” and therefore beyond me (who do I think I am?) I judge my words before they reach my pen, filter them through a gauze of what iffery. I stick to writing observational type poems about trees to avoid any upset, I keep my language sensible and plain. I keep my ideas and thoughts to myself, because what is the point of me expressing them when there are so many others doing it so much more effectively. I am my own jailer, my own dungeon master. And I still do not know how to get free.
So I hide. I choose to garden or bake because these things demand less and have simple, clear results. I wonder whether perhaps it would be better not to write, perhaps I just need to accept my mediocrity and get back in line. Keep to my place. Yet I could be the voice of the quiet, the voice from the chair at the edge of the room, the hare in the shadow of grass, bursting across the fields, racing from those who seek to extinguish her.
As ever, my response is practical. I have the luxury of two days’ solitude this week and have designed a mini poetry retreat. I’m spending time reading Jean Atkins’High Nowhere High Nowhere, in preparation for a review I’ll be publishing in the next few weeks (spoiler – it’s an utter swoosh of brilliance), I’ve dug out two of my favourite books on the craft of poetry (The Ode Less Travelled and The Craft ). I’ve made a timetable and I am thoroughly enjoying myself. It’s rare to have time to write and to explore my own skill and I’ve had to be firm about not wandering away into applying for jobs or exploring new ideas for wedding poems. Those things are important, but taking time to nurture and grow my skills is important too. Just doing this feels like an act of resistance and rebellion against the “who do you think you are” voices that pepper my mind.
I have focused my learning on formal styles of poetry. I find the order and puzzle of formal writing both challenging and comforting. Wrestling to find the way into a villanelle or sestina calms my mind in a way that free verse enlivens it. Perfect for creating a space of reflection and focus on what I love about being a writer. I’m aware of how much I’ve learned since I last worked with these two books – I feel more confident and have honed my level of understanding. My progress is slow but it is there.
Things have been remarkably quiet on the poetry film front too – sheer lack of time and a touch of trepidation are to blame. Working with the words in Dust are challenging at this time of year, which holds so many anniversaries (last time I saw my brother, last emails, last phone conversations) this week is the anniversary of his death, and I hope to spend some time making the seventh film from Dust – I’ll post it as soon as I have.
I am glad to have writing as a companion through the dark days that December brings. Thank you for joining me.
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This has been a week of big achievement. If you follow any of my social media you’ll recall I had two poems shortlisted in Ironbridge Poetry Competition, which is as close to being on my doorstep as possible, unless the cat starts to take up a new role a literary mogul. I was invited to read and whilst my first instinct was “I can’t” the fact that the venue was just two minutes walk from my front door made me want to take the opportunity. I’ve been reading and recording my work a lot more as part of my editing process and of course I recorded my video for Sanofi. This practice helped but nothing quite prepares the body for the power of its flight response.
So there I was. Sunday morning, in a suitably poet-like dress ( I restrained myself from the Byron sleeves this time) the comfort of chunky boots and my jade pendant that goes with me to every scary situation. This was going to be the first time reading in real life. I shook ( just the one leg bizarrely) but my voice stayed steady, I managed to look up at my audience, pause where I wanted to pause and even breathe occasionally. In hindsight perhaps choosing to read a poem about one of my last conversations with my Dad added a layer of difficulty I didn’t need, but I’ve never been one to take the easy route. Unless I’m hill climbing. Then I’m scouting for it before I set foot on the path.
I felt lovely. Energised, and pleased to have spoken my poem as it needed to be spoken, with the added boost of praise from a poet I really admire. I’ve put off reading in public for a very long time and realise that it is something I desperately want to do – to hear the sounds of the language I have chosen, and to test out the impact or effect on those who are listening.
That’s not what I want to write about today. I’m curious about something else. I seem to be at a point as a writer where I’m being shortlisted for a lot of things – good things that I wouldn’t have even entered a couple of years ago. This is positive. But I’m not winning which shows there’s something missing from my work. I’m very pragmatic about the whole business of having work selected for publication and winning awards or competitions, after all, poetry is subjective, judges and editors are human. But for this to be happening so often there must be something I need to improve.
I feel a little closer to the answer and it’s because of something mentioned by Pat Edwards, curator of Welshpool Poetry Festival and judge for Ironbridge Poetry Competition.
“The winning poem struck me on the very first reading and it became clear to me that this was the one every other poem had to beat.” Pat expanded on this at the live event, describing how the winning poem Scrabble by Helen Kay “wouldn’t leave her”.
Hearing Helen read her poem I understood exactly what Pat meant. There are so many elements that make this poem stand out for me – the click of the sounds all the way through that mirror the scrabble tiles of the opening lines, the line stops that mirror the disjointed train of thoughts, the details that place the poem in a specific time and place and the final phrase that is so subtle and so devastating. Helen’s poem has stayed with me this week too.
How does this inform my own journey to the altar? To become the bride rather than a perpetual bridesmaid? I realise I need to be more brave. More bold. Stop censoring. I refine and cut out not just to improve a poem, but to avoid causing offence, to avoid upsetting people, avoid making them feel bad. I think this is perhaps part of the inevitable people pleasing that is a classic trauma response. I also realise that this is perhaps why I have chosen poetry as my primary means of expression. Imagery and metaphor can say exactly what I want them to say, without me having to say it. The joy of post-structuralist understanding that meaning is fluid, always in flux renders my role in meaning less stark, less involved. There is freedom in this. Freedom in poetry. I am going to embrace it. What are your thoughts on this ? How can I take my poetry beyond the joy of the shortlist to the heady heights of being picked?
My next couple of weeks will bring more work on my pamphlet – it’s failed to be snapped up by the first two competitions so I’m taking this as a sign that it needs a little more something. It could be the order, it could be a missing poem. It could be I’ve just pitched to the wrong place. The joy of keeping going is not lost on me. I’m having fun, of the most devastating, heartbreaking challenging kind, but as I said at the start of this post, I’m rarely one to take the easy route. I’m enjoying Ros Woolner’s Unfinished Sonnet Project as well as working on my annual attempt to be published in my most hallowed of magazines Under the Radar. I’ve a few more bespoke poetry commissions too, which give me chance to indulge in a different type of writing which brings a different type of joy. I feel very, very lucky to be living this life, disjointed and frustrating as it may be at times. I am safe, I am warm and I get to write.
This has been a strange week. I’ve been ill in bed for a good part of it, with short bursts of garden clearing in between. I’ve also had a lot of poetry news, some good, some not so good. I’ll come on to the good news soon, but first I want to talk about the not so good.
I’ve noticed a change. Previously when I failed to place in a competition or my work wasn’t selected for publication I felt intense pain, disappointment, sadness – to the point of turning off all updates about said comps or publications. I’m a bit embarrassed about this and even at the time I knew it was an extreme reaction. It’s understandable – placing work in the arena to be selected or rejected is always hard and poetry does have a strong element of placing your inner self up for judgement. Some of this, I’ve learned, is also about CPTSD and the challenges that it brings in terms of regulation of emotions.
I don’t have this reaction any more. I feel sad, of course and have a little cry and wallow for half an hour. After that I get on with looking for where else might be a good home for my poem. What’s different? It’s hard to say. I think the best way to describe it is that I trust my work, I trust my judgement about whether it is good or bad and I trust my ability to find the right place to publish it. This is a huge step. It makes the whole process of writing more enjoyable, more craftsperson-like. I’m no longer pouring out poetry in a fit of wild emotion and expecting it to be published warts and all (this has happened but only very rarely). The wild emotion bit still happens but now I spend time with the work, learn what I’m really trying to say and think about what I want the reader to take from the poem.
The joy I get from writing has grown immensely, and the response I get to my work has shifted significantly. There are of course questions about how we value our work and whether it matters if work is published or not – that is the subject of another article. For me at this point in my career, having work selected for publication is a big part of my own sense of validation as a writer. I have scant formal education in creative writing (something I yearn for) and I’ve always felt very much on the edge of the playground, watching the popular kids know how to do complicated skipping games. I still feel like that a bit, but I’m more comfortable being on the edge and doing my own thing, while getting the occasional wave from the popular kids.
Why has this happened? I’ve had a hard year. My dad died at the end of last year and I’ve had to take on new roles in the family that really don’t sit easily. My health has been poor and my workflow has faltered. Hardly a recipe for confidence.
A great deal of this shift is the result of taking the plunge and paying for a month of mentoring. I’ve been saving for this for a couple of years and actually doing it marked a shift in my own respect for my work. By paying for professional support and guidance, I was saying that I felt my work was worth more than a few pounds on a poetry course – it was worth investing in. I also had the chance to work with exactly the right type of mentor. I’ve worked with Wendy Pratt on several courses and felt she would be a good fit. I was right – Wendy proved to be someone who recognised that my biggest barrier was confidence and gently pushed me to be both brave and honest about the work I produce. I respect my work now, rather than dismissing it as rubbish. Most of the time at least. I still have a very difficult time accepting any success – my first reaction is to dismiss and diminish any achievement, but I’m working hard on this too.
On to the good news. I mentioned on social media a couple of weeks ago that I’ve had work selected as one of the top ten entries to the Sanofi People’s Poem project.
Headed up by Jaspreet Kaur, this project was designed to explore the lived experience of people who have various health conditions, culminating in a celebratory event at Battersea Arts Centre on National Poetry Day. My poem, If my body was a basket, was selected as one of the top ten entries and placed on display, plus I was invited to read. Health constraints meant this was impossible but where I would once have just said a sad and disgruntled no, I offered to record myself reading and send it to them. I’ve never done this before – I’m the type of shy soul who lurks on poetry zoom sessions, occasionally plucking up courage to type something in the chat – so this was a big step. I’ve had great feedback about the poem which has boosted my confidence a bit more and I thought I’d share it here.
For someone who considers themselves a private, almost secretive, soul I appear to be happy to share my exploration of poetry film without filter. I think this is because it thrills me. I make a film, I want to share it immediately. This is possibly foolish. Until a few weeks ago I was in the merry state of unconscious incompetence. This is the point at which you’re learning a new skill and have no idea of just how much you don’t know. The simple thrill of the activity carries your beyond any sense of reason or caution. You plunge in, flail about, somehow manage to doggy paddle your way to where you need to be and are so thrilled to be there the method really doesn’t matter. It’s a joyful place.
To become good though it’s necessary to edge into the most uncomfortable part of any learning process. Conscious incompetence. You suddenly realise you know nothing. You have been deluded, ridiculously enthusiastic and entirely foolish. You feel embarrassed, despondent – all those emotions that make a person want to give up. A couple of weeks ago I joined “ Poetry Film Live”. This is a free event where people talk about their work, explore ideas about poetry film and showcase their own creations. I felt myself shrink inside. You see I’m fairly ignorant about this world. It’s new, I didn’t know such a thing existed until around this time last year and I was overwhelmed by not only the brilliance of the work but the brilliance of the people making it.
The initial gloom and grind of imposter syndrome crept in of course. I batted it off. I love making these films. I realised the main thing I felt embarrassed about was that these first few films made use of a lot of stock media. The answer? Well initially I fretted about not being able to get out to make loads of films, worried that I would never be the type of person who considered themselves a “real” photographer. Then realised that I take dozens and dozens of photographs, I take photos that play with light, that try to capture a feeling, convey a mood. I have a library of images that is perfect.
Using my own images brings something else again to these films. The senses of words and pictures intertwining is even stronger and I feel I have created something beautiful that enhances the poem – one which is even more poignant since Dad died last December.
You can see all my poetry films, including this latest one, on Words and Pictures
A cool week in Coalbrookdale. I’ve started a business course (free from Learning Curve) that’s giving me the basics of business start-up. A lot of the course harks back to my old days at Dollond and Aitchison, training people how to dispense specs but there’s a fair chunk that is stuff I’ve studiously ignored for much of my life (think tax, profit, accounting) but realise I need to give a little attention to. It’s a straightforward course and a good grounding in the basics.
More excitingly I’ve received a set of paper samples ( my definition of exciting has always been quite niche) from GF Smith and they are beautiful! I already print my Bespoke Poetry on quality paper and as things expand I’m hoping to offer a range of ready to buy work as well. Creating something with this kind of attention to detail elevates it to be the quality product I’m aiming to produce.
These are small steps, but mark a point of both clarity and of valuing this project. I realise that I can create work that is easy to place as part of an event as well as being a pleasing piece of writing. I want to create something that people value and that can only happen when I value it myself. It’s slow to build this kind of thing, but orders are coming in and I can’t tell you what a thrill it is to know my words are being read as part of milestone occasions, and enjoyed as a genuinely thoughtful gift.
The final boost to this project happened last week. A friend (who’s always been incredibly supportive of my work) introduced me to someone a web designer and proceeded to tell me they could help me with a new site, and that they’d be willing to do this free of charge. I’m still a bit overwhelmed at this level of kindness and belief in what I do. It’s given me such a boost and will make a huge difference.
I’ve had a productive week with my own writing too. I’ve sent my new book out into the world to see if it can find it’s publishing home, entered poems for consideration in two anthologies and printed a selection of poems for an exhibition in our local “Free Little Gallery”.
One of the poems that will feature in my mini exhibition in Coalbrookdale’s Free Little Gallery
Amongst all the “business” side of writing there has been very little actual writing. I’m hoping this will change with a couple of courses I’m part of this month. First up is Wendy Pratt’s Late Summer – A Sensory Experience a writing challenge that I hope is going to help me calm the busyness and really focus on the world around me. On Monday I have a workshop with Liz Berry via The Poetry Business called Twilight and Dusk – I love everything about Liz Berry’s work and her gentle subversiveness makes for inspiring workshops. I’m excited to begin work on something new.
If you’re interested in in my poetry film and in hearing me read some of my work you can find me Substack – I’m going to be adding more readings and film over the next few weeks and I’d love it if you’d join me there. Follow this link and subscribe to stay up to date!
Oh, so it’s been a while since I’ve done an update. It’s been quite a week full of ups and downs as ever!
New poems published
Let’s start with the ups – I had some lovely publication news this week. A poem that will be part of the new pamphlet (keep reading to find out more) has been accepted for publication by a gorgeous magazine called The Dawntreader – it’s a fantastic publication full of folklore, nature and a love of all things ancient and slightly mystical – I love to read it and I love that I’ll be part of an issue soon.
I’ve also received my contributors copy of Dreich through the post – I submitted four poems last October and it’s fabulous to see them in print. Dreich is such an exciting poetry press with a sound legacy – some of the poets I most admire are published by them and I always pinch myself a little when I have something accepted.
The poems themselves have changed a little – it’s always strange to see different versions and I often wonder whether to revert back. But redrafting is a way of drawing out the real essence of what I’m trying to say. I see it as a kind of evolution.
New pamphlet news
First off – I really struggle with the word pamphlet. For me it always conjures up something a wee folded brochure advertising the latest deals at Dominos. In the poetry world, the word is used to describe a small collection of poetry. Why it’s not just called a small collection of poetry is shrouded in the mists of time (and probably tradition) The British Library describes a poetry pamphlet as
“Poetry pamphlets are generally published by independent presses and are crucial in introducing the work of new poets or highlighting a thematic collection from more established writers.”
and the OED offers this definition.
a small booklet or leaflet containing information or arguments about a single subject.
and offers this handy example
“he published a spate of pamphlets on the subjects about which he felt strongly.”
If I delve back into my A-level history studies this makes sense – Martin Luther was a vehement pamphlet distributor and the idea of a pamphlet being a source of strong views, experimental work and argument is immensely appealing. Yet I still can’t shake the image of Dominos.
No matter. The work has been done. Final edits have been made, the order ha been wrestled with (absolutely the most difficult part of the process)* and I am about to let my poems fly free. I’ve my eye on two competitions initially, with another two lined up in case the words don’t decide to nest yet. I’ve enjoyed working on this project, am excited about potential acceptance, dreading the down of being declined but overall pleased that I have achieved this.
New-Old business news
And you know, I still feel as though it’s not enough. Why? Money. As you know the bottom has dropped out of the casual copywriting world which means my income is pretty much zilch, apart from one brilliant client (who also happen to be the ones I like writing for the most – yay!). Years of training that the only work of value is that which gleans cash is embedded, and its fair to say I feel pretty down about losing this bit of income. My hopes of taking the bespoke poetry industry by storm have faltered a little and there has been a touch of wailing and gnashing of teeth.
But
I’ve realised what I need to change. Bespoke poetry is a very different style of writing to my usual way and because of this I think I need a completely different brand. I also need to actually take this seriously as a business. To that end I’ve signed myself up to a free course about business start-up, enlisted the help of a bunch of friends to be my “focus group” and intend to do things the right way round – i.e., plan a bit, rather than jump in like an excited Labrador puppy and realise I can’t actually swim. Watch this space to see how the story unfolds! I’m still taking orders whilst these changes are taking place and you can find out more on the Bespoke poetry section of this website.
In case you missed it I’m also on Substack – this is a really exciting platform for writers. I confess I’ve not got to grips with it yet (Labrador puppy again) but I’m aiming to make this the place for poetry film, readings and exploration of how writing helps health mental, and indeed physical, health. I’d love it if you’d join me there.
That’s it for now, thank you so much for reading. I’m off to deadhead the geraniums and try to discourage the pigeons that have taken up residence in next door’s bay tree. I suspect I will only succeed at one of these tasks.
Early last week I damaged my cornea. Opened my eye on Sunday morning, yelped in pain and continued to do so for the next 48 hours. The pain was so severe the only way to be comfortable was to keep both eyes closed and move as little as possible. Not ideal when I had to negotiate bus, tube and train to get home. Being led by the hand across unfamiliar stations created a sense of vulnerability beyond anything I’ve experienced.
Recovery was only achieved by absolute rest. For three days all I could do was listen to the radio with my eyes closed and comforted by a warm compress – even a glance at social media caused agony. I dozed, administered drops every four hours; I reset.
The year I gardened for my father
Enforced isolation does strange things. My journal entry for my first day up and about after the incident reads
“Sparks of writing return. Grief is leaking, yet its grip is loosening”.
The heart of my work this year is loss, grief, and all the confusion that comes along with it. Dad and I didn’t talk much. Feelings were taboo, and politics became so combative it was painful for us both. We did connect through plants and gardens. I grew my first flowers with him – nasturtiums, in a little patch of ground at the side of the house. I don’t know who was more proud when the glowing trumpets announced my success and admission to the world of plant lovers. Where ever I have lived, I have found somewhere to grow things – even just pots on the steps of my first rented room. The cycle of nurture and reward, the sheer wonder of the plant that self-seeds, the care that is always rewarded. Gardening deals with the big stuff without me really knowing.
The distress of thinking I had lost this non-invasive way of negotiating emotions was huge. For the first part of this year the sight of each emerging bulb was another reminder of the words I wouldn’t say. I gardened through tears. I gardened out of duty.
Subscribed
“Trust the poems and they will look after you”
This beautiful phrase is from an interview with Liz Berry in issue 98 of Mslexia. The whole interview is a delight – funny, sharp and insightful – but this phrase struck home. During these first greif months, I have scratched out poems every month, trying to write for Dad, for the lost gardeners. These poems have potential and they will become something beautiful – after they are not all written yet. For the moment they are way to trace and reflect on grief.
Writing is one of the best tools I have to help unravel the emotions and complications that emerge after this kind of loss. Like gardening it has been hard to settle back to writing, hard to approach. There are too many champions missing. Also like gardening, I am very, very glad to have a glimmer that it is about to return.
Writing for wellbeing
What last week’s incident helped me realise is that whilst my exploration of writing and wellbeing has been invaluable, it somehow hasn’t quite been me. I have, as many grieving people do, detached myself from my emotions and distracted myself with facts. I’ve tried on a hat, that fit well enough, but perhaps didn’t suit me. I intend to continue to explore the role writing plays in supporting and enhancing mental health, but I shall explore as myself, rather than as someone I think I ought to be. Would you like to join me?
April has been quite the month. I’ve been flying high from inspirational mentoring and also experienced one of my worst episodes of PEM (post exertional malaise) for around 12 months. I should be used to these extremes by now, but they never fail to knock and shock me.
Let’s begin with the mentoring. I have gained so much from these sessions. I feel a difference in my body when I think about my writing. I no longer feel quick of breath and anxious – I feel I breathe to my stomach, pull myself up and, to quote the 2010s “own it”. I don’t feel embarrassed about trying, I don’t feel that I have to be a certain type of poet to be successful, and I have a clear sense of who I am and where I want to be. There will be hiccups and setbacks, but I’m very used to dealing with those, and having a sense of ownership means I can tackle any setbacks head on, rather than spiralling into thinking “I’m a terrible writer I should just give up”.
Writing and wellbeing
I realise this is the thing that drives me as a poet. Poetry and song lyrics have been my strength throughout my life, and the value of poetry for mental well-being cannot be underestimated. On of my goals over the next year is to develop a series of writers workshops specifically designed to manage and enhance mental well-being. Learning to stop and look, to consider emotion and to express those emotions is a powerful and valuable thing. I’m laying the groundwork through research, and you’ll find a series of articles about writing and well being on my Substack.
There is value in time spent writing
Another huge step has been to release myself from feeling I had to keep my foot in the door of the content writing industry. I genuinely enjoy content writing and spent a while mourning the loss of regular income (and goodness I still do). I also realised that the world of the kick ass copywriter is not for me. The endless round of applying for jobs I’m not really qualified for (marketing is a very different animal to writing) is quite a task and undoubtedly soul destroying especially given that the modern way seems to be to just ignore unsuccessful applicants. I ended the first quarter of the year feeling washed up and useless.
The timing of my mentoring could not have been better. I bought the sessions with money I had for my 50th birthday, intending to start in the new year. After the loss of Dad, I simply didn’t feel I’d do the sessions justice and Wendy kindly allowed me to postpone. The first session began with the magic question “what do you want from your writing”. What do I want ? When did I last even consider that? Like many people I am so bound up in meeting the needs of others that “what I want” rarely enters my head and when it does it is swiftly despatched. Wendy writes about this extensively in her latest article How to give yourself permission to write, which is well worth a read. The concept isn’t restricted to writing either – this way of thinking can be applied to anything you love to do but don’t feel able to make room for. I’m almost at the end of my mentoring month and one of the overarching results is that I feel confident enough in my own work to give it priority and protect my creative time.
Commercial ventures as a writer
I do however still need to generate some income. The few hours of content writing I could do was never going to make me rich, but it did bring a little extra cash our way. Part of my new found confidence in my own work means I am refocused a couple of commercial ventures. I have written, designed and printed a series of botanical greetings cards, inspired by the language of flowers and illustrated by Maggie Cameron. Learning about dots per inch, printing quality, bleed boxes and other terms I never knew I’d need to understand has been quite a challenge, but I’ve done it and am really pleased with the results. The cards are available from me, and our fabulous local florist Nettie of the Gorge.
I’ve also relaunched my Bespoke Poetry service. Spending time researching what others offer, finding where my work and style will fit has taken a little time, but it’s been time well spent. I had my first external order this week, and I loved creating something that will be part of such an important day. I feel like one of those people I read about in magazines who find a new life after 50.
This month marks ten years since my diagnosis with M.E. I am astonished at where I am now. It’s really hard, I’m still pretty poorly most of the time. Writing has given me an identity, and a reason to keep seeking a place in the world. Creating workshops to support others, and writing work that connects with people gives me a sense of value that felt impossible when I first fell ill. Here’s to keeping going.
I leave you with these beautiful words about Dust. It’s a year since we successfully crowdfunded the project. I’m proud of this book for so many reasons, and none more important than responses like this.
We do. I do. Even when keeping going is less than simple. This week has been one of peaks and troughs. I began with a visit to Nettie of the Gorge, a beautiful florists in Ironbridge. My nervous gabble about my flower poems was well received, and not only will I be selling my work in this gorgeous space, I got some solid advice about how to make the work into a more appealing format. I’ve also spent time this week fine tuning my Etsy offering, creating Flower Scrolls that I think look gorgeous and can offer at an affordable price point. I enjoy this – it’s hard not to get disheartened (instant success is not going to happen) but I feel I have a strong product and hope that things will take off soon.
I’ve also revamped my Bespoke Poetry offering, thinking about the different occasions I can write for, and increasing my online presence. If you have a moment to check out my Etsy shop and share it via your social media or messages that would be amazing.
I’ve also spent time this week writing and researching articles for my Substack. I’m enjoying thinking about the connections with writing and wellbeing, and the research I’m doing is adding substance to writers workshops I am developing for the latter part of the year. It’s good to be using my research skills for something I really believe in.
My substack is also going to be home to my readings – part of my mentoring workshop involves me reading my own work, for feedback and critique and I’ve realised I really enjoy reading the poems aloud, and to an audience. I’ll be adding poems to my Substack over the summer.
My week ended with two hours of immersion in poetry. I am so glad I took the plunge to have professional mentoring with Wendy Pratt. I feel more in control of my own work, know where to improve and crucially know where my strengths lie. I feel like I’ve had a mini spa – the tension and strain has left my shoulders and the sense of uselessness (an inevitable consequence of unemployment) has faded a little. And so, I keep going.
Kathryn Anna Marshall 