I’ll be honest, I didn’t write much poetry in January. I didn’t write much poetry and my fingers started to feel itchy.
The numbers 1-100 were staring at me from a very long-looking page. Was sharing my Year of 100 Poems project working or in actual fact getting in the way of my own poetry writing? Was I wrong to call it ‘a project’ in the first place - it’s never really been a ‘project’ with strict parameters, more of a random adventure in poetry writing / reading, the real discoveries only being uncovered along the way. Can too much inspiration actually be a bad thing?
I am relieved (thank god, “hey, let’s write 100 poems together, oh no, I’ve managed to write zero”) to tell you that the answer was no on every count.
I think patience is an under-rated skill in poetry writing. In February a handful of poems arrived all at once. Partly after opening some sort of flood-gate while away with some friends by the sea. That can happen, can’t it? Especially if you’ve managed to avoid turning into some sort of poetry pushy parent.
Project or not, indeed the real discoveries are being uncovered along the way. I hoped, but I never really imagined the way our community has started to grow on here. That’s been the real gem. The Friday flurry of shared words and enthusiasm for words. Dedicating a little time to writing first thing on a Sunday morning inspired by a prompt or a poem, especially when I imagine others might be doing the same. So much poetry and so much encouragement for others to keep writing poetry.
And as for too much inspiration, pah. I have read the most delicious poetry over the last six weeks. I have read the work of so many poets I had never even heard of before. It has blown my mind. Even if I write no more poetry this year that has been an absolute joy.
That said, I am keenly aware of the amount of content here on Substack (and in the world more broadly). I am a bit of an ideas magnet and had wanted to crack on with Poetry Book Club, amongst many other things (you might have noticed that I’ve missed February, kind of on purpose). I am trying to go steady. Allow the rhythm of posting and congregating to settle. Both because I only have so much capacity around work (eeek). And because I don’t want it to feel like poetry overload. Or that if you miss a few weeks you will, ‘get behind.’ No such thing. Last week was school holidays and honestly, I couldn’t engage as much as normal. At first this felt awkward (and annoying because I absolutely love it). But we will all have our ebbs and flows. This isn’t some sort of course that you have to finish in a set time. I hope that, just like poetry itself, this is a gentle place where you can swing by, pick up a prompt or a poem and put back it down. This community will wait for you.
Also, some weeks I imagine the poetry shared on here will immediately embrace you. Demand that you stop or slide a notebook your way. Make you want to be as good as that poet when you grow up (just me?) You feel like the poem was actually written FOR you. A prompt might feel urgent and inviting.
Other weeks less so. I have the same responses. But as yet I have never been left feeling nothing. There is always ‘a something’. A new word I learn. A thought on how I would have preferred the ending. Even not liking a poem is noteworthy I think. Or when that ‘something’ is a nip of frustration at not having the time or ideas on what to write (oh but the intention is alive and kicking is it not - how marvellous).
The itchy finger feeling prompted me to create this page in my notebook. I’d been planning to write out some of the poems I was reading to study them in a bit more depth but time has eluded me. Instead, I now have a page that reads, “Noticings about the poems I read this week.” I still plan to write some out in full, but I can also just note things that I like (or don’t like) in a poem. Techniques or forms I’d like to try myself at some point. Favourite lines. In future I don’t think this will be a weekly thing, more of a page that I can just come back to as and when. This image is from a few weeks ago. I’m sharing this with the acknowledgement that my poetry geekiness is quite a thing. I know, I know. As is my journaling obsession (any other journalers, I also write a separate Substack on this topic). And of course, some poems (most poems) I will read purely for the joy of reading them.
Anyway, this is to say that if you are attempting to write 100 poems this year (or any set number for that matter) and are feeling a bit behind the curve, don’t worry about it. Poetry writing doesn’t enjoy pressure. Keep reading. Keep noticing. Keep turning up. That’s my plan anyway (I’ll start a thread for paid subscribers so we can check in with each other on this front).
The figures seem to suggest that things are all good. The poll I did on a previous week’s Poetry Round Up put 87% of us as either writing more, or having had more new ideas for poems. And the other 23% of us are, “having fun anyway”.
That’s pretty cool isn’t it? Well done us.
We’re here for the ride.
Now, just to write the next (small cough), 89 poems. Ha.
Nelly x
“I think patience is an under-rated skill in poetry writing. In February a handful of poems arrived all at once.” I so love it when poems come through, and I often find that they do in quick succession. In the in between it is hard to be patient! I’ve taken to using less fruitful periods as a time to rework older pieces, and they often change into something new ❤️
Here you go, just for you Nelly.
Poems don’t like pressure,
they wriggle and squirm across the page
refusing to stay put, to be organised,
words jumping, letters jiggling.
Constantly.
They have no wish for permanency
suggesting other words that would be better,
no wish to be used today and throw
the thesaurus my way.
That heavy tome being little use this time
for no word is right,
they refuse the form, the rhyme, the meter,
the meaning.
But come the witching hour
when I’m trying to sleep
having given up hope of ever writing again,
they are organised, finding the perfect form,
the perfect words, the perfect rhythm,
and will worm their way
insidiously into my brain
insisting they speak
‘Now is the time, now is the time.’
and between us we weave a marvel,
such a glorious combination of us all.
And I fall asleep happy
but wake having forgotten it all.