On being a slow poet

and learning to love it

I have had my garden for over twenty years. When we moved in it was flat lawn with space for neatly arranged pansies down one side, a sentry row of enormous conifers along the other and a bedraggled hawthorn next to the lilac that isn’t lilac. At the back was a row of wheely bins and a bank of brambles, as well as a dog proofed yard for the previous owners’ chubby labrador and an abundance of ivy.  It’s a small plot with pockets of deep shade and patches of glorious sunlight. I’ve been in and out of love with it over the years, often deeply frustrated that I didn’t have a larger space to fulfil my veg growing ambitions, and frequently despondent at my inability to garden like a proper person who remembers what plants are where, chooses the right plant for the right place and doesn’t just buy things because they’re beautiful.

This year, I feel like I’ve finally achieved what I envisaged when we first moved in. I have drifts of cosmos, godetia, cornflower, nigella, clumps of swaying marguerites, tangles of perennial geranium all tumbling over Japanese stepping stones bordered by Irish moss. There are roses round the door and in the borders, each one bought in memory of a loved one. At the back I’ve made space to grow tomatoes and lettuce as well as courgettes and about five broad bean plants. I’ve grown some lovely cherries for the local magpie population, and I believe the blackbirds very much enjoyed my apples. I feel delighted, glad that this slow to emerge garden has finally come to be the space I imagined it could be.

Before and after (although it’s really during - a garden is never finished). We still have the bench, inherited from the previous homeowners, and the path is the same. Everything else has changed.

And so it is with poetry. I realise I learn as I go along, which means I make many mistakes and often end up having to double back and relearn, or simply take a little more time. I sometimes become absorbed in a poem to the point where I can no longer be objective and think it’s a great deal more amazing than it is. I’ve learned that what I need to do is be patient with myself, let the words take hold, let the idea emerge, let the poem sit and become itself without my incessant fiddling and faffing. My poetry files and notebooks are as disordered as my garden, crammed with ideas and new projects and there are times when fragile seedlings risk being strangled by enthusiasm. I am slowly going through and sorting the weeds to give the seedlings space to bloom. I realise I ricochet between being chaotic and measured and it is in the measured times that the best work emerges. My desire to achieve, to prove, to become the best I can be, fulfil that terrible portentous thing, my potential, means I don’t allow myself the time to grow and bloom. Perhaps that is my focus for the rest this year, to learn to enjoy each stage of a poem’s growth, from seed of an idea to its first leaves, nurturing and finally seeing it bloom – before setting the seed for another crop of words and ideas that need nothing but nurture and patience to burst into glorious possibility.

Becoming kinder

A key element of this is allowing myself to be, and in that being I need to be kinder to myself. This is true for everyone I know, but it’s something I am working through and with determined focus. Part of this is about allowing others in, and receiving the good words they say. Last weekend I went to a fantastic local event known as The Picnic.  Born from a need to protect land for community use, a small gathering of people literally having a picnic together has grown to be a lively and well loved community event. It’s an occasion that goes straight in the diary each year and one that I really look forward to.  Something that stood out this year was how many people were interested in what I do as a writer. It’s an odd thing to describe, and I was acutely aware of how uncomfortable I feel telling people what I’ve achieved. Even those closest to me don’t really know how many poems I’ve had published, much less the effort and work it takes to crowdfund, project manage and produce a book (or two). Shattered self-esteem means that I think everything I do is rubbish, and that everyone else will to.  

I am getting better at this, I am beginning to believe in myself – often simply through dint of writing numerous bios for submissions. I realise that I have a voice that is valid, a way of enjoying and a way of using language that is interesting and enjoyable to read. I am learning to be kind to myself in every aspect of my life and that includes writing.  As I embrace my own way of working, understand my own way of building, refining and redrafting my work I can become more patient. Instead of feeling I have to bash out as many poems as possible in pursuit of the dopamine hit of publication, I can allow myself to enjoy the alchemy that happens as these words gather on the page, enjoy my love of experimenting with space, with breath. I am learning to love my direct style, my lack of fancy language (apart from the odd mad word that is marvellously grandiloquent). I’m learning to love what I do, and realising that other people do to.

Thank you, as ever, for reading

Until next time

Kathryn

xx

p.s. in true chaotic fashion I’ve discovered a box containing the last few copies of my first two poetry books, Yes to Tigers and Dust. If you’d like to buy either or both of these just email kathryn@kathrynannawrites.co.uk

p.p.s. If you know anyone who’s getting wed, engaged, celebrating a big birthday or just wants a great gift I have commission spaces left for August and the beginning of September xx