When I write poems, I rarely start with a form in mind. It’s usually a notion, an atmosphere, something stirred up again by re-reading a hasty note, or frequently poetry by others. In those cases, it’s not another poet’s specific subject or form that inspires me, more a sense that what I’ve just read is really good and it triggers a kind of creative itch to write something, or re-write something of my own.

This isn’t entirely in the head, there have been times when I’ve felt inexplicably restless, or anxious and once I’ve understood this feeling is nothing to do with work, or family, or life-admin, have sat down to write and the release of having done so, comes out like mental steam.

More often than not, a shape will emerge as I dash down my initial thoughts – tercets couplets, a block of prose poetry etc. perhaps slipping in alliteration and internal rhymes, not always consciously.

Most of the time, this approach suits me. But I also often find myself nagged at by a more pushy inner voice, that has a go at me for being too casual, too comfortable within free verse and vague about the shape a composition may take.

This time, the irritating voice set me off at attempting a villanelle. As someone who usually goes out of my way to avoid end rhymes, repetition and fixed patterning, this seemed the least ‘me’ kind of form to have a go at.

Turns out, I enjoyed having to stick to a format. The discipline and the restrictions make a stimulating challenge and steered me towards something a little different from my usual place, or incident focused themes. The poem is as downbeat as ever, though not entirely so. I don’t think it’s particularly good, but as an experiment I’m quite happy.