I’ve long been reluctant to call myself a Poet. This reticence, mostly stems from my secondary school in Bristol; which (a few excellent English Teachers and one Science Teacher aside – here’s to you Mr Gaynor – thanks for Leonard Cohen), was shit and rough. 

Simply admitting to liking books at Monks Park was enough to evoke sneers, shoves and sometimes more. Bill Hicks – “looks like we got ourselves a reader” – was not alone in that experience. 

I’ve also felt, at times, that saying ‘I am a poet’ is a bit a Trumpian, pinning medals on yourself, you haven’t earned. However, I figure that if ‘Writers Write’ then Poets must Poet. 

If this counts as a verb, then I’ll admit that I do it. 

‘Poeting’ for me mostly involves reading poems by others, or books about poetry. 

Also writing, editing, reworking and submitting poems to journals – this month I’ve entered two competitions and sent four other submissions off to various British and Irish editors. Score to date this year No 13, Yes 5, which is sufficient to keep the Cocky/Despondent scales evenly balanced.  

I even persuaded my lovely local bookshop The Bookseller Crow to re-stock with signed copies of my collection Street Sailing, which if you haven’t got already, do go and get one.

I find that reading is second only to stepping out of the door and going for a walk, in terms of stirring up the impetus to write something new myself. 

A phrase, a line, an opening an ending; all these can be hugely inspiring. I can usually find, at the very least, one poem in a collection that moves me, or challenges me, reframes the way I see something, or has me asking questions.

Occasionally I have picked up a collection that leaves me cold or flat. Bewildered at the gap between the glowing puffs on the jacket and the lack of ignition in my heart or mind. 

But that’s rare. Usually, there will be a poem, or poems that make me smile, feel sadness, anger or become contemplative. Alright, that may be accompanied by a jealous pang, or an inner expletive of the ‘How the fuck did they do that?’ variety. Followed by urgent re-reading in an attempt to locate the skill, the magic, that special something that lifts a good poem off the page and into your imagination. 

This month, I’ve enjoyed a few collections that have managed nearly all of the above. 

These include, piers springing to life and much more in John McCullough’s Crowd Voltage along with poetry of satisfying wit and moving speculation in Rishi Dastidar’s Cherry Blossom at Nightbreak.

Malika Booker’s Pepper Seed sent a cast of sometimes rum-sipping, wise-cracking characters, relatives and friends heading off the page and into my room. Wendell Berry’s Given, After the Creel Fleet by Niall Campbell and A Man Is Only AS Good…A Pocket Selected Poems by Pat Boran, all had me scribbling lines and notes and swearing just a little at various moments as I read. 

And just yesterday, I picked up Rabbitbox by Wayne Holloway-Smith in the National Poetry Library, for a quick look, but it soon got me hooked. I read through in a sitting.

The forbidding figure of ‘shadow-dad’ haunts the work, like a Blackhole, whose negative, soul-sapping energy could easily crush those around it. Thankfully, there is much love for the poet’s mother and sister threaded throughout as well. Each individual poem, adds together to build a narrative intensity that is potent, moving, gripping. 

Attracted by the title, I couldn’t resist buying Phillip Hoare’s William Blake and the Sea Monsters of Love. A mixture of biography, memoir and criticism, Hoare had me not simply wanting to look again at Blake’s art and re-read the poems, but fizzing with desire to find out more about the later artists, filmmakers, poets, writers and singers, he weaves into this exploration of Blake’s life and legacy. 

I also spent a delightful couple of hours on my favourite bench in a local wood, reading the latest issue of The Little Review. There’s much to appreciate, in this small but dense publication. Few critical journals make me laugh and want to read Ancient Chinese poets and get me smiling at the enlightened Parisian municipal policies over bookshop leasing. 

In April I’ve so far had a few escapes into a more social side of poetry.

I delivered a presentation on ‘Poetic Thinking’ for a friend’s company’s monthly inspiration session, which went down very well. 

I went along to see Modron at Lumen, where there were readings by Rachael Li Ming Chong, Cath Drake and L. Kiew. There was an open mic afterwards, so I took the chance to read one of mine. Later the same week, I made it to the excellent Poems Not Bombs, at The Spice of Life – this time on the theme of ‘Health’, where I joined the usual eclectic and enthusiastic crowd of poets. 

And tonight, dear reader, I’m going to try an Open Mic I haven’t done before called ‘The Cosmic Pumpkin’ which I hope is smashing. 

And then, we’re into May, which in poetry terms, begins for me with the online launch of Paul Short’s ‘Unwhispered Legacy’ Anthology, in support of MSF. You can get a copy here.