it’s national poetry day.

i am ashamed to admit that poetry, once as essential to my being as drawing breath, has faded amongst the familiar dusty “hobbies” that take time and attention and commitment, that sit on a shelf in the dim background like so much unnoticed wallpaper.

i used to write poetry ceaselessly. i used to write urgently, with the need to fill the page and spillover, writing only to *let the words out* as they demanded to be, tumbling over each other in their rush to make themselves known, claim their space.

these days i rarely do. the truth of it is, writing is easy, it’s -necessary- when your insides are all stirred up.

it’s hard to write about contentment.

that’s not a bad thing.

but it feels there is a part of me missing – some numb and disused limb that has atrophied. i miss the way words made me well up, the way they could light up my nerves and explode my heart. that’s fucking power. i miss it.

and so in that vein, i would like to offer you a little something i’ve written… but i don’t know if i’m brave enough for that. i find my stuff hopelessly derivative and gooey – i read it now and it makes me cringe a little.

so instead: one of my all time favourites (though not british, i’m afraid). perfect in its simplicity, simple in its perfection, it resounds within me like a clanging echo, banging around in my chest, which thumps a loud “yes” in reply.

Keeping Things Whole
by Mark Strand

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

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