These are the babies that I bore.

These are the breasts that nursed the babies that I bore.

These are the arms that hug the breasts

That nursed the babies that I bore.

This is the belly that sags under the arms

That hug the breasts that nursed the babies that I bore.

These are two wounds – small, pink and sore -

That scar the belly that sags under the arms,

That hug the breasts that nursed the babies that I bore.

This is the pain pulsing through two wounds

- small, pink and sore -

That scar the belly that sags under the arms,

That hug the breasts, that nursed the babies that I bore.

For…

there will be no babies,

anymore.

My memory is pretty poor. It will have been at school though. I’ve always enjoyed reading poems. When we learnt poetry we were always told to just look at the words. I wanted to know more about the context of the poems. I remember being relieved when doing my OU degree in Literature that finally we were allowed to acknowledge the potential influence of context.

EDP: How, when and why you started to write poetry?

I’m not sure exactly why I started writing poetry but I remember writing a Haiku about a cuddly toy I own – it’s still one of my favourite poems and I still own the toy (he’s pretty threadbare now).

I also remember being too scared to put my name down for a school trip to a house that was reportedly haunted so those of us that were left behind wrote some poetry.  

I got very cathartic with my poetry writing at University. I was having a tough time with peer pressure and the need to conform – I didn’t – I remained a geek – but I felt I had to write about it to stop from imploding.

EDP: When and where do you write and where do you find your inspiration?

I’m a night owl. I am usually far too exhausted from work to write regularly.

I write in my bedroom – I share a house with my sister but I need ‘my space’ to write.

I was most prolific during my creative writing courses with the Open University, deadlines give me discipline. A number of the poetry modules made me examine poetic form.  I always wrote free verse before and unusually never rhymed but I’ve challenged myself to write in a number of forms and feel I’ve written some good poems that way (I still can’t write meter well though).

 As for inspiration – often just something that is on my mind, a line from a song I’ve heard, a newspaper story, something I’ve seen.

EDP: Which poet/s do you particularly admire and why?

Sylvia Plath – I think her ability to paint pictures with words was inspiring. I still see ‘Miss Drake’ stepping on eggshells. Because of my background in Occupational Therapy I enjoy poems that look at the human condition, including issues around mental health. Sylvia did this so well and so vividly but also managed to avoid over sentimentality.

EDP: What for you constitutes a ‘good poem’? 

Whatever speaks to me as a reader. I enjoy layers of meaning. Rhyme and form don’t matter – it just has to sound ‘right’ when I read it aloud and mean something to me, enlighten me or help me make sense out of something, or make me feel.

EDP: Have you an outright favourite poem or collection either of your own or by another writer? 

I love Seamus Heaney’s ‘Digging’. I’m not sure I read into it everything he put there but it gives me shivers to read it.  He sees his father digging and is proud of him and his heritage. He also acknowledges the changes between the generations and that though his talents lie in writing he will be making a contribution and ‘digging’ with his pen. I probably haven’t explained that well but go have a read and see what it means to you.

EDP: Tell us about your ‘most read’ poem specifically.  How did it come into being and take shape and what does it mean to you personally?  Did the views or our readers make you see it in a new light? 

A slight twist on a villanelle entitled The Gradual Loss of Me.
I wrote this as part of the Open University’s A363 Advanced Creative Writing course.  It was inspired by the idea that as I wasn’t having much time to write I was losing myself. I found the use of the form taught on the course, made this a far more depressing poem; cycling into a downward spiral.

When I submitted the poem, I was asked to edit it – I agreed with some of the suggestions and my sister actually suggested to swap round 2 lines. It made it not quite a villanelle but scanned better and seemed less sentimental.

I found Paul Ingrassia’ comments on his blog, made me feel as if somebody had ‘got it’ in terms of the sentiment although I’m not overly precious about whether readers get my exact meaning or not. I’m more interested in evoking emotion than in them uncovering the meaning behind every word choice.

Some of the feedback I received both from the site and from friends/colleagues/family wasn’t entirely comfortable. People seemed very concerned that I might be suicidal or extremely depressed (which I’m not) and it bought up questions about how separate we are from our work. Although the initial inspiration came from my life, this was not an autobiographical poem. It was a mixed blessing having this poem published. It actually caused me a fair bit of upset and anguish but on the other hand I’d obviously done a good job with my writing to evoke such strong responses, so I’m glad I did it. Plus EDP gave me my first payment for writing so that was very exciting.

EDP: What are you working on now and what are your future plans?

I am trying my hand at scriptwriting. There’s also this novel that still needs writing. I manage an online writing forum, so between that and work I keep pretty busy and don’t find an awful lot of time to write for myself. Of course I’d like to change this. I’m just in the process of registering for a PHD, which is going to be looking at creative writing from an Occupational Therapy perspective, so that’s more time gone though I’m hoping to do some creative pieces as part of that.

I will still keep writing poetry though  - because I need to.

He walked without belief in gravity,
upsidedown with his hands open, feet bare.

Don’t know when youth died, when I saw the man
I could have loved, had I the courage.
He crumbled into the sidewalk one day,
into the cracks I skipped over, past
regret.
 

Rock a banana

On a green stalk

When the wind blows

They sway and they rock

When the bough breaks

Tarantulas fall

Let’s move baby’s cradle

Away from the wall

Each day we face what is foregone,
Some days fight floods, and others drought
We wake before the break of dawn.

Though strong young men, we ache and yawn.
Rough fists must rub the tired out,
And toil until the daylight’s gone.

Come Sunday, God trumps earthly brawn.
On fire to hear the preacher shout,
We wake before the break of dawn.

But Monday comes, and faith withdrawn
We strive and work to conquer doubt
And toil until the daylight’s gone.

By fate our lots in life are drawn,
Yet still by will must stay devout.
We wake before the break of dawn
And toil until the daylight’s gone.

Those Early Girls, piled upon tables,

pert pyramids of cheerleaders

vied for my  attention, shining in

the too- bright glare of compact fluorescents.

My fingers trailed over their

ripe roundness and I squeezed a few

toward points of pain,

plucking the best for my basket

before last call, closing time,

and ambled up to the cashier,

who eyed the remaining customers

with practiced boredom.

She weighed my bounty,

a red harem

and I watched them  roll and tumble,

now cloistered in clear plastic.

I proffered my twenty, still crisp from the machine

and she unfolded her thin white fingers to receive my offering

as a ribbon of pale flesh peeked from her sleeve

marked with ridges of scars:

contoured farming of pain fissures, crevices,

fault lines.   

Once home, I lined those  

Early Girls, plump and pure, under my poised knife.

The fibrous scars, like ladder rungs up her arm, climbed to my brain,

cutting through thoughts of dinner as I sliced my tomatoes,

with perfect, thin lines.