‘With poetry, you can sniff out the lies’
When asked about my style, I find it hard to answer. I mean this for everything — the clothes I prefer to wear, the food I best like putting in my mouth, and the poems I most prefer putting out. Perhaps it is the curse of a generation — of having and therefore wanting so much. The explosion of choice and our lackadaisical whimsy when it comes to decisiveness. Perhaps it is a desire for everything. The human experience as an effort in fullness. I have wanted, believe me, to be the kind of person who possesses six elegant black kaftans, an inkpot, drinks one brand of coffee and writes 8 hours a day in an instantly recognisable style. But the desire for everything is delicious and overpowering. Sometimes it is crippling. With poetry especially, I am like a dog in the Commons, rabbit holes being my favourite thing. I want to try on all the styles and all the words and put everything on paper — the long the short the mad and the hopeful — and from there, then I begin to ask — what is real? With poetry, you (and by you I mean we), can sniff out the lies. They stink when embedded in a form so pure. So like the same dog who ran down every path in the wild, looking for bone or foxtail or whatever feels like a real treat, I then sniff out the unlikely bits. The bear shit bits. And at the end what is left is hopefully something that feels like mine. I have always loved the outdated word ‘whittle’.
This process sounds frenzied, but the actual act of creation is done in silence and wonder. In complete surrender, in fact. In those moments there is only rawness and healing, a blizzard of feelings. There is light and nature, extraordinary and bountiful suddenly the world emerges as a constellation with all parts connected via death, via joy, via stories. And through the poet, the planet and all that is secret and known about it, emerges. And maybe that, there, is my final understanding of my work and my presence as a poet — to be a medium. To bear witness and to tell the endless record of what makes for stirring and what for stillness.
I
Nuance had left just after tea that day
leaving some magnificent flowers for us
on the summer sill. Later we tried
to name all of them in the bouquet –
we played it like a game —
one turn each and if you couldn’t,
you drink.
By the end we were all equally smashed
on scent and nectar, wine and roses,
hyacinths and all the other ones.
Marigolds.
But we were happy,
and we left no one behind.
II
Swallowing blue light at six
my body tastes like midnight.
I fantasise about grass
in slanted sunlight
and about beds of clouds.
I return to the self who allows
for rudimental sadness.
One day all the ink slides off my body
and into my shoes.
I dip a pen in there.
My poems begin to walk.
III
Reckoning with Ronaldo
Poetry demands I be alive
and I do not always have the stomach for it.
To bring myself up from the fresh grave
which football fans have laid for me,
preparing it with what by a softer touch
might be confused for love —
with words and laughter —
look, their god was wrong,
as gods have been in the past.
Their god of slick cheek slimy with tears.
He was famed for falsehood!
A god of legs and power
(too much power).
A god of and on and off the grass
but what is a god
but a tyrant.
Poetry demands you apologise
but I am tired of telling.
IV
Paws
The dog is a soft muscled
log of goodness.
The ear cartilage
really something
gods should consider
their finest work.
And whiskers –
ethereal, very special too.
But there is no real replacement
for paws.
How stupid hands seem
held up against them.
How splayed, over eager
and superfluous.
Give me paws.
Paws have no need
for polish or rings
or watches or heels.
Paws open doors just fine.
Paws are dreamliners
upon the Earth’s muddy avenues.
V
I tend towards grumpiness
towards fisted heart
punching against chest
despite all the petally poems
about hilarious things like hope.
My soul is a real ragamuffin
A real swallow
but with tattered tail.
I am always waking
severely on the wrong side
of the universe
in a sweaty tumble of
general unhappiness.
Don’t look to me for answers.
I sleep in the likeness
of a question mark.
The Note on Poetics and the poems are part of our Poetry Special Issue (January 2022), curated by Shireen Quadri. © The Punch Magazine. No part of this essay or the poems exclusively featured here should be reproduced anywhere without the prior permission of The Punch Magazine.
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