Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
On a trip to my family home in rural Ireland, several years ago, I found a 1981 diary—the sort with a page-a-day in A5 format. I’m not sure how it survived for three decades. It was filled with the mechanical entries of my eight-year-old self; ‘Went to Mass in Enniscorthy. Helped Nana with the dishes.’ After the entry for Sunday 12th April there was a heavy black line ruled across the page and the words The End. I’d had enough of keeping a journal it would seem.
Curiously, the entry for Monday 13th April read: My Poems A-Z, and there they were. A poem for each letter. And while some were complete poems, others were simply a title on an otherwise blank page. I cannot remember writing most of them.
Although I was an avid reader of poetry throughout school and ever since, I didn’t write another poem until 2013, thirty-two years later. I woke up one day with a poem formed in my head and scratched it down on a couple of post-it notes. Since then the poetry has continued to trickle (or pour) and has been widely published and anthologized.
- ‘Salt Rain’
- ‘On Reaching 45 the Poet Realises She is Only 23’
- ‘Symphony of Skin’
- ‘The Ologist’s Ego, Conquered’ (25:15)