On Poetry

By Jackie Wills

We begin with a drive to write something that's never been said before, to protest, to offload, to challenge or catch the zeitgeist. We imagine we write like the poets we admire. Slowly we learn the craft, understanding eventually that a writer is indentured for life.
Drawing on decades of experience as a poet and tutor, this compelling book is part hands-on guide and part reflection on ways that poetry can make a difference to how we live. It is also a survey of many varied and inspirational writers, especially women poets from the end of the 20th century.
The final section of this unique book offers starting points and resources that will prove essential for new and experienced poets alike. Jackie Wills is herself one of our most genuine and brilliantly insightful poets; and, as the sections on writing workshops show, she has helped people of all ages find their way into poetry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Poetry Business
• Release date: Apr 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781914914133

Jackie Wills

Jackie Wills has worked for newspapers, magazines and several universities. A former journalist, she’s been a writer in residence in business, schools, arts and community organisations, including Unilever, London Underground, Shoreham Airport, the Surrey Hills, the London Symphony Orchestra and Aldeburgh Poetry Festival. She has been a Royal Literary Fund Fellow and run reading groups. Over three decades, Wills has organised live poetry events and mentored many emerging writers, consolidating her experience in The Workshop Handbook for Writers (Arc, 2016). Her poems feature in several anthologies including Writing Motherhood (Seren, 2017) and Poems of the Decade: An Anthology of the Forward Books of Poetry (Forward Arts Foundation, 2015). Wills writes short stories and creative non-fiction as well as poetry. She has collaborated over many years with visual artist Jane Fordham and Fabrica Gallery in Brighton.

Book preview

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On Poetry

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Published by The Poetry Business

Campo House,

54 Campo Lane,

Sheffield S1 2EG

www.poetrybusiness.co.uk

Copyright © Jackie Wills 2022

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Designed & typeset by The Poetry Business.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Smith|Doorstop is a member of Inpress

www.inpressbooks.co.uk.

Distributed by IPS UK, 1 Deltic Avenue,

Rooksley, Milton Keynes MK13 8LD.

ISBN 978-1-914914-12-6

eBook ISBN 978-1-914914-13-3

The Poetry Business gratefully acknowledges the support of Arts Council England.

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Contents

Introduction

Part One: Reading Poems

One: Led by the Language

The Flea by John Donne

Thoughts after Ruskin by Elma Mitchell

Lapwings by Alison Brackenbury

Building a Personal Canon

Plath’s Rhetoric

Two: Deciding to Write

Being Fifty by Selima Hill

How Black Women Writers Defined the 1980s

The Fat Black Woman Goes Shopping by Grace Nichols

Brief Lives by Olive Senior

Three: Heroines and Heroes

More fun than Nigella by Lorna Thorpe

Paying Homage

Grief and Elegy

11 The Camp by Moniza Alvi

Four: Environment, Setting, Conditions

Digging by Edward Thomas

Re-writing Colonial History in Rime Royale

The Doll’s House by Patience Agbabi

Permission to Write on the Window

Naming Home

Pepys and a nightingale by Janet Sutherland

Five: What Gives Me the Right?

Hiss by Jay Bernard

Make Something New

The Fitting by Edna St Vincent Millay

Finding Your Place

The Fall by Pauline Stainer

Honouring an Ordinary Life

Poetry of Critical Illness and Death

How to Behave with the Ill by Julia Darling

The Details of Language

Gazebo by Martina Evans

The Older Woman’s Silence

Lunch by Lotte Kramer

Six: Politics and Social Engagement

The Poet as Witness

Social Engagement and Necessary Poems

On the 70th Anniversary of the Warsaw Uprising by Maria Jastrzębska

The Artists’ Take

Seven: Translation

A Bengali woman in Britain by Safuran Ara

If it Wasn’t for Translators

At the Edge of a Field, a Pair of Shoes by Wang Xiaoni

Part Two: Writing & Working with Poems

Eight: Running a Workshop

What Makes a Workshop?

Organising It Yourself

Working for Someone Else

Momentum

Keep Workshop Plans

Caution!

Evaluation

Nine: The Model

Critical Feedback Model

Change

Masterclass

Exercise Model

Ten: Planning

45 Minutes

Half-day

Full Day

Zoom Time

Two Days to a Week

A Course or Series

A Residency

Eleven: Developing Workshop Materials

Inventing Exercises

Set Your Own Boundaries

Collect Poems

Themes

Props and Postcards

Smells

Workshop Basics

Why Write by Hand and Not on an iPad or Phone?

Why I Use Models

Twelve: Working in Schools and Colleges

Primary Schools

Secondary Schools

Special Educational Needs

Case Study: West Sussex County Council Gifted and Talented Scheme

Case Study: Treloar College, Alton

What Schools Want

Thirteen: Writing Exercises and Prompts

Creative Dialogue

A True And Faithful Inventory … by Thomas Sheridan

The Creative Power of Form

Is It You or Are You Making It Up?

Childhood

Here and Now in the Material World

Your People

Zephyr by Catherine Smith

The News

Fourteen: Identity, Words in Gardens and Questions

Identity – are you a shapeshifter, a boaster, and who do you eat with?

Words – the perspective of visual artists

Asking Questions – Pablo Neruda’s final collection

Afterword

Endnotes

Quoted and Referenced Poems

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Further Resources for Writers

Introduction

In the decade I was a mother with young children I bought a calendar with a quote from a poem for each of the 365 days to come. Sometimes reading a couple of lines was about all I could manage but it meant that in the middle of making breakfast, finding shoes under the sofa, combing hair and packing up lunches, I’d hear Emily Dickinson speaking to me from another century and she’d set off a line of thought that walked with me up the hill and down to their primary school. I was juggling writing with earning a living and bringing up children, was often exhausted, but even so, those lines attached to dates were reminders of how lucky I was, and still am, to have the means to read, write, publish. In the old-fashioned way, I stuck some into an exercise book and my homemade anthology lives on a shelf next to my desk holding its pinpricks of thought.

For more than 20 years I’ve sat with groups of people at different stages of their writing lives, experiencing the liberation of metaphor – a child realising they can find words for the other worlds in their head, a man or woman released from the constraints of caring, illness or addiction, from fear of the past and the future, from the demands of work, for an hour or so by listening to a poem and writing their own. Poetry allowed me to do this. And when I read for myself, sometimes flicking through an anthology, sometimes concentrating on a collection for a book group, I am in awe of human invention.

When I began to earn a living running writing workshops, this work kept me reading widely, looking for new poets or poems to use as examples. It focused me on form, on what worked in a poem and it helped me understand how we use the tools of metaphor and language. I used model poems in writing exercises because a mechanic learns to put an engine together by taking it apart. I remembered a big old engine from my Morris Traveller suspended out of its rightful place when the head gasket blew. A poem has to be oily and heavy too. When I embarked on this work, though, I realised how little I’d read. I’ve come to terms with never catching up, but pledged to stretch as a reader. It’s humbling to face this truth about yourself, that however much you think you’ve read, it’s not enough. The flipside is to enjoy the many different ways people express the world, and to accept that there’s some writing you’ll get on with and some you’ll dislike.

The chapters in Part One are short essays that have come out of my reading. They explore how other writers feed what I write and that this is a continual process. I look at poets I read as a teenager and others I’ve come to later; I question the idea of a single canon through the lens of my own. I look at poets who keep me going because I admire what they’re doing with language, metaphor or form, innovators and poets who answer back. I question what gives me the right to write; I explore how poetry engages us, enters the public arena and how poets extend themselves translating others. I hope these ideas will be springboards to further reading.

Part Two of On Poetry provides hands-on strategies for keeping yourself and others writing, from writing prompts to running writing workshops, with all the preparation they demand. I cover planning, timing and evaluation, different approaches you can take as a workshop facilitator, how to invent your own workshop exercises and what you need to consider in different settings. I touch on visual artists’ use of text, where it meets poetry and how I’ve tapped into that fluid boundary. I include sample workshop plans, case studies and exercises. At the end is a book list and other resources.

I know people who write every day, others who have gaps lasting years, people who finish a book and say they’ll never write again, many who are still looking for a publisher who believes in them. The poets James Berry and Vicki Feaver were tutors on the first Arvon course I attended. I’ll never forget Feaver’s advice, ‘go deeper’ and on the train back from Yorkshire, Berry’s, ‘have stamina, believe in yourself.’ The many writers whose work I look at here are also testament to their wisdom.

Part One

Reading Poems

One

Led by the Language

It must have been around 1970. I was carrying three books: The Mersey Sound featuring Brian Patten, Roger McGough and Adrian Henri; Penguin Modern Poets 8 featuring Edwin Brock, Geoffrey Hill and Stevie Smith; and an anthology of Georgian poetry, first published in 1962. I bumped into my English teacher. She took them out of my hands and then her comment shook me. It was vehement. Personal. I couldn’t like all of them. The Liverpool poets were in direct opposition to Geoffrey Hill. I felt stupid and confused. I couldn’t understand her way of thinking. I simply liked Smith and Hill, I liked Patten, Henri and McGough. I adored Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath. Hendrix was alive (he died a few months later) shaking things up.

The 1960s had chucked choices at 1970 that were too threatening. It was only 25 years since the end of World War Two, rationing ended months before I was born. Writers, musicians, artists were busting out of unbearable restrictions. She must have felt under siege, a woman who thought she knew what poetry was. I was floundering too, curious, drawn to the range poetry offered and that range was most evident in language. My teacher had been sold a very limited canon, poor woman. So I knew poetry would provide me with more than a rule book. Rumer Godden writes in her autobiography A House with Four Rooms, ‘everyone is a house with four rooms, a physical, a mental, an emotional and a spiritual. Most of us tend to live in one room most of the time but unless we go into every room every day, even if only to keep it aired, we are not a complete person.’

In those few lines, Godden describes the range of poetry I wanted to read. I went through a mystical phase, reading St John of the Cross and Mum’s collected Cecil Day Lewis. Around about that time Mum was doing English A level and read me poems aloud by John Donne. She particularly loved ‘The Flea’ – tickled by the metaphor, ‘in this flea our two bloods mingled be …’. Me too, possibly for different reasons, since I was being taught in a convent where my teachers’ mission was to prevent sex before marriage. Here’s Donne flagrantly placing those Anglo-Saxon ‘sucks’ in line three, words that read simultaneously as ‘fucks’. How Donne fitted into the spirit of the sixties! Go on, sleep with me, the decade screamed and a cheer answered from nearly four hundred years back.

The Flea

by John Donne

Mark but this flea, and mark in this,

How little that which thou denieſt me is;

It ſucked me firſt, and now ſucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;

Thou know’ſt that this cannot be ſaid

A ſin, nor ſhame, nor loſſ of maidenhead,

    Yet this enjoys before it woo,

    And pampered ſwells with one blood made of two,

    And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh ſtay, three lives in one flea ſpare,

Where we almoſt, nay more than married are.

This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;

Though parents grudge, and you, w’are met,

And cloiſtered in theſe living walls of jet.

    Though uſe make you apt to kill me,

    Let not to that, ſelf-murder added be,

    And ſacrilege, three ſins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, haſt thou ſince

Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be,

Except in that drop which it ſucked from thee?

Yet thou triumph’ſt, and ſay’ſt that thou

Find’ſt not thy ſelf, nor me the weaker now;

    ’Tis true; then learn how falſe, fears be:

    Juſt so much honor, when thou yield’ſt to me,

    Will waſte, as this flea’s death took life from thee.

(first published 1633)

In this poem as a conversation, a plea, as irony, as life, I heard Donne challenge convention and, as Mum recited it, his mischievousness was transported to the sex and language debates of the ’60s and ’70s. In this poem he has wit, a brilliant metaphor, defiance and over-the-top drama, a situation I related to, because that’s how I’d been brought up – men only want one thing and whatever it takes (even death or torture, according to the saints) you remain a virgin. The poem is argumentative, and like the patriarchal attitudes which were being challenged as I grew up, it’s rather desperate. I hear the pomposity of middle-aged men determined to have their own way and below the humour I see the reality of life for young women, pressured into having sex. I was all too familiar with his desperation, frustration and sarcasm. Even when she’s won – stood her ground, crushed the flea – he doesn’t stop: that’s what her virginity is worth, a flea’s life, a smudge of blood. Other than the genius of the poem, what I also rate it for now is its ability to travel – Donne’s acknowledgment of the girl’s smirk. I can still hear Mum quoting it, her books on the table, a green bank of woods through the window. Sexual liberation and who it benefited was one of the battlegrounds of the decade I grew up in. The Catholics revered virginity so much they even spun a story about a virgin birth. My teacher (the one who scorned my book choices) discussing Angelo’s deal in Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure (if Isabella has sex with him, he’ll release her brother Claudio from prison) asked us, ‘What would you do?’ ‘Sleep with him of course,’ we answered. Next day she told us she was afraid for our souls. Stylistically, the poem’s rhyming couplets are still so familiar, so adaptable and energetic, as is its urgent address to ‘thee’, the lover. We recognise its rhythms, ‘This flea is you and I, and this / Our marriage bed …’ as our own. It is pure performance, the poem has a mike in its hand and a wide stage.

Sister Short was one of the few nuns to teach us without Catholicism interrupting. I did my rote learning of Shakespeare to the rhythm of a treadle sewing machine in her needlework classes. So to a soundtrack of The Temptations’ ‘Just My Imagination (Running Away With Me)’, Janis Joplin’s ‘Me and Bobby McGee’, and Sly and the Family Stone’s ‘Family Affair’, my head was filling up with Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter, Chaucer, Wordsworth and the sung Latin Mass. At that Mass I absorbed the call and response, invocation, the magic of three, penitence, the mystery of the chant – Kyrie Eleison – the commandments, the sound of prayers recited communally, the alchemy that existed in music and words.

Then there was Sylvia Plath. I was