Singing about the dark times

The use of literature- and poetry in particular - within the protest rhetoric of yesterday’s Women’s Marches was incredibly powerful. From references to Margaret Atwood’s (increasingly chilling) novel The Handmaid’s Tale to lines from Maya Angelou’s I Rise appearing on many placards, it is clear that literature has a role to play in the fight for equality and fairness.

Some of this is due to the fact that literature, at its best, breeds empathy. Once we have walked a mile in another’s shoes, even in our imagination, it is harder to dismiss, stereotype or persecute people. Stories take us beyond difference and unearth the same humanity we all share.

Many placards seen at the marches showed pictures of talented writer and actor Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia from the Star Wars franchise declaring that “A Woman’s Place is in the Resistance.” There is a straight line between the Star Wars stories and those in ancient myth; George Lucas was influenced by Joseph Campbell’s book on comparative mythology The Hero with a Thousand Faces which directly links our stories to our psychology. The message on those placards is simple and clear – when you act against women, people of colour, LGBTQ people, those with disability or any other marginalised group, you are not some edgy hero grasping at freedom, you are not The Resistance everyone roots for in those films, you are The Empire.

Ancient myths and classical epics tell the same stories over and over of oppression by the elite and uprising from the disenfranchised and what they have in common is that it is those resisting hate and oppression who triumph. It is, therefore, literally wired into our brains to stand against this tide of hatred because whatever your religious and cultural upbringing, the stories we tell and those we hear remain the same. The details in those tales bring us closer both to empathy for each individual and an understanding of the universal human condition.

I also came across a quote from poet and activist Audre Lorde yesterday:

“For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence.”

Reading that made me want to know more, and I looked up the context of those lines. Here is her statement in more detail:

I speak here of poetry as a revelatory distillation of experience, not the sterile word play that, too often, the white fathers distorted the word poetry to mean--in order to cover a desperate wish for imagination without insight.

For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives.

Literature, then, not only allows us to tell our stories, it gives us the language we need to articulate them. In this context, the personal is incredibly political. A recent example of this is found in Stephanie Northgate’s poem Miracle published recently on the And Other Poems website. The poem paints a clear picture of the vulnerability of refugee children by connecting them, and their parents, in the quiet and tender moment when a small child finally falls asleep. This is something all parents can recognise, and this personal experience of motherhood makes a strong and moving point about how we all have more to connect us than to divide us. Refugee parents want the same for their children as we do; those children exposed to danger and cold could be ours.

Writers must keep working. Representation matters in the arts and more must be done to make it happen. Lorde is right, finding the words to express and then address the challenges we face is not – and never will be – a luxury. To all the writers and readers, have faith in the fact that in your heart, you already know the story you need to tell and it is a vital necessity.

Here lies One whose Name was writ in Water

I am delighted and honoured to be one of a number of people taking part in a reading of Keats’ poetry to coincide with the completion of a statue of the poet due to be placed in Eastgate Square in Chichester. The event takes place on St Agnes’ Eve, a poem Keats composed in that very city. I remember the first time I discovered Keats’ connection to Chichester and I was thrilled to discover that one of my heroes had visited my hometown.

I have written before about the sense of urgency in Keats’ work and the beauty of that alone is enough to elevate him as one of my favourite poets. However, it is his life that lifts him to heroic status in my eyes. It is not just that he achieved so much in his short life, but that he lived very much on his own terms. Keats did not belong in the luxurious high society of the other Romantic Poets and often felt uncomfortable in their presence. He did not have the same education, connections or leisure as other writers of his time. Despite the beauty and delicacy of his work, Keats knew about the realities of life and the pain it can bring. He studied medicine at Guy’s Hospital and worked as a dresser – dressing wounds, setting bones and assisting in surgery – prior to deciding that he must become a writer. He did not receive positive reviews when his first book was published and, outside of a small liberal circle of writers, was heavily criticised by the literary establishment. John Wilson Croker said his work consisted of “the most incongruous ideas in the most uncouth language,” and John Gibson Lockhart called him a “vulgar Cockney poetaster”. I almost want to raise them both from the dead for an evening just so they can hear his work still being read and see the statue in his honour.

Keats is my hero because he defied all the snobbery and prejudice and stayed true to his own convictions and artistic vision. He wasn’t rich and didn’t belong in Society; the literary establishment didn’t want him and tried to tear him down as soon as he began writing. In short, there was nothing in Keats’ life to suggest he should become a poet and he did it anyway. His clear-eyed passion for writing allowed him to put aside the frustration of being considered an upstart and create work that is timeless and continues to move and inspire people.

It used to make me feel very sad that Keats died believing he was a failure and that his epitaph: Here lies One / whose Name was writ in Water betrayed a certain amount of bitterness. On reflection, though, I think of the lines in Catullus LXX – sed mulier cupido quod dicit amanti / in vento et rapida scriber oportet aqua, which means, “but what a woman says to a passionate lover should be written in the wind and the running water,” – and I think that perhaps, once again, Keats showed immense vision in seeing his work, and his name, as something both ephemeral and eternal, like love. 

I hope to see many rebellious-minded writers and artists there - I think Keats would like that. 

Hakuna Matata

When you start writing, plenty of people will advise you that it’s a difficult life; it’s rife with frustration, rejection and any number of challenges both practical and creative. What is much less discussed is that while you’re facing these issues – picking yourself up after a polite “no, thank you,” from a magazine, trying to find the right word or unearth an emerging structure - the rest of your life goes on too, with all the attendant ups and downs that living entails.

This week I got unwelcome news which is causing me some stress – nothing too serious, I should add – but my first thought was how it would impact my writing and the recent plans I had made on that score. I felt bereft of the hope I had built up recently and I just wanted this problem from my life to just go away. I realise how easily I had fallen into a familiar trap; wishing for a perfect life, telling myself I will concentrate on writing after I have everything else in place, once I have just got over whatever bump in the road I’ve encountered…

It may feel like you have a good reason to put your writing on hold, but really that kind of thinking is a trap. With a few exceptions, nothing should stop your writing plans because waiting for the ideal time will lead you to wait forever - life is never perfect. I know it is a trap because I completed one assignment on my Creative Writing MA after having lost Dad at the beginning of the term. I barely felt like getting out of bed, let alone writing poetry, and yet once I started to work, I found that the creative process gave me freedom.

What is most interesting to me is that at the time, writing gave me a way to escape, however briefly, from my personal difficulties and yet when I read it back now, I see it is shot through with my grief. I was writing a long narrative poem and reaching for a fantasy world but regardless of my intent, the real world crept in and I think the poem is the richer for it. The jaws of this trap are sharpened by the fact that not only can you not wait for life to be perfect, but you shouldn’t want it to be.

Poetry operates with tension at its core; a poem could be written about an intensely personal experience and convey something more universal. A poem like Ted Hughes’ The Thought Fox is both about an animal and the idea of an animal – or perhaps the animal of an idea. The articulation is beautiful precisely because of the friction between these concepts; they rub up against each other and overlap. The fox is too real to exist only in the imagination, the metaphor too clear to let it just be a fox. Whether you want to think about the problems of “real life” or not, they will creep in to anything you write, and this isn’t a bad thing. On the contrary I believe, like the pressure simmering within Hughes’ poem, it makes the work richer. It’s important to remember that and I write this as much as a reminder to myself as anything else. It is lovely to sometimes daydream about having no worries for the rest of my days, but deep down I know that day will never come. Even if it did, what would I write about then? I write to understand the world so if everything is in its place and understood, what would be left to discover?

As for my recent challenge, I am sure I’ll find a way out of it and it will soon be nothing but a footnote in my memory. Other challenges many of us are facing due to the current social and political climate may not be so easy to solve and although I don’t think these issues should be ignored, neither do I think they should stop you from working. I know some people believe that times of unrest can lead to a rich resurgence within art; I don’t really subscribe to that school of thought. Given the choice, I think I’d rather have a fairer, kinder world than one with beautiful art that arises from protest and I don’t think a writer has to be tortured in order to create great work. Writers do, however, have to connect with their readers and for that reason, any intrusion in the life of a writer, good or bad, has to be accepted as part of the writing life. 

It’s only words

I’m not going to provide links and examples because I don’t want to add fuel to the fire or clicks to the clickbait, but there have been many examples in the right wing press of promoting hatefulness under the banner of family values. I thought I’d write about my family values because every time I see an article promoting prejudice and indifference to injustice under such a banner, it infuriates me and I think, that’s not my family.

My family is small; my Mum and Dad are and were both only children and I am one of three daughters. Growing up, I didn’t really know that there was such a thing as not being allowed to do something because “girls don’t do that”; both my parents were nurses so I never really grasped the idea that nursing might be a job for a woman, or that similarly there might be such a thing as a career that was meant for men. I remember once in infant school, we had to write about what our parents did and I wrote something along the lines of “My Mum is a nurse and my Dad is a nurse.” The teacher corrected me and said, “No, Zoe. Your Mum is a nurse and your Dad is a doctor.” At the time, I was upset because as a nerd from a very young age, I hated to be told I had got something wrong but also I burned at the unfairness of it because I knew my Dad was a nurse, I knew I was right. At the time, of course, I didn’t register the sexism implicit in that correction but I did know deep in my bones that it was wrong. My Dad was a nurse, he worked on a psychiatric ward with patients that most people were afraid of, people who didn’t have a voice or often anyone to care for them, and he worked hard to make their lives better. Sexism and restricted gender roles? Not my family.

I don’t want to present our family as some kind of hippie utopia; we were as normal as the next family in many ways. My sisters and I bickered sometimes, got along other times. One thread that runs through my childhood is the notion that we had to share – attention, time, gifts. For example, in the days before on-demand Netflix, we had to take our turn in choosing a Saturday night movie to rent. I don’t think I suffered for that, on the contrary I saw a lot of films I would never have chosen by myself. When I was a teenager, it was hard to get to the cinema without a car and I had a deal with my Mum that she would take me to anything I wanted to see as long as I went with her to anything she wanted to see; we both shared our interests and often enjoyed the films we would never have chosen. The idea that the country is “full” and we have nothing to share? Not my family.

I’m the only redhead in my family; I know all the ginger jokes having heard every one on the playground (and they’ve never evolved from that level), but one thing I do recall is that my sisters never ever made those jokes. Again, I want to be clear, we weren’t sitting in a circle singing Kumbaya, we did all the usual “Mum, she took my…” “Mum, she won’t let me…” but never once did either of my sisters laugh at me or point out my (admittedly minor) difference, despite the fact that they had been on the same playgrounds, they would have heard the same insults and it would have been an easy shot. Attacking someone just because they look different to you? Not my family.

A week after my 18th birthday, my Dad had a heart attack and by Christmas Day he was still in hospital, having just been moved out of the intensive care ward. It was a tough Christmas; I remember the tension every time the phone rang in case it was a call none of us wanted. On Christmas Day, we went to visit Dad with our presents so that we could all open them together. We’d also brought with us some mince pies and a box of crackers and we went round that ward, offering other people who didn’t have visitors a cracker and some home-baked care and attention. We also bought a large box of chocolates for the doctors and nurses taking care of my Dad; no one knew better than my parents that they would rather be at home with their families on Christmas Day and yet there they were, doing their jobs. We were suffering ourselves, but did that mean we couldn’t extend some love and care to others who may also be suffering in different ways? Not my family.

The reason this is important for writers is because words are being corrupted; the right wing press are promoting hateful, cruel ideologies under the banner of family values and the meaning of those words has been hijacked; these are not the values of my family. Of course, there are bigger challenges ahead and this may seem minor, but the language we use helps us to understand the world we live in and that world is being corrupted by a poisonous, insidious creep in meaning. Every time we write, we consider the language we use and the effect it has, it’s how we allow readers to understand the worlds we create. So, to quote the Bee Gees, it’s only words, but words are all I have. 

Most People Never Listen

In my last blog, I considered the importance of artists continuing to speak up in troubling times. I also touched upon the importance of listening, and that was something I was reminded of as I finished reading Things That Can and Cannot Be Said, the brilliant book by John Cusack and Arundhati Roy, an account of the meeting of activists Roy, Cusack, NSA whistle-blower Edward Snowden and Pentagon Papers insider Daniel Ellsberg. It is a fascinating, if somewhat frightening, read, a book so dense and brilliant that I immediately want to go back to the start and read it again.

I have long admired Roy for her literary brilliance and insightful political analyses, but in this book, I was equally struck by Cusack, not least because he listens to the people around him. I am aware that this should be the default, that we shouldn’t just give praise that one privileged white man has learned to sit back and listen to others but it is an increasingly rare and highly underrated trait and it’s important to us all both as political and artistic thinkers. We need to learn to listen more, and to broaden the scope of what we’re listening to.

“When people talk, listen completely. Most people never listen.”

— Ernest Hemingway

I think many of us are chilled by the out-and-out racism on display in America and at home in the UK at the moment, but what makes it worse is that people of colour have been telling us, repeatedly, that it was happening and we didn’t listen. LGBTQ people told us they were fearful of the prejudice they continued to face and we didn’t listen. Similarly, women are told there is no glass ceiling; it is slowly and patiently explained to us that there is no misogyny even as we present hard facts on the wage gap and a sexual predator wins the White House with plans to dismantle a woman’s right to bodily autonomy. Shush, ladies, less of your hysteria, the grown ups in charge are talking now.

We must learn to listen better and to broaden the scope of the voices we listen to. This includes supporting artists of colour and other silenced and dismissed minorities such as the disabled or LGBTQ people, it means taking in culture from all over the world, it includes reading at least twice, three times as much as we write and stepping outside of our usual boundaries of tastes and favourites.

I don’t even really present this as a moral duty – the rewards are phenomenal, it adds a diverse symphony to your own education as an artist, it brings colour, magic and insight from across the world. In short, it will make your life richer and your art better. I’ll give just one example from hundreds I could have chosen. The poem Dinosaurs in the Hood by Danez Smith haunts me; it’s not just the message it conveys but the way the poem conveys it. The work reverberates with energy and yet the form and structure of this work is both delicate and astounding; it works as a masterclass on the power of repetition on a par with Lear’s “never, never, never, never, never” line in Shakespeare’s play; it made me see and feel something new both about another’s experience and about how I write.

Actually, given that I acknowledge part of Cusack’s brilliance and his significant contribution to the book Things That Can and Cannot be Said, I should shut up and let you listen to Danez Smith.

Nil Desperandum

I can’t imagine there are any happy artists today; the result of the US election seems like a vote against knowledge, discovery and compassion and I’m not sure art can exist without those qualities. It may seem like it’s not worth writing, or worth trying anything creative in the face of such bleak realities, but the truth is, art has never been more important.

I know it feels like the world is getting worse and there’s nothing you can do, but there is. If you need a reminder on the value of art and of maintaining your self-belief, I can’t think of a better way to hear this message than to listen to Maya Angelou:

Keep on rising. You are not powerless. Of course, we don’t all have political influence and we can’t change the world alone but we can work together and support organisations that can. The morning after the last UK election I increased my monthly donation to the charity Arts Emergency because they promote education for all and the transformative opportunities art can offer young people. Today, the first thing I did on hearing the news was donate to Citizen Radio and The Freedom of the Press Foundation because I feel that the lack of an independent, unbiased media is somewhere close to the root of the problem and right now they need support. The same is true of organisations fighting for equality on so many fronts; it genuinely scares me how we seem to be moving backwards in the fight for equal rights and we need to halt that sooner rather than later. The same goes for environmental concerns, which just got a lot more concerning. Choose whatever speaks most to you, but put your money where your mouth is and if you have no money, give your time, spread the word. Do something.

People with no voice right now will need yours – and they will need you to listen. This is very important and ultimately, it’s why artists aren’t powerless – to create anything, you must have an open heart, you need to listen to others and have empathy. In short, you must engage with the world. Carry on writing your poem or your novel, carry on singing your song or painting your canvas. Carry on facing the world with a kindness and generosity. It’s not blind optimism, it’s not wishy washy liberalism and it’s not an artist in an ivory tower. It takes a backbone of steel to look at the world today and return nothing but love and creativity. If you listened to Maya Angelou and it helped you, you know exactly why you must keep trying. I recommend Rebecca Solnit’s book Hope in the Dark which makes the case for optimism in a realistic and inspiring way.

I chose Horace’s words as the title of this blog on purpose because I’m a Latin nerd – it’s well known that the phrase means “don’t despair” but the reason it’s particularly appropriate right now is because of the way it’s constructed, not as an order but as something that in grammatical terms is called “the gerundive of obligation” which implies a compulsion and a moral force to the required action. It is your duty as an artist to never, ever despair. Stand for what you believe in, support the organisations that share your values, speak up for justice… and then get yourself back to work.

Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?

I’m taking on a NaNoWriMo challenge with a writer friend of mine; I won’t be writing a novel but I have made a commitment to write every day for a month. After agreeing to do so, I noticed that 2nd November is also National Stress Awareness Day and the coincidence gave rise to some very hollow laughter. I imagine all the writers just starting out on a month-long sprint to complete a 50,000 word novel in a month are all too aware of their stress levels. It made me think about writing and stress; having completed a Masters Degree whilst running my own business and facing some significant personal challenges, the two appear to have been hand in hand for a very long time.

On reflection, writing is perhaps the only thing that saves me from feeling drowned by the stress of everyday living and the lurking dark shadow of depression that waits in the corner. When I write, I feel completely free. I can plunge into another time, world or dimension. Of course, reading also offers that same comfort but where reading is a haven from the world, writing allows me to face it head on; I can take something jumbled and ugly and turn it into something beautiful.

So if I love writing so much, why is NaNoWriMo even a challenge? Why not just buckle down and write like that every month? Writing can be hard; it comes with a lot of frustration and rejection. Sometimes you get your hand burned one too many times and you’re afraid.

For one month, all I have to do is keep writing. The work produced doesn’t have to be good, it doesn’t have to fit a given theme or echo an established voice, it doesn’t have to go anywhere. There are so many things that I have to do or want to do or ought to do that the idea of something that I just do inspires me.

I know it’s not going to be all plain sailing –the fastest way to empty your mind sometimes is to sit down with a free hour to write. I know, too, that I might see people on twitter boasting of daily word counts in the thousands and look at my own shaky couple of lines and feel worthless. I might send the work I’ve written to my friend when we have a weekly exchange and discover every word she’s written is magical and every word I’ve written needs changing.

Having a month to reset my writing habits and expectations has to be a good thing in the end – I’ll come out of the month bursting with new ideas or eager to get back to the things I was working on before but either way, I will have learned something new about myself and about my writing.

I know a lot of people sneer at NaNoWriMo just as they remain cynical about the value of awareness days. To those people, I say go ahead and mock but ultimately, it does help people to talk about things that they’re struggling with, whether that’s stress or writing.

In truth, I don’t care what other people say. I’ll be away at my desk along with nearly half a million other writers across the world, trying to create something new. Maybe that’s part of the appeal of the challenge – to complete it, you have to ignore the cynics and the critics (especially the savage inner critic - mine appears to have had lessons from the JK Simmons’ character in the film Whiplash), say a big fuck you to everything in the world that might stop you creating and just write.

By the pricking of my thumbs…

Strange and frightening things are happening in our society that makes it appear less tolerant and accepting, more violent and divisive. It feels to me as if horror writers have become canaries in the coalmine; all the scary stories I have read recently – The Fireman by Joe Hill, Nod by Adrian Barnes and Hex by Thomas Olde Heuvelt – have demonstrated that there is a darkness dwelling at the heart of people. The situations are supernatural – a strange and deadly virus, inexplicable mass insomnia, a witch – but the response to those phenomena all show that humans are the real monsters. This is something I examined in my own poem, Pictish Beast and I think it’s the reason that why Hallowe’en continues to have a place in the cultural calendar.

Poetry embraces the darkness – from the eerie Hallowe’en tales such as Poe’s The Raven or The Listeners by Walter de la Mare to the psychological terror and incipient madness of Hughes Mearns’ influential poem Antigonish. There is something about the way poems are constructed, something about how they are set apart from normal life that makes them the ideal vehicle to chill the reader.

I’m currently working on a sequence of poems about witches; something about them feels perfect for poetry. Anne Sexton’s poem Her Kind finds kinship in those figures who are “not a woman, quite” and there is such vivid freedom in the lines even as the witch is tortured – “A woman like that is not afraid to die.” From a cultural perspective, the figure of a woman who refuses to be cowed belongs in a dark world of black magic, must be reduced to a hideous crone or a seductive temptress to somehow lessen her power, break her on the wheel of the mob. Similarly, Plath’s Lady Lazarus revels in being an unnatural monstrosity. The lady in the poem describes herself as “A sort of walking miracle, my skin / Bright as a Nazi lampshade,” and is at once magical and terrible to behold. I love the way these poems revel in what is considered unnatural and refuse to apologise, and applaud the threatening end to Plath’s poem – “Out of the ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air.” Next time I go to a Hallowe’en party, I must remember to dress as Lady Lazarus.

Horror, in fiction and in poetry, is a way to make sense of the world and place an order on the chaos. It is perhaps for this reason that one poem that always sends a shiver down my spine is The Unreturning by Wilfred Owen. In this poem, the dead do not – cannot – return and while we might enjoy the vicarious thrill of a ghost story and tales of things that go bump in the night, the most frightening thing of all is that these are all just stories we tell ourselves. This poem is haunted by a lack of ghosts, it generates a silence that we are compelled to fill with signs and mythology in order to illuminate our own darkness. 

Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman

I’m tired. Tired of being a woman, tired of how equality between the sexes appears to be retreating and I’m tired of being considered a female writer, as if I work in any way differently to a man. What do I mean when I say that?

I’m thinking of the recent unmasking of Elena Ferrante, the attempts to pin the writer’s achievement on her husband, or to link back to her personal life as if that’s somehow going to lessen the value of the work. If the Neopolitan Novels did spring from personal experience, they are still valuable and they are still a phenomenal achievement.

I’m thinking of the fact that I’ve had several recommendations to watch Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s brilliant comedy, Fleabag and they all came from men; something about that fact makes me queasy. The show is brilliant, treading the fine line between comedy and tragedy with such a delicate touch and showcasing nuanced writing and performances. The subject is frank as well as funny and that’s perhaps where my unease lies. I feel like men seize on it and say, “this is true” and “this is how woman experience the world” and I think, not this woman. Waller-Bridge’s writing is as courageous as it is funny but that does not mean the perspective of the show is mine, nor does it create any obligation to expose myself, literally and figuratively, in my writing.

I’m thinking about the fact that my (entirely lovely and not at all sexist) workshop group are interested in the poems I write about aspects of my personal history in an entirely different way and that makes me want to stop writing them.

I’m thinking about this expectation that female writers should expose themselves in their writing, as if this one woman’s experience speaks to all women. I admire writers such as Sharon Olds who are vivid and visceral in their presentation of the female experience and emotional turmoil but that doesn’t mean I want to follow down that road. To me, this need for female writers to share intimate details feels like another demand on women and come on fellas, I’ve already got my face and my weight and the clothes I wear to worry about, you also want me to take my sexual experience and make it somehow universal and mean something? It feels like a particularly clammy form of voyeurism to me.

I’m thinking everyone – not just female writers – uses their personal experience in their writing whether they choose to do so explicitly or not and that to dismiss women’s writing as somehow lesser on these grounds is sexist. If you ask three people to write a love poem in the abstract and give them the same opening line, you’ll get three very different poems. The same would happen if you asked them to write a poem about, I don’t know, trains. It isn’t just about emotional experience – if those three writers had all had the same experience of romance and yet had read entirely different authors, or lived in different places in the world, the poems would be different.

I’m thinking that it takes as much technical skill to lay your life bare as it does to create a fictional world. I don’t weep into my gin and tonic when I write poems about ex-boyfriends any more than I dress up in ancient armour when I write about Roman soldiers. In both cases, I write and refine and restructure and amend and re-write until the poem says something that comes from me but is not quite mine.

I’m thinking that, through reading, I’ve walked miles in so many pairs of shoes – male and female – and I have always found freedom in that. I have been an astronaut, a detective, a penniless troubadour and a powerful witch, an animal and a piece of the landscape, a distant star and a mythical figure. I’m not a female reader, I’m a reader. I’m not a female writer, either. It’s not that I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m a woman or that I feel any sense of shame about that. It’s just that I don’t think it should get in the way of the writing. When I write, I seek the same freedom of imagination that reading provides to be anyone and go anywhere I choose. You know, the same freedom male writers have.

Poets: Have you hugged a scientist today?

When I was growing up, you were one thing – pretty, sporty, arty, nerdy – and even within those groups there were differences between, for example, the maths and science nerds and the literature nerds. I was thinking about this when I read Dr Adam Rutherford’s book A Brief History of Everyone Who Ever Lived – The Stories In Our Genes. I cannot recommend this book enough; it’s beautifully written and is a clear and compelling description of our history and heritage from a biological perspective. One of the things that struck me about the book was that Rutherford often uses excerpts from poetry to underscore a point. I think back to school days, when science nerds often looked down on literature nerds - because, after all, everyone knows that science is hard and reading books is easy – and am so glad that these distinctions seem to be over.

Everything in our society and particularly the education system encourages us to pick a lane and to consider certain specialisms in different ways. Writers of fiction, drama and poetry seem to have claimed creativity for their own, and yet some of the most creative thinkers of recent times have been scientists and mathematicians. Logic and specificity have been claimed for science but as someone who pulls apart a draft of a poem like it’s a faulty engine or spends a long time getting the exact word needed in a line, I’d challenge that too.

One of the (many) things I love about A Brief History… is that it challenges so many ideas about what we consider to be our racial identity and our heritage. Anyone who argues against racism is automatically on the side of the angels but the fact that it is done on a factual, not an ideological basis, makes it so powerful. The only things that really divide people are social constructs and the more we can learn to break such things down, the better. I am not saying that factual accounts are the only ones that matter – recent poetry titles such as Sarah Howe’s Loop of Jade examining her identity as a woman of mixed race combines emotive lines with intellectual curiosity. Considering a different area of science, Pluto by Glyn Maxwell balances creative and emotional chaos and control in the context of the decommissioned planet, which is both a presence and an absence throughout the book. To better understand the status of Pluto, you would of course be wise to consult an astronomer, but to understand what those details mean for us so many light years away, poetry has a role to play.

One of my favourite haiku from Jack Kerouac is this:

“Came down from my
ivory tower
And found no world”

As writers, we are steeped in literature but if, as RS Thomas asserts, poetry reaches the intellect by way of the heart, then we have much to learn from the many talented non-fiction writers who have so much to teach us about the mechanics of living. This, I feel, is the concern of the poet. Next time you’re in a bookshop, come down from the ivory tower of the fiction and poetry sections and find the science section, browse through the history titles or pick up a biography. Just as I am creatively fed by Rutherford’s knowledge and writing, I believe that if books from science writers, historians and more can make their way to the shelves of poets, the art will be the richer for it.