Background

I am well aware that when "Poem" is the title of one of my blogposts, viewing figures will plunge. A lot of people - though thankfully not all - have an antipathy towards poetry. But to me she is a familiar bedfellow, by my side for well over six decades.

As a teacher of English, I often had to grapple with the habitual and obstinate grumble, "I don't like poetry!" It was a prejudice that ignored the delight that most people find in song lyrics or that small children find in nursery rhymes or when people choose epitaphs. The retort also niggled me because I simply could not understand it. It seemed so sadly misguided.

There's a notion out there in the world that poetry is somehow snobbish, highfalutin and cast down from ivory towers but I think of it as a vehicle for getting to the very core of things. Every word should matter and there should be no excess. Poetry should speak truly but sometimes mysteriously too.

When I was seven years old, I was up in my bedroom writing in an exercise book. Something clicked and I made my own, original poem about a hero venturing out to do battle against the forces of evil. I wish I still had that poem but I don't.

Mum was calling my family to the tea table and I came downstairs with my exercise book. I asked them to listen to my poem and I stood in the doorway that led to the stairs then rather proudly I read that poem out aloud. And you know what? There was no applause - just an astonished pause followed immediately by hearty familial laughter.

It was not a funny poem but I guess that there is something rather funny about a seven year old boy in short trousers reciting a self-penned poem to his family. It was not the sort of thing that happened in the heart of East Yorkshire. Seven year old boys climbed trees, played football or picked caterpillars off cabbage leaves. They did not write poems about knights of yore on white horses.

And so we come to yesterday's poem - "Nileometer". It was conceived yesterday morning and quickly went through three drafts. It was finished by teatime but I didn't read it aloud to Shirley and Phoebe - fearing mirth perhaps.

Inspiration was drawn from the idea of a cruise boat passing a succession of random scenes along the Nile - just gliding by. And I thought of the Nileometer on Elephantine Island where ancient Egyptians measured water levels and it seemed that that is what my poem was doing - measuring, taking stock...

And here's something else that features in the poem. It's the pyramid-like hill that overlooks The Valley of the Kings which may be the very reason that later pharaohs chose that location for their tombs. I did not know about the hill until I went there...

To make a poem you have to have an idea for one. That seems pretty obvious. Not exactly a detailed recipe but some kind of inspiration. And when you have got your first draft down you need to look at what you have written -  tweaking it, picking away at words, editing, replacing, questioning yourself. You become like a French polisher, addressing small faults, applying wax and buffing up. I don't think you are ever fully satisfied.

Yesterday, I was very pleased with myself. There was no hanging about, no prevarication. I just got on with it, riding the wave of my idea and there the poem was - done. Like a loaf of bread fresh from the oven.

So different from my currently shelved poem, "Stanage Edge". I embarked on that one in November and thought it would be helpful to take my time for once, let it ferment like wine in a barrel but I haven't gone back to it in many weeks. Maybe my changed method choice was wrong but I will return to it soon and there will be another "Poem" blogpost. Readers will no doubt scurry for shelter. After all, too much exposure to poetry could damage your health.