I write poetry but don't consider myself 'a poet'...

...and here's why.

image created using the Adobe suite of products

Oddly, I don’t think I ever asked myself this explicit question until very recently; perhaps only in the last few days. Ask me if I consider myself ‘a Writer’ and my answer will be immediate and unequivocal; ‘yes’. But am I also ‘a Poet’…?

Even though I have produced a number of volumes of poetry (and will have a new one — Less — out in a couple of months) I have reached the inescapable conclusion that I cannot, in all honesty, call myself a fully-fledged Poet. Given my history — a track record, proof of publication, some competition recognition, running poetry groups, mentoring etc. — you might regard such a negative claim as dishonest or disingenuous. But it is one I’m happy to make, and here are the reasons why:

Quality

I want to be up-front here: this has nothing to do with the quality of my work. I think a fair proportion of what I write is pretty decent; indeed, if it wasn’t would people call my efforts “a great and inspiring read”, “a special form of poetic plate-spinning”? Would I get to read at literary events, be listed in competitions?

So if some kind of quality scale was the only arbiter, then perhaps the answer to the question would be ‘yes’.

Single-mindedness and dedication

It’s also fair to say that I enjoy writing poetry. Enormously. There is something magical about the form, something which comes alive (both in you and on the page) when you find you’re able to say the things you want to say with brevity, lyrically and metaphorically, looking at it ‘slant’. There is an undeniable sense of pride and achievement if you can look at a line of poetry you’ve written and say “I wrote that”. Or even better, when someone else says “I love that”. (Though the same is true of prose, of course…)

On that basis? Well, yes, I’m a Poet.

But I know many people who are much more single-minded about the form: poetry is all they write; their breadth of reading, knowledge and recall is astonishing; they will pursue a rough draft to the ends of the earth rather than say “that’s good enough”. Such people live and breathe poetry — and they’re ‘better’ at it than I am. Take poetry away from them and it would be like removing a limb or their reason for being…

That certain something…

And ultimately there’s an undefinable and intangible element in all of this. To be able to say “I am a Poet” requires a unique kind of self-belief. “I write poetry” is a statement of fact (whether those poems are good, bad, or indifferent); but “I am a Poet” is entirely different gravy. And I am most definitely not in the school that claims “if you write poetry, you’re a Poet” (or it you take photographs, you’re ‘a Photographer’; if you sing, you’re ‘a Singer’…)

Who’s to say what ‘that certain something’ comprises of? Quality? Single-mindedness? Dedication? Belief? Talent? Pixie-dust? Most likely all of those things — plus a key element which defies definition, naming.

In the end…

…I suppose I think being called ‘a Poet’ is an honorific embracing all of the above. Maybe I’m something of an intellectual Neanderthal, but I don’t want to cheapen the title — ‘a Poet’ — by dishing it out to all-and-sundry. Surely that would devalue it. If being ‘a Poet’ is equivalent to a First Class Honours degree, then I’m okay having an Upper-Second.

Hence, I’m happy to say that I write decent poetry but do not consider myself ‘a Poet’.

But in the end maybe what I’m called is not my decision; maybe such ambiguous, nebulous and open-ended titles are best bestowed on us by others. And if so, perhaps that’s how it should be; who can say? Is that the fairest outcome?

So, as evidence for the defence — or prosecution! — I leave you with this short piece from my forthcoming collection, Less.

P.S. I particularly like the last two lines..!

belong

beneath rain-heavy clouds caressing the horizon
I lift my pillowed head and wake to the window-flicker of sunrise
light cascading the hollow between the big trees
picking itself out in the puddles of last night’s storm

early morning is the break between days
that instant when I find out whether I still belong

---