I Remember Poetry

I remember the poetry section of the local library, thick plastic jackets over thin paperbacks.

I remember, in the snowy churchyard, the villagers who had known the poet.

I remember the poet who swapped me a bird’s nest for a book.

I remember “At the going down of the sun”.

I remember, in school, that you put a comma at the end of each line.

I remember the standing ovation for a poet who read in a tent on a beach.

I remember the poet who predicted, to me, the sub-prime mortgage crash.

I remember “The feeling is a jewel like a pearl”.

I remember rusty staples.

I remember the poet whose new glasses kept slipping down during the poetry reading.

I remember the man in the audience who said too loudly: “I’m sorry, but in what way is that a poem?”

I remember a sestina is a nest.

I remember the poet who sucked on a throat sweet before reciting, hoarsely.

I remember the poets replying rapidly to the listserv.

I remember pocket notebooks for memorising poems: light blue with white spiral binding at the top; bright red with black spiral binding down the side.

I remember “Swetnesse of dewe had made it waxe”.

I remember the poet in the cathedral talking about photons.

I remember the poet who queried my use of the word “oblongs”.

I remember a dactyl is a finger.

I remember “coldest corn”.

I remember the poet who won a lot of money to write a book sitting alone in the reading room.

I remember enclosing a cheque.

I remember “These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows”.

I remember the superior paper of American poetry books.

I remember The Chadwyck-Healey English Poetry Full-Text Database.

I remember the dream about the poet who parked a car opposite my house full of second-hand golf equipment.

I remember saying goodbye to the poet at the train station and agreeing that the air smelt like snow.

I remember “Beyond the Dip of Bell —”

I remember an acrostic actually goes down.

I remember the poet with the kitchen clock that played a different bird song on the hour.

I remember the bookshop in the Noughties which still had poetry books for sale at their Eighties cover prices.

I remember the poet who signed my book “Yours with a crap pen”.

I remember pinned-up fireworks poems.

I remember the journalist from the Evening Standard who rang me up to ask about a poet. It was a new experience for both of us.

I remember “Waves that sway themselves in rest”.

I remember the poet who counted aloud on a car journey until we saw another magpie.

I remember the poet reading in a language I didn’t know, fingers fluttering.

I remember “Follow now the beetles hum”.

I remember the Computer Science teacher who belonged to the British Haiku Society, and the haiku he wrote about bicycles in the rain.

I remember “I whispered, ‘I am too young’”.

I remember a caesura is a cut, like a caesarian.

I remember the faded brown pages of Poetry of the Thirties, printed in the Sixties.

I remember the poet who abruptly left the pub to get away from the other poet.

I remember the pastries that were available to the poetry competition judges.

I remember the poet who told me exactly what the poem meant.

I remember “Sliced carrot pleased him well”.

I remember a sonnet is a little sound.

I remember The Nation’s Favourite Poem.

I remember the first time I saw a poet reading from their phone, thumbing through the lines.

I remember crossing out poems in the school booklet because we weren’t doing them.

I remember “Bean green over blue”.

I remember the poetry editor who said of a rival: “We must crush them.”

I remember the poet who paused mid-reading to savour the word “ontologically”.

I remember the poet who was sarcastic about skiing holidays to the festival organiser.

I remember finding rhymes.

I remember fridge poetry, but not fridge poems.

I remember the poet stuck on a bus texting about what it meant to send a text saying “I am here”.

I remember “Fire-fangled feathers dangle down”.

NOTES

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