Practice

On Dolphins and Poetry When I was young, nine or ten, I wrote a poem about a dolphin. I was a dolphin kid. It’s much more popular to be a horse kid, and trust me, I did have that phase, but it’s not where I started. It was an interest that made no sense but loves are rarely based on logic. I was never a fan of swimming, got seasick on boats, and to this day have thalassophobia. But sense be damned, I was going to love dolphins! I had the books, the ornaments, the windchimes. The classic paraphernalia of a child with an animal obsession. I printed the poem out, framed it, and gave it to my grandparents. More accurately, my parents informed me I was going to do this, so I did. They kept it on display in their house for over two decades until they moved to a care home. Two years ago, I found out that my great uncle was a poet. He’s published work and performed for the then President of Ireland – Michael D. Higgins – a poem about birds and migration. I wonder if knowing that as a child would have kept me at poetry, or if my drift from it was part of the natural ebb and flow of life. Maturing both as a person and as a writer. Looking back, I can say that, I subconsciously viewed writing as a way to show off vocabulary, my pieces were good for my age, but not good without a qualifier. Which is to be expected. I think many writers start there regardless of age; The place that begs them to show off the words they know, some innate feeling that knowing all the words translates to knowing how to combine them. I took some years away, kept the dream of being published at the back of my mind and proceeded through the expectations. Occasionally pushing through to a first draft that never quite worked, but I learned a lot. About what I like to read and what I like to write and how those are not the same thing. About what moves me in a story and elements that are essential to me when creating. About how much or how little external pressures should have an influence.  When I returned, properly returned, to writing I started with poetry. It was unconscious and unplanned. It was also good. Not a poem that looked like it was sponsored by Big Thesaurus, and not, I’m sad to say, about dolphins. It’s the first poem I’ve written in years that didn’t fill me with second hand embarrassment when I reviewed it. A poem that gets better as I edit it. I wonder if, at the core, that’s what good writing is about. Not theme, or style, or genre. Not the position in the canon, new innovation, or mastery of form. It’s simply work that has something to say. And says it well.Bonus points if it’s about dolphins.