I don’t easily describe myself as a poet. Labels of any sort are generally problematic to some degree. Scratchy. What’s my problem with ‘Poet’? In some mouths, it can sound like an insult. Perhaps I’m subconsciously adding ‘Minor’ or ‘Failed’ in front of ‘Poet’. Certainly, there are many people, including members of the wider writing or literary community, who don’t ‘get’ poetry, some to an almost pathological degree. The P word will induce shudders, a complete communication shutdown. Or there are others for whom the term ‘Poet’ seems to conjure up floaty flowery visions, indolence perhaps, and a not-quite-patronising response along the lines of ‘That must be lovely….‘. If only they knew the agony of each bitterly-fought phrase, the caffeine addiction, the endless troughs of self-doubt. And then this is the deeper issue, that I don’t feel I can truly call myself a Poet. Poet with a capital P. Serious and difficult. Someone who eats sleeps breathes poetry. Someone who who could dare to imagine a slim volume of their poems nestling on a bookshelf alongside Sappho, Keats, Plath. Okay, so I do at least read poetry, and I do subscribe to half a dozen or so small lit mags, and yes I write poems – more so in the last few years, and better poems, I hope, whatever that might mean – and I send them out into the big wide scary world and sometimes they are ACCEPTED. But often after I’ve read quite a bit of poetry, I crave prose; and in the same way, after writing a few poems I’m usually hankering to write whole narrative sentences, a story of some kind. So, ‘writer’ is the label I’m most comfortable with. Of course, the caffeine, the self-doubt etc. go hand in hand with prose as much as poetry. So I doubt I’ll ever be able to wear this badge with confidence:
By the way, never ever EVER call me a ‘Poetess’.