Category: Poetry and prose

  • 6 simple ways to bring a little more poetry into your everyday life

    6 simple ways to bring a little more poetry into your everyday life

    “A poet’s work… to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it from going to sleep.”

    — Salman Rushdie

    Poetry appears in different forms, and whether a short haiku, a passionate sonnet, or an idiosyncratic free verse: poetry can act as a form of political activism, or just a simple note to remember the scent that lingers after a storm. 

    The ability to command and control language poetically, in whichever language it may be, is a form of communication so uniquely powerful, and it is not limited to its traditional forms. It is evident in just about everything today: the effect of a few choice words in an advert; the deliciousness of a song that embodies a feeling we couldn’t quite articulate; perhaps even in the unexpected- when someone’s poetic turn of phrase in the morning returns in our thoughts, to raise a smile in the afternoon. It is transformative.

    So how can you engage with this artform more often?

    Here are 6 simple ways to bring a little more poetry into your everyday life:

    1. Starting with the basics, reading poetry. But one type in particular, poetry anthologies. These are brilliant tools because you can dip in and out, take it at your own pace, and you have essentially a buffet, with poetry in many different styles and subjects, often by a plethora of poets. Here are two anthologies by Allie Esiri, who Tatler describes as a “poetry powerhouse”:

    ‘A Poem for Every Day of the Year’ which can be purchased here: https://amzn.eu/d/jioKy4w 

    Or perhaps ‘A Poem for Every Night of the Year,’ if you’re more of a books-on-the-nightstand kind of reader: https://amzn.eu/d/gpUm8d8

    I’m familiar with these as I gifted one to a relative, and in typical 18th century fashion, we made a habit of reading one aloud in the evenings. Literature used to be a very social occasion- new releases from circulating libraries were read aloud by candlelight to the whole family or friend group- perhaps you could bring a little of that back too!

    2. Poetry is indeed a different experience when its read aloud, so check poetry podcasts, like this one:

    Poem-a-day Podcast, run by the Academy of American Poets. Follow on Spotify below:

    It is often newly written short form poetry, read aloud by the poets themselves, so you can experience original performances while you travel. There’s also an option to receive a poem a day to your email inbox.

    1. If poetry performances really rhyme with you, here are some London venues that host slam poetry and poetry readings.

    Kindred in Hammersmith hosts live events- their popularity shows that it’s one venue for your list!

    Morocco Bound, southside of Tower Bridge.

    The Poetry Lounge often held at The Boogaloo.

    Hammer & Tongue Hackney at The Bookclub.

    Prices vary, but these kinds of evenings are often free or low cost, and are so entertaining- you might even be tempted to get up on the mic.

    1. Now to another likely daily use: instagram poetry. If you find yourself scrolling on Instagram a lot, here is some direction- some you’ll know, some you may not:
    1. Try going to classes and workshops!

    Some examples in London:

    Southbank Centre, like the upcoming Out-Spoken Masterclass in April. Southbank’s masterclasses are chance to develop your poetry, ‘borrowing tips and tricks from an established poet.’

    There are frequent Creative Writing Workshops at Lea Bridge Library, and other libraries! Check your local library for similar events, they are brilliant resources for expanding skills.

    The Guitar social, they often host Poetry open mic, writing workshops, ‘words-based chill.’

    1. Write your own.

    To inspire you to write and to grow your confidence in sharing it with others, perhaps try entering your work into competitions. The National Poetry Library provides a platform with the latest competitions, check it out here https://www.nationalpoetrylibrary.org.uk/write-publish/competitions. Some are free to enter, others come with a fee. Overall the experience of entering work is freeing because the poem becomes a joint experience between the author and the reader, your work is open to interpretation and it stands alone as its own work. 

    Taking writing tips from well known poets, consider simply starting by responding to what you see, whether that’s a poem about London’s streets, like A Description of A City Shower, by Jonathan Swift; or a poem inspired by an artwork such as Musée des Beaux Arts by W H Auden; his final verse responds to Bruegel’s painting Landscape with the Fall of Icarus (c.1560). The language used to describe a painted scene lends itself well to poetry. Perhaps try writing about the next piece of artwork which resonates with you, which makes you feel something. 

    Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, Pieter Bruegel the Elder, c. 1560, Oil on canvas, 73.5 cm × 112 cm (28.9 in × 44 in), Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels
    For an interactive breakdown of Auden’s poem, check out the New York Times analysis

    Edgar Allan Poe described poetry as the “rhythmical creation of beauty in words,” and whether you read, write or listen to poetry, rhythmical creation belongs in the everyday. It is where we find the joy, humour and power in languages, our first and foremost communication tool.

  • Tearing at the seams

    Tearing at the seams

    I live within the borders, isolated, only listening to our own voices

    comprising the fabric of this town, drowning in my choices

    echoes are the only sound, we always need more

    generations of deep stitches convince us this is all we’re good for

    living in these borders of a town that stretches wide

    sewn across a nation, an island of accents to reiterate our divide

    In these borders I’ve been trying to forget

    the life written out for me, everything that’s set

    with this lockdown I’ve had too much time to think

    struggling to hold together, another statistic every time you blink

    every distraction locked up and shut down,

    I can’t ignore this pattern, I seem to be bound

    I used to forget in the streets, tearing at the seams

    pretending to be the next Messi, five a side at the borders of town  

    distractions to hide, stuff of dreams now

    To forget where I’m heading, like my dad

    in a job every night he’s dreading, ma says it’s enough but in her eyes I can see

    it’s not enough for her, it’s not enough for me

    my older brother left, went where him and his friends usually do

    the place that even if you leave, a sentence walks ahead of you

    I need to get out, but I don’t want to go there

    Dad says he’s got a job lined up for me, work till I’m sore

    wish I could tell him I want to try to do more

    I can’t be another in a pattern like them before

    But in this house, borders of this town

    Books don’t count for much, sirens in my head, the loudest sound

    I sit for too long reading I’m not helping where I should

    I need something but feel guilty. Ask? I never could

    An empty desk, a place to write, more than fists to win this fight. I’m tired

    You know the school walls preach “the pen is mightier than the sword”

    it doesn’t stop them fighting gripping their keys like claws

    It’s pathetic, gangs starting out in the yard

    you turn a blind eye when things get this hard

    sewn up in these patterns, the sword is the only way of life

    they’ll forget to bring a pen but line their pockets with a knife

    Realising why grandad used to say “some are their own worst enemy”

    I’m losing the energy, this place will be the death of me

    Hard to ignore the pattern now I’m grown

    I swear this is not all I’m worth, it’s just all I’ve been shown

  • Naked Words to Redress The Book

    Naked Words to Redress The Book

    Clicking typing- heavy sighs- browsing scrolling silent cries

    I wonder how far you’ve wandered, how many steps your watch could count

    I wonder from the distance you’ve travelled, how many shelves you’ve ravaged, before the spines give out

    Dog-eared, torn, do not write in pen

    But how else would you remember how the damn thing ends

    Hidden lost between these realms

    Discovered found outside themselves

    There is something within these stacks and fragments of broken collective

    Something about the institute, emblem, that seems seductive, suggestive

    You’re here, you’ve earned your place. Do not let it go to waste.


    Click type silent sighs- browse scroll studious eyes

    I wonder how far you’ve stumbled, how many ideas you’ve tossed away,

    I wonder how much potential is wasted, how you contrive your mind to what the theories say

    Neither the eyes, nor windows, are portals to your soul.

    The inked pages alone, will your truth, recall

    It’s a shame- you’ll never write those soulful thoughts onto a page for us all

    You’ll just click and type- only open your mouth to let out a sigh

    You’ll memorise and write about some dead guy

    We’ll never know the genius that could have been

    Because subconsciously you’re convinced your thoughts aren’t worthy of being seen.

    But perhaps that’s the curse- I’ve read enough to know- the age of rebirth happened far too long ago.


    We study it so much that we now believe,

    Everything worth writing about, painting, singing, inventing,

    Whatever one may conceive-

    Has already been written out, painted, sung and invented,

    It is futile. The age of rebirth has long been suspended

    Well, read this or no, I think it’s time that bloody curse ended.

    Radical need not be the only valid time spender,

    Shock factor need not be the only art agenda.

    So lower that book for a minute- hiding your face, take a moment from your computer, step into the human race,

    Tell me, are you reborn? Enlightened? Romantic? Perhaps a modernist?

    Could you show me what’s worth keeping, among all of this?


    Be inspired, by all means. Be informed, yes!

    But be fired up, by any means. If you do not know the answer, guess!

    Life is too short to merely regurgitate names, and their theories,

    Bored, weary, shouting into the webcam, can you hear me?

    Trust- that dreaded word- that what you have to say matters, even if it feels eerily similar to something you’ve already heard.

    What if- that dreaded phrase- your own idea was sparked, ignited, by something on that page.

    Worthy of a rebirth, the renaissance of our own age.


    Clicking typing heavy sighs. Browsing scrolling questioning lies

    What if the link is broken? Typing, but words are often louder spoken!

    I believe- now hear me out- we may yet conceive

    a future of education that isn’t based on the degradation of the individualist idea

    That curriculum, well it just could become, an open book, a circus, a screen, an international trip, a courage to the fear

    A sigh of relief, is it getting hot in here?

    The fire you ignited, this desire to create you’ve invited,

    could fill up your word count much faster

    than the most recent theories you chase after.


    Keyboards at long last still for the evening- overwhelmed, hard pressed, but able to breathe

    You switch off your computer, prepared this empty darkened library to leave

    A head full of histories, collective memories, original thought a comical fantasy

    When you notice, one book that you’ve never seen

    On a shelf many times you’re sure you’ve already ravaged

    Something you haven’t read? No! The audacity of a philistine.

    Yet upon reaching out lifting the weight of its leaves with one inquisitive hand

    Peeling back it’s covers you reveal something anyone well read could never understand

    There’s something, other than finding a book you’ve never read, even more outrageous

    There are, how do I say this? Hundreds and hundreds of empty pages

    You fall to a chair, flabbergasted

    Wondering how the spectacle wearing intelligentsia forces of the librarians could have passed this.

    Your fingers trace the leather back to front, passing it from one hand to the other, left to right.

    All that empty space, wasted bark pressed to white


    Waiting endlessly for some doctorate, theorist or philosopher to write

    The room is silent as you lift the book again, when oh!

    Into your lap drops from between the pages of the book, a battered well inked steel pen

    Between an empty book, and a tool filled with blackened possibility,

    There is a head, up there on the only pair of shoulders in this room, full of masterful, praised, canonised, seminal writers of the past.

    Would you, could you, write something of your own at last?

    Rock and a hard place, paper and a pen. When your discourses of potential are demanding decisions, what then?

    When your essays, tweets and captions that call for action are all truly put to the test

    Might you write something that disappears on a shelf, dusty, derivative, mimicry of all the rest?

    Or can you carve out- change- write something on the empty page of your history

    Create kindling that ignites a generation’s hearts?

    It doesn’t have to be perfect, you just need to be willing to conceive, that it’s worth it to start