Kate Clanchy has written another marvellous book. Following the success of Some kids I taught and what they taught me, which thoroughly deserved its Orwell Prize, she has shown what a gifted teacher she is by publishing a new book, How to Grow Your Own Poem, ostensibly a series of lesson plans which, in reality, opens a window onto the art and craft of poetry. Moreover, we are not merely expected to look and learn. Kate invites us to climb through that window, to break into poetry.

She thinks “there are a lot of people with a poem shaped hole inside them” and wants to help us fill that hole by encouraging us to write. But it is not easy. “Writing a poem takes a lot of confidence. You have to believe that you and your experience belong in a poem, and are worth taking time over. Almost nobody finds that easy.”

Kate is right. I have written books, articles, stories and the obligatory unfinished novel. But I cannot remember the last time I wrote a poem. Until now. The book consists of themed chapters and each one contains poems which Kate uses to explicate a particular aspect of the poet’s work. The reader is then invited to develop that aspect in a poem of their own.

The first chapter looks at structure, the scaffolding that can support a poem. When I bought this book I did not expect it to make me a better writer but I hoped it would make me a better reader. Now I think it might do both. So here is my first poem in years, building on the scaffolding that Kate provides in her reading of The Table by Edip Cansever.

This is the first of nearly seventy poems offered as an invitation to write. They include poems by some of Kate’s students who accepted her invitation. I recognised some of these poets from England: Poems From A School, an anthology of poetry written by Kate’s students at the Spires Academy in Oxford. Not the glittering spires but a school in a deprived area of Oxford, where many of the students are refugees, often learning to speak, to read and to write in English at the same time. Reading this book I was inspired to write but also challenged by their eloquence. This is my language. I have been speaking and reading and writing it for most of my 67 years. Yet I hold these young people in awe. My only defence is that I never had Kate as a teacher. At least I have her book now. So should you.

UNPACKING
 
Onto the bed
the travelling man unpacked his journey.
Out of the case
came clothes unfreshly washed,
Shoes. Shampoos and sewing kits,
souvenirs from hotel bathrooms.
But not the shower caps and creams.
 
Brochures, menus, programmes, tickets,
The unwritten journal and the unfinished book.
Doll, music box, crystal, fossil, pen and compass:
gifts for other people’s children. Perfume.
The scent of jasmine and the taste of cloves,
kohl black eyes and pomegranate juice.
The persistent stain of memory.
 
Togetherness and loneliness tumbled out onto the bed
and fogged his memory.
Sunlight shafted and the dust swirled.
There was a secret somewhere but he could not find it.
A forgotten promise like a broken toy, kept in vain.
 
Into the bed
the travelling man tunnelled under the pile of past
seeking future dreams.
And the bed sighed. 

Mike Stanton (sixty seven)