Well, it was to be the ‘year of the poem’, n’est-ce pas?  Poem philosophy, poem habits, poem diary, poem-editing course…  How has that worked out?  you might wonder.

Interesting…

What worked out is perhaps more than I could have possibly imagined.  An adventure beckoned.  I followed.  I grew.

Now, it is true that very little poetry was involved.  A tiny snippet.  But if you have ever looked closely, you will know that extraplorer is about discovering more beauty through writing.

So it turns out that this year may be more a ‘year of the poem’ than any poem-a-day year could ever be.  Something deeper than poetry happened in the adventure of my writers residency in a beautiful country.  I grew and grew and grew and found myself believing that I might be, possibly, maybe, no am, a real artist.

Over the summer, all the logic switches of my self-perception have been dismantled.  Here are a few as an example.  Test: Was I real artist?  Switches: Could I paint?  yes/no.  No.  Had anyone paid me? yes/no. No.  Was my writing recognised by anyone in particular?  yes/no. No.  Did anyone ever ask me to write them something (or paint, or draw, or dance)? yes/no.  No.

In the logic switches that governed my self-perception (I had not realised quite how many there were), I failed every test.

Over the summer, those logic switches were revealed as impostors.

Test: Was I a real artist?

Could I paint? yes/no.  Well, really, is this relevant?  I have something I want to communicate, I have a means to communicate it (writing).  I create canvases in people’s minds.  I am learning to do it better.  I don’t think it’s really all about the paint.

Had anyone paid me? yes/no.  Hmmm, well, of course being paid would be nice, very nice, but really, is this going to be the be all and end all of the decision, that someone has suddenly for who-knows-what reasons, decided to pay me?  I write all the time, I photograph, dance and play the piano.  I make beautiful transformations with people.  Are you really going to pin me down to the question has anyone paid?  People pay for drugs, cheap plastic tat in Poundland.  I don’t think I’m going to be aligning my identity with money anymore.

Was my writing recognised by anyone in particular?  yes/no.  Who do you mean by ‘in particular’?  This looks suspiciously where anyone who does love my writing gets put in the category ‘no-one in particular’ and some imaginary unknown people get put in the category ‘in particular’.  Who is this person who sets the rules for ‘in particular’?  What are they up to? What are their credentials?  Is it the same people who put on lacklustre and dispiriting exhibitions of arch postmodern commentary pseudo-paintings and we’re-all-doomed ‘installations’ purporting to represent the interactions between human beings and the environment?   Until this ‘in particular’-setting critic makes themselves better known, no more airtime for the ‘in particular’ category.

Did anyone ever ask me to write them something (etc)? yes/no.  Well, actually yes, a whole academic book.  Or at least they accepted it.  But that is beside the point, because who cares if I was asked.  Now it strikes me that this ‘anyone’ has an implicit lurking ‘in particular’.  It occurs me that ‘anyone’ is not just anyone, but someone.  In fact, yes, my nephews and nieces ask me to tell them stories all the time, my clients ask me to write them a training.  I’m asked to write talks and references.  Not what you had in mind?  Who cares!  I write all the time and I will write more!

So yes, I write poems, maybe I am a poet.  If I would like to be, I am; if I’m not ready, I’m not.  I write books, I am an author (this one is a fact already).  I take photos, I am becoming a photographer.  Who knows who I am, who I might be, who I might be becoming.  I am a mystery and I will do whatever I like.

The year of the poem has taken new directions.
As well it might.