This morning, I sat out in the sun and thought for a while. I was thinking about sacred space, music made outdoors and the instruments that make this music. I was thinking about how things must have changed once we started living inside, how epic poetry and stories, chanting and singing, music-making and dance seem so different when confined to a small space. The endless horizons of outdoors re-mould the landscape of the creative voice. I’m starting to learn that poetry is a container for our voice and it influences how that voice is withheld and expressed. There are so many subtle things to think about when you bring a poem into the world. Not just about yourself as a poet but more about this new entity being birthed as a thing in its own right; as some thing with its own voice, its own meter, its own rhyme and reason. Recently, I sent my brand-new pamphlet out into the world and I became very concerned about its welfare. This sounds like a cliché but it felt like a child who had decided to leave home. I left it sitting on a shelf for a year neglected because I couldn’t face the trauma of sending it out to be its own person, to deliver its own outward voice. I dithered about it, wasn’t sure whether ‘being a poet’ was really what I wanted to do, wrapped myself up in knots and all the time the manuscript was burning a hole in me. In the end, I asked it what it wanted and it told me under no uncertain terms that it wanted to leave. So leave it did.

But even now, I’m still not sure.