! An Unofficial Report On Poemhunter

‘So tell me, Michael…’ the voice is slow and measured, that of one used to public speaking, his words so significant that the audience must hear every one… James, the high-flying lecturer on the humanities and beyond, writes books, poems, travels, mixes with the great and good… ‘So tell me, Michael, is there any great poetry being written on your website? …’ James looks me in the eye, as one who’s used to hearing, impartially, all the evidence, then making up his finely balanced mind… Inside myself, I inspect this utterance for undertones… a hint of patronising sneer? … Well, thanks for asking, James, I say (no harm in a touch of gentle irony…) , you have to understand - this is the muddy, churned grass roots of poetry – you might not even recognise it as such – it’s the First Aid box, the ‘where does it hurt? ’, the surgery, the remedial therapy, the further diagnosis required, of poetry and the human heart; it’s where the kid who’s made his or her first poem, brings it like a child’s first drawing home to be admired… where the first unforgettable time the world or God has let you down; the first time you’ve been dumped on; the first time that a friend’s betrayed you, or shifted their allegiance – these yelps need to be both distanced and recorded in some words of black and white; wounds to have their scabs constantly picked at; or statements to be transcended, even, later, laughed over; where teenagers declare their total loneliness, threaten that uncaring world with suicide; or dare to hint at family abuse; or simply sketch their life as drama, themselves at centre-stage, the first daring thrill of self-invention… first explorations, line by non-sequential line, of rock star lyrics and the rapping boast… or, exhilarated, throw words together in poems that - well - only look like poems… build defensive-aggressive barriers to claim a feistiness; and over which to shoot at imagined enemies.. and at some point, settle in belief – or not – that rhyme and structure are the thing that gives poetic status to a verse.. and later, when they’re no longer centre-stage (though some may never – or do we ever – quite get past that point.. or merely, just learn to hide it more…?) write poetry.. and that thrill when you’ve put two words together for the first time in your life, to make a new thing… as if two words have married and brought forth a child… and then you’re hooked on poetry… this is the hospital for the human soul; this is open-heart surgery before the term was used; this is where we show a lifetime’s films from our internal camera; learn to no longer pick our scars in the vain hope that new scar tissue will perform miracles… this is where we meet the world as if for the first time; where we discover wonder; discover words that previously were imprisoned, even dead, in books of scripture – forgiveness and compassion, mercy, justice, grace…begin to live as human beings should live, in the fullness of ourselves.. and, as the mind reveals itself as servant, brings unsuspected skills, until one day we say with tentative pride, to our best friend, I don’t just write poetry, I feel that I’m a poet.. and laugh a little at our daring to declare ourselves as shoulder to shoulder with the great… So, James, I say straight-faced (it’s up to him to see the irony in this…) I doubt there’s much to detain you in this Poemhunter… but you might glance at it, sometime…