It’s now National Poetry Day, and I’m feeling a bit scattered from last night. The Forward Prize went to Mick Imlah and one thing led to another, and it wasn’t exactly the quiet evening I’d planned. I might need a Fernet and Coke. How long before I’m required to read a poem through this operational fug? I’m on my way over to Television Centre, then Broadcasting House, then on a train up to Liverpool (I’m tired just typing all this), where I’m reading tonight with the celebrated New York poet Martín Espada. It was a great pleasure to introduce Martín to his first UK audience a couple of years ago at Poetry International on the Southbank, and I’m looking forward to this gig, which is also the first in a new ongoing literary programme at Liverpool’s revamped Bluecoat, a place I know well from my so-called youth. The world’s financial markets are falling apart, but there’s no stopping Planet Poetry.

 

Somebody asked me ‘what makes a successful work poem?’ You may as well ask ‘what makes a poem work?’ or ‘what makes a successful poem?’ The sub-sub-genre known as the ‘work poem’ is new to me, and I can see now how I’ve tried to approach this residency by looking at places of work, and the people who are linked to them. Without wanting to sound prescriptive, the only general rule of thumb to apply is one of surprise and discovery in the act of writing: if there is any (of either), then you’re likely to be in the right shop. Ploughing on earnestly with something you want to say, however, is likely to end badly. In a way, the poem has to generate itself. The question is also lopsided in that a half-decent poem will usually be ‘about’ several things, all coiled around one another. And it’s worth bearing in mind that writing poetry has an element of play, albeit serious play, which is the very antithesis of labour.

 

Ruskin thought that, for people to be happy in their work, they need three things: they must be fit for it; they must not do too much of it; they must have a sense of success in it. I’ll drink to that.