The Friday Poem would like to offer two versions of Jane Burn’s lyric essay A Poem Begins. In her original version Jane uses justified text and variable white spaces between letters and words. Partially-sighted readers and readers with dyslexia can find this problematic. We’ve written about accessibility here. We discussed this with Jane, who explained that her version was written specifically taking into account her own access needs. She says: “I have always had huge struggles with blocks of text. This has severely restricted my own ability to read / decipher text and on my ability to write, especially when it comes to essays. It was only when I began to learn to write in a style freed from large, solid blocks that I began to find expression. I must ‘break down’ what I am writing otherwise I utterly fail to express myself. I represent my roaming thought processes as they occur to me”.
We think it’s really interesting that the version Jane wrote to suit her own access needs is less accessible to some other readers, while the supposedly more accessible version is actually less accessible for Jane. We agreed with Jane to offer two versions of her essay. Version One, Jane’s original version, should suit readers who prefer not to read large blocks of text. Version Two should suit partially sighted readers or readers with dyslexia. Jane says, “I do understand the difficulty my original version might present to others. In changing my essay into a form that will hopefully help others while reading it, I felt as others might feel on reading my original – stressed, panicky, nauseous and shut out. Access needs differ between individuals and I hope, in offering two versions of the essay, we go some way to addressing these requirements and encourage further, valuable discussion of this subject.”
For Version One click here, and for Version Two click here. If you’re reading this on your mobile phone, for best results view it on landscape.
Lyric Essay – A Poem Begins, by Jane Burn
iA Poem Begins?
Poetry is a laser beam to the brain / a raw vein
leading straight to the heart. We find a poem
that affects us / that we love and we resonate
inside its vessel. A poet’s very blood is words.
How do we build these amazing things?
There are many ways in which you might begin to write – many ways in which you
might be ‘ambushed’ by the Muse. To discuss them all (as I would like to) would
mean an essay of great ( and possibly e n d l e s s ) length,
so I content myself (for the purpose of this piece) with documenting how a poem
of mine came about, via one of these muse facets –
Muse Apparently Callous.
ii
How do poems begin? They aren’t butterflies – don’t flit about the place
like beautiful moments, palps dripping nectar’s verse – don’t light upon you
just because they sense an upturned face. They creep up on you in the dark,
eerie, stealthy, intrusive, apocalyptic – when you’re late for the dentist,
in a meeting, on the loo. When your mind is an alleyway, they spill cold
breath down your neck. Give you shudders. Give you goosebumps. Come
at you violently alive. Give you thrills. Poetry is not convenient. Nor is it
polite. It doesn’t wait until you have finished whatever it is you must do.
(CAUTION: the following aspect of my relationship with Muse Apparently
Callous may shock, or cause offence)
If my head is an overturned stone, then poetry is the woodlice swarming on it.
It will disrupt sleep, meals, baths, conversations, a strict or sombre occasion
when it might seem wrong to wield a pen. I remember the poem that hassled
its way into my mind at a funeral. No, no! I whispered – which sounded
occasion-relevant, at least. I am not making light of what was a serious,
traumatic occasion. I am nowhere near as callous as poetry, though admitting
that it claimed the largest part of my head that day might make me seem
to be so. Words threw themselves at my brain like hail. I wanted to be left
alone – there was so much around me to process. I wanted the comfort
of a soft cloth stim, so I reached for my handkerchief. Of course there was
a pen. I am under the thumb of poetry. I carry one, no matter where I am.
Its nib glinted. The poem became a physical pain. I had no paper, except
the memorial booklet, its portions of unfilled space. It was Lockdown –
most of the mourners were outside. I was standing on the periphery, alone.
My head ached with the pressure of resisting. My fingers fought to answer /
deny poetry’s urge. I have, to my chagrin, ignored these poetical visitations
before. The Muse is abstruse, is a will-o’-the-wisp. Capture it or pay
the price later, in empty pages, hauntings and regret.
iii Allow me, perhaps, to justify.
Poetry is very much two sides of a coin for me. If I’m not producing work, stress
rapidly accumulates. I believe I have lost my means of expression. If I cannot
articulate / process what I am seeing / thinking / feeling then I quickly
become angry / confused / frustrated. Go catastrophic within an hour –
I’m losing my voice aren’t I I am going to forget
who I am people are going to forget who I am and
the urge to scream out loud is taking hold I cannot
be still my hands must be filled with actions I am
aware of the agony in my head I must I must
And if I am writing? Joy —— Fear / Ecstasy —— devastation. In the
space, the subtle hinterland between each opposite place, is poetry. During the
occupation of this space,
urgency.
Productivity.
Burnout.
Fatigue.
Obsessive hyper-production.
Self-expression.
Freedom.
Truth.
A way of being.
iv
Muse doesn’t offer many second chances – if I don’t grasp these flashes
there and then, I forget what they were trying to tell me, am left with only
the hazy trace of them in my mind, not the words or form. Nothing remains
but the overwhelming suspicion something crucial has been lost. One poem
will even gatecrash another, and say hey! This is MY party, or three come
at once, like insolent buses. A poem will hide from you when you most need it.
You’re not the boss of me. I’ll take my own sweet time, it fleers. Poetry is master
of the inopportune. Poetry, more often than not, is a bit of a shit.
v
Thwarted Belongingness was very much at the forefront of my mind at the time
of my friend’s death (you will find, should you need it, a brief explanation below).
The seemingly endless relearnings / researchings of self
I have endured over the last three years often expose something so raw I find it
hard to assimilate / concentrate on anything else.
Thwarted Belongingness was one such ‘discovery’ – its theory (as I saw it)
of ‘unbelonging’ and the distress / confusion / weariness connected
to this state began feeding into every aspect of life. I became ill, for a while,
recalling the many times I have endured suicidal thoughts and this was occupying
my mind at the same time that I heard the news of my friend’s death.
It certainly influenced my participation in my friend’s own ‘ceremony of
unbelonging’, which I catalogued, courtesy of Muse Apparently Callous,
step by step through each stage. The funeral came to me in a series of glimpsed
fragments and the poem’s form reflects this. In subverting the guilty / hasty snatches
I recorded during the funeral service, they appear, in the final product,
as moments of introspection / repentance.
The white space operates as moments of pause –
between ‘segments’ are representations of breath,
of the moment it took to focus,
become aware of the microcosmic vignettes
unfolding, before unfocusing again.
The ‘processional’ feel of the funeral, the stolen glances, fighting the urge
to stare, the portioned, scene-by-scene operations render the poem stilted
and strange, as was the day itself.
I wondered if my friend was there – are we just…gone, or are we ever really
dead? Are we shifted on to somewhere else? Was I wrong to write under such
circumstances? Weighing the appropriate is not my superpower. My friend was
very successful in business, with fingers in an extraordinary number of pies.
He was never one to let an opportunity pass him by.
I tell myself he would have wanted me to grasp the poem with both hands.
Perhaps none of this really matters and the poem was a way to help me try
to make sense of / try to connect with
a friend’s death. Was it wrong of me? I do not know.
Ultimately, I have a strong impression of having built my friend
a memorial of my own. After the poem was released from my head,
I found peace.
Does anything, in the end, belong to anyone?
Whatever the answer may be,
here is the poem.
Thwarted Belongingness
a car rolls past hushed and sleek & all stiff colloquies hush
at the sight of its elongated dark drizzle clings to its long roof
like a coat of pearls that only moments ago belonged to the sky
a spray of orchids almost as l o n g as the casket’s lid
& our tall friend somehow folded up inside none of them
belong anymore to blood or soil the blooms sham life
when they are brought into the bitter day how small death
has made him what happened to the size of his laugh
we all stand in our own wheels of space & all I want
is to ruin the immaculate glass with the glyph of my damp palm
& blur my view of the box that once belonged to living oak
all I want is to tell him time to get up & see him duck the lintel
of our door again I see his weeded wife & I am amazed at how
she stands her black chiffon flies like a tail no longer
attached to the bird everyone remembers how he loved to sail
an umbrella domes the name of some brewery in The Lakes so many
signs of water puddles the shape of Buttermere Red Tarn
leaves falling like soft prophets mark the silver
with mild green boats each no longer part of the whole crown
a voice turned metal by tannoy says join in the chorus
the words are in the memorial book & he is smiling on the cover
I lay my finger over his jaw without his grin his face is only
a plain shell We’ll meet again there are cracks in the way
we all sound & the salt woe on a mourner’s cheek is no longer
a part of their eye a pigeon grey and lone settles
the chapel’s ridge its wings no longer part of flight I look past
where a stone crop grows above where human seeds are sown
as I sang my mouth filled with rain & the wind took
each word as it leapt from the edge of my lip & the sigh
that I made was no longer part of my breath
iA Poem Begins?
Poetry is a laser beam to the brain / a raw vein leading straight to the heart.
We find a poem that affects us that we love and we resonate inside its vessel.
A poet’s very blood is words. How do we build these amazing things?
There are many ways in which you might begin to write – many ways in which you
might be ‘ambushed’ by the Muse. To discuss them all (as I would like to) would
mean an essay of great (and possibly endless) length, so I content myself (for the
purpose of this piece) with documenting how a poem of mine came about, via one of
these muse facets – Muse Apparently Callous.
ii
How do poems begin? They aren’t butterflies – don’t flit about the place like beautiful
moments, palps dripping nectar’s verse – don’t light upon you just because they sense
an upturned face. They creep up on you in the dark, eerie, stealthy, intrusive,
apocalyptic – when you’re late for the dentist, in a meeting, on the loo. When your
mind is an alleyway, they spill cold breath down your neck. Give you shudders. Give
you goosebumps. Come at you violently alive. Give you thrills. Poetry is not
convenient. Nor is it polite. It doesn’t wait until you have finished whatever it is you
must do.
(CAUTION: the following aspect of my relationship with Muse Apparently Callous
may shock, or cause offence)
If my head is an overturned stone, then poetry is the woodlice swarming on it. It will
disrupt sleep, meals, baths, conversations, a strict or sombre occasion when it might
seem wrong to wield a pen. I remember the poem that hassled its way into my mind at
a funeral. No, no! I whispered – which sounded occasion-relevant, at least. I am not
making light of what was a serious, traumatic occasion. I am nowhere near as callous
as poetry, though admitting that it claimed the largest part of my head that day might
make me seem to be so. Words threw themselves at my brain like hail. I wanted to be
left alone – there was so much around me to process. I wanted the comfort of a soft
cloth stim, so I reached for my handkerchief.
Of course there was a pen. I am under the thumb of poetry. I carry one, no matter
where I am. Its nib glinted. The poem became a physical pain. I had no paper, except
the memorial booklet, its portions of unfilled space. It was Lockdown – most of the
mourners were outside. I was standing on the periphery, alone. My head ached with
the pressure of resisting. My fingers fought to answer / deny poetry’s urge. I have, to
my chagrin, ignored these poetical visitations before. The Muse is abstruse, is a will-
o’-the-wisp. Capture it or pay the price later, in empty pages, hauntings and regret.
iii Allow me, perhaps, to justify.
Poetry is very much two sides of a coin for me. If I’m not producing work, stress
rapidly accumulates. I believe I have lost my means of expression. If I cannot
articulate / process what I am seeing / thinking / feeling then I quickly become angry /
confused / frustrated. Go catastrophic within an hour –
I’m losing my voice, aren’t I? I am going to forget who I am – people are going to
forget who I am and the urge to scream out loud is taking hold. I cannot be still.
My hands must be filled with actions. I am aware of the agony in my head. I must…
I must…
And if I am writing? Joy – Fear / Ecstasy – Devastation. In the space, the subtle
hinterland between each opposite place, is poetry. During the occupation of this space
urgency. Productivity. Burnout. Fatigue. Obsessive hyper-production. Self-expression.
Freedom. Truth. A way of being.
iv
Muse doesn’t offer many second chances – if I don’t grasp these flashes there and
then, I forget what they were trying to tell me, am left with only the hazy trace of
them in my mind, not the words or form. Nothing remains but the overwhelming
suspicion something crucial has been lost. One poem will even gatecrash another,
and say hey! This is MY party, orthree come at once, like insolent buses. A poem will
hide from you when you most need it. You’re not the boss of me. I’ll take my own
sweet time, it fleers. Poetry is master of the inopportune. Poetry, more often than not,
is a bit of a shit.
v
Thwarted Belongingness was very much at the forefront of my mind at the time
of my friend’s death (you will find, should you need it, a brief explanation below).
The seemingly endless relearnings / researchings of self I have endured over the last
three years often expose something so raw I find it hard to assimilate / concentrate
on anything else. Thwarted Belongingness was one such ‘discovery’ – its theory
(as I saw it) of ‘unbelonging’ and the distress / confusion / weariness connected
to this state began feeding into every aspect of life. I became ill, for a while,
recalling the many times I have endured suicidal thoughts and this was occupying
my mind at the same time that I heard the news of my friend’s death.
It certainly influenced my participation in my friend’s own ‘ceremony of
unbelonging’, which I catalogued, courtesy of Muse Apparently Callous,
step by step through each stage. The funeral came to me in a series of glimpsed
fragments and the poem’s form reflects this. In subverting the guilty / hasty snatches
I recorded during the funeral service, they appear, in the final product, as moments
of introspection/repentance.
The white space operates as moments of pause – between ‘segments’ are
representations of breath, of the moment it took to focus, become aware of the
microcosmic vignettes unfolding, before unfocusing again.
The ‘processional’ feel of the funeral, the stolen glances, fighting the urge
to stare, the portioned, scene-by-scene operations render the poem stilted
and strange, as was the day itself.
I wondered if my friend was there – are we just…gone, or are we ever really
dead? Are we shifted on to somewhere else? Was I wrong to write under such
circumstances? Weighing the appropriate is not my superpower. My friend was
very successful in business, with fingers in an extraordinary number of pies.
He was never one to let an opportunity pass him by.
I tell myself he would have wanted me to grasp the poem with both hands.
Perhaps none of this really matters and the poem was a way to help me try
to make sense of/try to connect with a friend’s death. Was it wrong of me?
I do not know. Ultimately, I have a strong impression of having built my friend
a memorial of my own. After the poem was released from my head, I found peace.
Does anything, in the end, belong to anyone? Whatever the answer may be,
here is the poem.
Thwarted Belongingness
a car rolls past / hushed and sleek / & all stiff colloquies hush
at the sight / of its elongated dark / drizzle clings to its long roof
like a coat of pearls that / only moments ago / belonged to the sky
a spray of orchids / almost as / l o n g / as the casket’s lid
& our tall friend somehow / folded up inside / none of them
belong anymore / to blood or soil / the blooms sham life
when they / are brought into the bitter day / how small death
has made him / what happened / to the size of his laugh
we all stand in our own / wheels of space / & all I want
is to ruin the immaculate glass / with the glyph of my damp palm
& / blur my view of the box / that once / belonged to living oak
all I want is to tell him / time to get up / & see him duck the lintel
of our door / again / I see his weeded wife / & I am amazed at how
she stands / her black chiffon / flies like a tail no longer
attached to the bird / everyone remembers how / he loved to sail
an umbrella domes the name / of some brewery in The Lakes / so many
signs of water / puddles the shape of / Buttermere / Red Tarn
leaves / falling / like soft prophets / mark the silver
with / mild green boats / each no longer part / of the whole crown
a voice turned metal by tannoy says / join in the chorus
the words are in the memorial book / & he is smiling on the cover
I lay my finger over his jaw / without his grin / his face / is only
a plain shell / We’ll meet again / there are / cracks / in the way
we all sound / & the salt woe on a mourner’s cheek / is no longer
a part / of their eye / a pigeon / grey and lone / settles
the chapel’s ridge / its wings no longer part of flight / I look past
where a stone crop grows / above where / human seeds are sown
as I sang / my mouth filled with rain & / the wind took
each word as it leapt from the edge of my lip / & / the sigh
that I made / was no longer part of my breath
Thwarted Belongingness is used as part of a suicidality assessment tool for autistic people. Thwarted Belongingness is a mental state that worsens when the need for connectedness and belonging is not met. Studies have shown that autistic people are at more risk of suicidal thoughts compared to not autistic people.[1]Cassidy, S.A., Bradley, L., Cogger-Ward, H. et al. Development and validation of the suicidal behaviours questionnaire – autism spectrum conditions in a community sample of autistic, possibly … Continue reading
