'When power leads a man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.'

JF Kennedy at the dedication of the Robert Frost library at Amherst

Now there's a politician who knows the worth of poetry, though I realise the words were probably written for him. However, makes me wonder how many anthologies and collections our present disreputable crew are in need of. Perhaps just a few lines from the redoubtable Edith Sitwell would do as an anthem for our times (though it was published in 1945!):

How we should pity the High Priests of the god of this world, the saints of Mammon,
The cult of gold! For see how these, too, ache with the cold
From the polar wastes of the heart. ...See all they have given
Their god! Are not their veins grown ivy-old,
And have they not eaten their own hearts and lives in their famine?
Extract 'A Song of the Cold'

I'm having trouble deciding what to write this week, so I have turned back to a 'collection' of my poetry that I made in 2006. This is not the best poem I have ever written (I hope I have not written that yet) but it immediately takes me back to a moment in my life, to the unexpected girlish excitement which followed an escape from a disappointing sojourn which should not have been so. I hope it will take its readers somewhere too.

Drive Interrupted

What if we had stopped?
Tread those slumbering slopes,
reached the sugar encrusted cone,
come closer on the rim,
stared into the untamed core -
sodden now, cold, ashless.
Unable to take another step
without slipping.
Sure only of the hand we held.

We would not have stopped,
eaten cake on the Via Barberini,
kissed on the Spanish Steps,
laughed at the silly witches flying
in the carnival lights
or seen the ruins rise unexpectedly
under the smudge
of a Roman moon.

There does seem to be something of a myth of the solitary writer in the isolated garret - I guess initially perpetuated by the romantics in the 19th century - which has become generally accepted. And yet, writing is such a relational act; we are relating with ourselves, with the words (evoking images and memories) and eventually with a seen or unseen audience.

Before the written words, stories were told round a fire. The teller would be listened to, no doubt, but the audience would also play a role. Perhaps prompting certain twists in the tale or reminding the others of bits which had been forgotten and omitted. Yet in our literary-based world this interaction has been squeezed out.

No writer can write without peers to help them with feedback. I was reminded of this on Saturday when I spent time with a writerly friend and came away inspired and motivated by the responses she had given to my work. Feedback has come attached to the word 'critical' and so it has become associated with something which is necessarily negative or aimed at ripping apart the text (and, therefore, the self which has created it). None of this should be true. Good critical feedback assists the writer and their work to develop and flourish. Good writing cannot come to fruition without it. It is, therefore, essential that we choose our critical writerly friends with care.

I am very pleased to announce that the article I was writing with my colleague, Dr Lesley Glover, has been published:

http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/08893675.2012.680724

It chronicles our small project of running some creative writing sessions for women suffering from chronic pelvic pain.

'I think,' I say slowly, 'You've got too many metaphors here.' It's something I hear myself commenting relatively frequently to the writers who proffer up their poetry, short stories, even novels, for my comment (or feel compelled to do so because of my status as tutor). I love metaphor. I love how they startle, how they appear unbidden, how they say more than the sayer could ever think to say. But, I've always held, the secret is to peel through to the core of a metaphor, not trip lightly through a whole allotment of them.

And for me that was the one down side to Your Last Breath by curious directive at the SJT (26th April). It was a wonderfully slick and compelling performance piece using drama, music, dance and video projection which intertwined four narratives from four different time zones. Ambitious to say the least which almost came off. I say almost, because I have to query, wasn't there too many metaphors?

Breath and breathing; bodies and their constituents; frozen (landscapes, bodies and emotions); maps and cartography. All fabulous metaphors which I adore exploring. It's just that, wasn't there three too many for the seventy minutes? Or perhaps I am going to be called old-fashioned, like those who still claim you can't start a sentence with and.

My good writing friend, Sue Spencer (see The Quirk on the Hill in my web/blog links list) introduced us all to Fiona Robyn's idea of 'small stones' at our Lapidus retreat on Saturday (http://www.lapidus.org.uk/). The idea is to capture a moment of moment in a short poetic phrase.

Sue suggested an intriguing exercise to get us to this point which also entrained us into really listening to another person and into attempting to do justice to their voice. Individually we chose something in the environment which had snagged our attention. Then in pairs we told each other about it. By turns, the listener took notes and then crafted a 'small stone' in negotiation with the story teller.

Coincidentally, me and my partner, Hilary, had both chosen blue flowers. I rather like her - or is it my - 'small stone'.

The fragility of forget-me-nots.
Summer sky blue,
little suns at the centre,
in amongst the green.

After something like 130 years, the Scarborough Evening News is ceasing to be six days a week. Unfortunately, the paper has decided not to cover in much detail its own demise, stating merely (in something akin to Orwell 1984 speak) that it is being 're-launched' as a weekly and going to a 'platform neutral' newsroom, whatever that means. I am sad that one of the few local dailies is being so diminished and also that staff will undoubtedly lose jobs and their sense of worth.

I started out when I left school thinking I would be a local newspaper journalist. Of course, I had grander plans for my writing, but I completed the National Council for Training Journalists pre-entry course (failed, to my enduring shame, my short-hand) and did a placement with the Western Morning News in Plymouth. Even then, things were changing. While I was there the printers went on strike protesting against the move to digital printing which would mean the loss of their jobs and the end of an era which required skilled printers. I remember walking through the print room with its huge and dormant presses, it felt like an abandoned cathedral to me.

Of course, 'progress' was unstoppable, the printing operation at the Western Morning News closed down (as it did at many other local newspapers) and the paper was produced at some anonymous digital printing firm on some industrial estate in the Midlands. The journalists and the sub-editors took over the page setting tasks once done by the print workers. The print workers were squeezed out. I returned to a newsroom a few years later and saw this burly chap unhappily hunched over a computer screen. I didn't have to be told that he was a re-deployed print worker, the ink was still ingrained under his fingernails.

Perhaps I shouldn't get too nostalgic. The print room (at least at the Western Morning News) was a woman free zone, and walking through it when it was in operation I was faced with much, as young raw feminist, which I found unacceptably sexist. For writers, digital printing has opened up the route to an audience in the way motorways opened up the country to city-dwellers suffocating in grime and pollution. Still I love old presses. I love the smell of ink. And I love the craft that can go into creating posters and books the old fashioned way.