In 2005 I had a poetry blog. It’s strange for me to think that I wrote poetry, but I did, and I used to post the (mostly unpublished) poems on my blog. That’s another thing that’s strange to me now.
I recently rediscovered the blog thanks to files I’d saved years ago. Aside from the many, many poems I’d forgotten about, I found this old writer’s purpose statement of sorts:
I like oldness, I like brick buildings, creeping ivy. I like winter imagery and visceral imagery. I like to write about coldness and bones and bodies. I like dreaming of lakes and stones and tall trees. I like a little teeth in my poetry. I like it when poetry is a bit brambly around the edges.
Much of that’s still true, though now I write some of these things in fiction rather than poetry – except for bones. Apparently that was a phase. It’s interesting how many of these things are accepted in poetry, but not so much in fiction. I think it’d be considered confusing to walk up to someone and say, “Hi. I write fiction about coldness and bones and bodies.”
However, I still do like brambly-edged poetry. Fiction too, for that matter.