I don't think I could have done 30. Well, maybe I could. But I did do 20, having come back from holiday and remembered Na/IntPoWriMo ten days into April. Phew, that was interesting and rewarding, if more so for me, I'm afraid, than for this blog's few and now probably fewer readers. Twenty's probably as many poems as I'd written in my life before, so it's not too surprising that most of them didn't do it. And I knew, really, that I mostly don't have the wild and playful imagination or the musicality that make a poet, being someone who tends to think and write in long, rolling, discursive periods.
A lot goes on in my head, lots of push and pull, tunnelling and soaring, but it's all pretty literal and straightforward - not poetic. Not poetic, at least, by the most specific definition. There are other definitions. In a way, I think, all writers who write with the whole of themselves are poets, must bring to their writing a quality of attention and of opening that we most associate with poetry. That's why I'm so glad to have done this.
I found it demanding, absorbing and really quite wonderful to try and write a small poem every day. While I laughed at myself for feeling every time that I'd got something and then realising, once it was done, that I hadn't, it wasn't a laughable enterprise in the current and dismissive sense of that description. The endeavour to write poetry, however successful or unsuccessful, if you give it your all still takes you to that place, deep and far into the heart of words and feelings, as far as possible from the fast and skimming tempo of life in 2010. It's difficult and precious and can probably make me a better writer. So I shall try to keep on doing it, but rarely, I suspect, in public.