Welcome to A Wild Green Heart. I'm pleased to welcome you, whether you're a regular here or if it's your first time. I hope you find some nourishing morsels amongst today's offering, which is going to focus on creative practice, and specifically how I've long opted to do that in the context of communities and collaborations.
Over the last eighteen months or so, I've mentioned the poetry and self-publishing collective I'm a member of, Too Few The Poets, numerous times, usually in connection to one of the ten poetry and story zines I've self-published as a member of it in that time. I may have even mentioned one or two of the larger events that have been held as part of Too Few The Poets (TFTP) at Wycombe Arts Centre.
However, today I'm going to spend time elaborating a little more about the history, purpose, and activities of TFTP, and why these friendships and ventures are such an important part of my life and practice. I'm motivated to do so by our recent TFTP AGM (more on that later) at which our editor-in-chief and general whipcracker, Allistur, asked me to write an article about my creative processes for the next TFTP Post, our quarterly collective publication. This request sparked a wild flurry of thoughts, as I pondered how on earth I might condense eighteen years of deliberate, relatively-unbroken creative practice into a couple of pages of A5.
I've also been moved by the fact that I've recently had a couple of really lovely in-person conversations with folk, in which I found myself talking enthusiastically about our little collective and some of my solo creative practices. So, first today, a brief history of my own journey with creative practice, particularly with writing, and why taking part in collectives like TFTP has always played such a vital part in my practice and development.
The Genesis of Writing as an Adult
I can still vividly remember the scene in which my best friend, and thenceforth creative collaborator, Rory and I, had the conversation which was to re-rail my life onto the path of a regular writing practice. Our families were on holiday together in Cornwall - specifically in the kitchen of this beloved cottage in St. Ives:
We were most likely doing the washing up, followed by drinking some Cornish ale. Rory outlined how reviving his long-ceased practice of painting had seen him overcome a long period of crippling depression. (I'll add here, importantly, that is was an insightful woman who prompted this entire course of action by asking him the question, “what do you do for fun?” He subsequently realised the answer to her question was essentially “nothing” and that he ought to do something about that.)
Prior to the holiday I had been, for reasons long forgotten, considering the activities I had most loved to do as a child, but had subsequently neglected. There were many, but I had been rapidly coming to the conclusion that writing - particularly poems and stories - was the one activity whose dereliction was costing me most in adult life. The confluence of this enquiry with our holiday kitchen conversation prompted me to make a commitment: to put aside time once a week purely for the act of writing. And in that moment, arguably the most significant call on my life was born - or, more accurately, reborn.
This was the very same week of holiday that I had found a copy of what has become one of my all-time favourite books, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard, in the now sadly long-gone branch of Oxfam Books in St. Ives. I spent many hours, sat in my preferred window seat in the cottage, reading this book and marvelling. It was, and remains, one of those books that compels me to write and to do so better; as well as being one of those books that makes me want to give up all hope of ever writing anything worthwhile. Those are the best kind, in my experience, as the desire to improve one's craft always sticks around far longer than the rather childish wish to quit when faced with a work of such inspired brilliance.
The Window Seat
Later that same summer, I attended Greenbelt Festival for the only time in my life. The highlight, for me, was a seminar I attended in which Simon Morden spoke about The Inklings. This was the group that J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and others formed in Oxford, to read their work to one another, and to offer supportive, critical feedback. Two things from his lecture have stuck with me for the last eighteen years. Firstly, Tolkien’s original manuscript for The Lord of the Rings was a stack of pages that stood five feet high, and without the support and suggestions from The Inklings it would likely never have found a publishable form. I think that fact is worth dwelling on for anyone who thinks LOTR is too long!
Secondly, and far more importantly, was a phrase something like “They each wrote more and better quality work as a result of their activities in the group.” Morden was keen to dispel the tired myth of the life of a writer being a solitary one, shut away in a garret, producing works by some individual act of genius. I've never really bought into that increasingly pervasive story of the lone hero; but this framing enabled me to see, right at the start of my commitment to writing, that I would need to find or make communities of other writers if I truly wanted to hone my craft. I did just that, in various guises over the years, and have never regretted a single moment spent in such circles.
Creature
Creature logo by Micah Purnell & Rory Clark
This brings us to Creature, the creative collective formed by Rory, myself and a few others, probably around 2010. In more recent history (c. 2018-2020) Creature also self-published zines, in an effort to bring all kinds of artists into a hard-copy publication together, with a particular emphasis on encouraging people who had never seen their work in print to have the chance to do so, alongside others who were far more used to such things. We even self-published a couple of books.
“Creature” zines 1-5
But an earlier Creature activity, focused on the homes of people in Wycombe and the surrounding area (I have long been used to being a northern outpost for such things, having lived in Manchester for thirty-three years!) were Guerilla Galleries. These one-night-only events involved taking everything off the downstairs walls of someone's home, and putting up in their place all kinds of visual art, created by Creature members and their friends.
The host and participants would invite some of their friends to attend, then we'd all dress up smart and stand around chatting about each other's work. It was a simple concept, well-executed, and which seemed to encourage a strong creative energy. The primarily visual aspect encouraged me into some early collaborations with other, more visually gifted friends, as well as into finding ways to blend my writing with other aspects of my practice, such as photography.
Creative Community as Central
Over the eighteen years since my recommitment, writing and creativity have consistently remained a strong focus in my personal life and in the work I've done, in various sectors and contexts. I've helped to found other arts collectives and charities, largely based on the firm belief that all people, whatever their circumstances or abilities, deserve and will be enriched by arts and culture. By this I mean both by way of access to experiencing visual and performing arts in all their forms; and by way of personal creative expression, however that manifests. This belief is fortified by my experience of knowing, all the way to my bones, that this will always be more generative, more fun, and easier to maintain if done in some kind of community.
I don't want to expound too much more on this today; there's too much of it to talk about meaningfully in a single essay. And, while my personal practice in recent years has most often taken place without other humans present for much of the process, those of you who know me, or who visit here regularly, will know that my current practice is primarily one of collaborating with place and with more-than-human creatures. So I'm never, ever working alone. And when poems and stories are finished, or nearing completion, I always share them with humans too - on here, in zines, and in person, either on land or at events.
The poetry zines, for me, operate a little like Creature and TFTP: they're primarily relational. A physical way of me staying in contact with friends I've made in all kinds of contexts, whether in online workshops, arts groups, larger gatherings, or whatever. I like to think that everyone enjoys receiving “real post”, so it's a genuine joy to send out gifted zines, knowing it might brighten someone's day to realise that a friend is thinking of them and wants to share their work. I guess some people might be put out at me foisting my poetry on them regularly; if so, they have remained silent. But I can attest that those I do hear back from generally want to say how a certain poem landed with them, or simply how happy they are to have received the zine.
The zines in question
On another creative front, my dear friend Brendan and I have recently started a monthly, local in-person gathering for just that purpose. Called Sharing is Caring, it is entirely about bringing people together to share words that hold meaning for them - poetry, literature, folk tales etc - whether their own work or something they've read. We then take it in turns to feed each offering with our own experience of those words - in our bodies, our emotions, our thoughts, or our memories. We've only met twice so far, and with just four or five guests each time, but we're sensing an increasing hunger for such circles, and delight from those who've found one with us.
All this to bring us to the writing collective I mentioned at the start, Too Few The Poets. Let's start with why we're called that!
The Story of the Name
I wasn't present when one of my can-wielding friends first wrote the words Too Few The Poets on a wall in spray paint. But like the paint, the name stuck around. Specifically in the locality of High Wycombe, home to the other three of the TFTP founder crew. I like to think of myself as the northern branch, holding the fort 180 miles north in Manchester.
I'm also the only founder member not skilled in the ways of the spray can. However, we do have something far more mundane in common. We're all cis-het white men. I know, where the hell do we get off?! Thankfully we have a female national treasure to thank for helping us to justify our continued activities in the field of poetry: none other than the West Country poet, comedian, and presenter, Pam Ayres. It was another of the TFTP founders who found the following quote, which suggests that poetry is one space where it might just be a good thing to have an excess of white men. Pam wrote:
When you're writing your poem, there's one less scoundrel in the world. And I'd like a world, wouldn't you, in which people actually took the time to think about what they were saying? It would be, I'm certain, a more peaceful, more reasonable place. I don't think there could ever be too many poets. 1
We even have an agony aunt column in one of our periodical releases, TFTP Post, where “Pam” doles out advice. It also declares, erroneously, that she's deceased, but y'know, we like a little bit of unhinged in some of our work! The column itself answers questions that are an unholy mix of silly sex-related enquires, and queries about poetic form. Pam answers both sagely and with a wry smile.
What's TFTP For?
When those of us who are part of this collective talk about TFTP, we are very open about the fact that it's primary objective is relational. It's about making connections and friendships in the context of poetry and writing. You don't need to be writing anything to be involved; you might just like hanging out with other people and listening to them read their own work. You might simply enjoy the vibe in the room while everyone else does that, and that's absolutely welcome too.
But there does seem to be something contagious about self-expression. It's amazing to see how many of those who've been along to the larger events, or to the smaller, more regular ones that Rory hosts in their home, start to write, and then to share their own writing. It's always a joy to be around on such occasions, and to witness the encouraging responses this elicits from others. Expressive words have always been intended to be shared, and there's something of a virtuous circle created when people gather for the purpose of doing so. The friendships are deepened by the sharing, and the sharing prompts more expressive words, which, when shared, further enhance the friendships. This is what it's all about, and this is why I love TFTP!
Aren't AGMs Supposed to be Boring?
I was recently in the Wycombe area, visiting my mum on her birthday. After a couple of days with her, I also spent a night with Rory and his family, where we also had the pleasure of gathering all four founder members of TFTP for a lovely evening in the garden. We made the most of the opportunity by having an impromptu AGM, which turned out to be far better than any AGM I've previously attended. They are notoriously dry affairs in my experience, marked by a sense of formal duty, and of having to expound all the best things that have happened over the previous twelve months, and perhaps to let people know the plans for the year ahead.
Creature of the Woods near my mum's flat
This AGM, however, was simply great fun, and we also got a remarkable amount of business done! Not being a charity, or having a constitution, or needing to keep spreadsheets of expenditures likely helped on that front. Even being reminded by Allistur that we're mostly totally crap at sending information requested months ago - necessary to start populating our website with some actual content - was quite joyful, and I've at least now written these things down on a piece of paper, which generally means they'll get done within a few weeks rather than a few years…
We interspersed the evening with general conversation and several impromptu poetry readings, all washed down with some drinks. But for me, the highlight was being joined by a young adult, someone who will for now remain nameless, but who's been adjacent to much of the TFTP activities without being actively involved. This individual proceeded to share a few of their own poems that evening, each one a transcendent blaze of wordcraft, each one delivered with casual brilliance. None of us had heard them read poetry before, or even knew they were writing it!
The pleasure of witnessing someone's first poetry reading is always a profound one. It's something that we've been blessed to hear several times through TFTP, as I mentioned earlier. But on this occasion, the exquisite element, for me, was hearing that this person had written a poem specifically in response to a story they heard me tell at a TFTP event last year. A story that, at the time, frankly I thought had fallen completely flat. Their poetic response not only corrected that mistaken impression; it spoke to my core, and offered me the clarifying, spine-tingling knowledge that I had been well and truly Seen. Oof!
And though it was, for me, already a late night, and I had a long journey home the next day, I found that when I tried to sleep my mind was fizzing with thoughts. I tried reading a short story, but that was so good it just added to the effervescence! So, in the end, I sat up and wrote a poem about my evening (even including a couple of stray thoughts from the story I'd just read). It helped to process everything, and I was pleased to get it out of my system and then get off to sleep.
I'll share that poem to finish today's post. I don't know of anyone else who's written poetry about an AGM, but I suspect it isn't a common occurrence!
Too Few The Moments
In the synergy of
full moon,
empty bottles,
spreading minds;
unspoken oaths
are now fulfilled:
to give the muse
a freer reign,
to let the coming
generation
teach us old dogs
some new magic.
We plumb greater depths
of meaning;
reach greater heights
of poetic passion;
the inner light
of unknown fires
suddenly illumined,
given a voice,
of dragons and boys,
birds ringed with ticks,
and naked men
thrown down wells.
Passages opened
and spells awakened,
incantations voiced
to moon, to bats.
Dreamy reminisces
of unreal places,
recently trodden;
brought home in trinkets
and sealed in tins.
Everything that has been
tucked away
in secret crevices
suddenly emerging
in moments like these.
Imagined and reimagined
into exquisite being:
to shine and glimmer,
to last forever
in deepest depths
of human souls;
to sing at will
from tongues alive
with timeless words;
though only uttered
when everything opens
- fully -
to the truth
of an infinite moment.
To dwell here is
our shared longing;
to visit is
enough. I'll leave you with that for today. I would be delighted if you want to leave a comment about any aspect of this post, or anything that occured to you as you read it. And if anyone can identify the short story I read from a mere two lines in the poem, I'll be impressed enough to send you a zine of your choice! Wild Green Blessings, one and all…
I have to admit that, having searched for that quote online, I've now found that it's attributed to the American Pulitzer-winning poet, Ted Kooser, so they're probably his words really. Maybe Pam was quoting them. Maybe someone was drunk. But so woven into the mythos of TFTP is Pam, that I shall forever attribute the words to her, and be happy in my wrongness.
