Becky’s perky twang cuts through the gloom.
‘If you’ll all just take a seat,’ she says, ‘Dr McKinley will be with you shortly.’
I make my way onto the stage and find an empty seat next to Sally.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.
‘A bit nervous. You?’
Sally nods. ‘Very dramatic,’ she says, indicating the seating arrangement.
The lights dim and the screen in front of us bursts into colour. Vibrant blue images of sky; clear water and a basket overflowing with ripe purple berries. It pales back to white before erupting into a sunrise of golden tones that flicker before shifting into innumerable variations of verdant green. The kaleidoscope of colours swirls into one before fading back to white.
‘What is poetry?’ A voice echoes from behind the screen. I watch as Desra McKinley emerges from the black and steps directly into the light. There is an audible intake of breath from the observers, and I note McKinley’s smile of satisfaction. ‘The need to define, quantify, classify what poetry is has challenged scholars throughout history.’ Though tiny – she can’t be over five feet two – McKinley’s deep voice seems to fill the auditorium. ‘James Fenton, in his introduction to English poetry, puts forth the idea that poetry is what happens when we RAISE OUR VOICES.’ To make her point she yells out the last three words. ‘Others suggest that poetry is what happens when we lower them.’ Again, to emphasise her statement she drops her tone to a whisper. ‘Ultimately, poetry isn’t about volume, neither sound level nor quantity; poetry is about ideas, feelings, emotions.’ Behind her, the screen displays images to highlight her statements. ‘Good poetry, however, is more than all of that,’ she pauses dramatically. ‘Good poetry is all about words, words, words. It is language that makes emotions, ideas and feelings come into being.’ Selections of McKinley’s own work appear on the screen behind her. ‘For example, in my poem, “Feed the Good Wolf”, based on a Cherokee tale about nurturing the positive side of our natures, I use wordplay to explore the nature of kindness. The Cherokee word for kindness is “nudanvtiyv”, and so I began this poem with the line “The naivety of kindness”, using wordplay both figuratively and literally to explore ideas through language.’
I discreetly glance at my fellow students. They appear to be spellbound. I, however, am less than impressed. As far as I can tell – though I’m no expert – Dr McKinley’s introductory lecture is simply a series of dodgy soundbites linked together with some self-aggrandising IT. I study the dark blot of a woman on the stage in front of me. O’Neill doesn’t look very different to the photo I carry in my shoulder bag. She’s wearing a chic denim shirt dress and white plimsolls. Her calves are lean and muscular, and her chestnut-coloured hair is parted down the middle, falling in a perfectly straight line to just above her shoulders. I catch the glint of diamond studs in her ears. She seems hugely confident, but even with all the designer wear and expensive jewellery there’s still the sense of a child fighting to look grown up.
‘In order to learn how to write poetry, you need to read poetry!’ I resist the urge to roll my eyes, particularly as the rest of the group clearly seem impressed by the diminutive poet. ‘We’ll talk more about structure and metre later,’ she continues, ‘but for now I’d like you to spend a few minutes with the person next to you discussing your own personal definition of poetry.’
‘Isn’t she wonderful!’ Sally whispers, before embarking on a five-minute monologue of what poetry means to her. I echo a few of Sally’s thoughts, but contribute few of my own. Not that Sally would have noticed. The truth is, because of the Brethren ban on reading anything but approved texts, I knew little about poetry until I started university. One of my fellow nursing students was a huge Ted Hughes fan – ‘he was so good looking!’ – and forced her Oxford Book of Twentieth Century Verse on me one weekend. I devoured the poems as if starving. All those words, all that feeling, denied to me for so long, filled me with a deep and furious longing. Discovering that Michael was writing poetry, doing something I never had a chance to, makes me feel both sad and thrilled at the same time.
‘Now,’ says McKinley, cutting through the chatter, ‘I’d like you each to introduce yourself to the group. Tell us where you’re from and, in one word, tell us what poetry means to you.’
Everyone looks around in terror at the thought of having to condense their views into a single word.
‘Shall we start at this end?’ She points to the good-looking fair-haired man who arrived late.
He clears his throat, and without looking up, says, ‘My name is Caleb Henson, I’m from York.’ He clears his throat again. ‘Well, was from York. To me, poetry means escape.’
There are supportive nods all around.
‘Thank you, Caleb.’ O’Neill points to Julia.
‘I’m Julia. I’m originally from the Isle of Wight, but now I live in St Andrews with my fiancée Marie-Claire.’ Julia reaches over and squeezes her partner’s hand. ‘I think poetry means …’ she pauses and nibbles on her lower lip. ‘Expression.’
‘Thank you, Julia. Next …’ McKinley gestures to my left.
‘I’m Sally and I’m from Newcastle and, for me, poetry means … well, the opportunity to explore my inner life.’ She gives a little giggle. ‘Oh, that’s more than one word isn’t it?’ McKinley’s smile hardens. ‘Let’s see … I guess my one word would be to explore. I mean just explore. Explore.’
As my turn approaches, I find myself becoming increasingly anxious.
‘Thank you,’ says O’Neill, and then turns to me, ‘I believe you’re next.’ I find myself staring into the face of the woman who I believe knows what happened the night my son died. It is the first
