‘My name is Kate. I’m from Devon, and for me poetry is about truth.’ I hadn’t meant to speak so loudly, but for some reason my voice has risen, and the word reverberates around the lecture theatre.
‘Truth,’ repeats McKinley. ‘Interesting … but what is truth?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ I hear Julia mutter.
Marie-Claire puts up her hand. ‘Well, for me being truthful in terms of my poetry means trying to express my thoughts and feelings no matter how difficult that might be.’
‘Excellent,’ says McKinley. ‘But I would ask you to consider that personal truth, whatever that may mean to you, is in fact a construct built on shifting sands. The feelings, thoughts, and emotions we feel when we are head over heels in love can be much the same as those we feel after being rejected: a speeding heart rate, a lack of appetite, all-consuming thoughts. Each is based on our own personal truth, but each is also different.’ She stops to take a sip of water. ‘And what about that old gem poetic licence? Literally the freedom to deviate deliberately from normally applicable rules or practices? One could argue that it implies that poetry is inherently untruthful.’ There are nods and whispers of agreement. ‘In fact, I would suggest,’ she says, holding her hand up to silence the group, ‘that each of us has our own personal definitions of truth. What one person feels is truthful, another may find not so – which takes me back to my original statement: what is truth?’ McKinley smiles triumphantly, and I feel the people around me being sucked into the lecturer’s discourse like guppies into a whirlpool. Something about her overly simplistic reasoning makes me cringe, but I don’t challenge her. I want to remain inconspicuous for as long as possible.
We finish up the introductions and have a break. How I am going to get through this week I do not know.
29
We spend the rest of that afternoon doing a series of exercises to ‘free the poet within’, whatever that means, with McKinley instructing us to run around the stage shouting our favourite words at each other, followed by ten minutes of lying on the floor with our eyes closed listening to the sounds around us and imaging innovative ways of describing them.
‘It’s nearly three o’clock,’ announces McKinley as she makes her way around our prostrate bodies. ‘In your own time I would like you to get up and find a quiet place to work on your own. I would like you to jot down some of the thoughts, feelings, and emotions you have experienced this afternoon. I do not want a poem. What I want is the unedited record of your experiences. You can mind-map, bullet-point, write in prose, make a list, draw pictures; it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it is pure, uncensored and comes from a place of truth.’ Through half closed eyes I watch as she checks the messages on her iPhone before continuing. ‘There are large sheets of paper, notebooks, and coloured pens on the tables in the foyer. Feel free to use your tablet or mobile phone if you wish; you can record or film your responses if that’s your preferred mode. It’s all up to you. All I ask is that they are not in poetic form. That comes later. When you feel satisfied with your work you are free to go and spend the rest of the afternoon as you please.’ She slips a small mirror out of her handbag and begins applying lipstick. ‘I believe a welcome barbecue has been arranged at the old boathouse at seven tonight. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to join you, but I will see you here tomorrow at nine a.m. prompt.’ She presses her lips together firmly, and then gently runs her fingertips across both eyebrows. ‘Have a good evening.’ With that, she walks up the steps and out of the theatre. Slowly people begin to yawn, stretch, sit up, and, without a word, follow her out. I sit on the floor, waiting for everyone to leave.
When at last the theatre is silent, I give a deep sigh of relief. Maybe it is the fatigue, or the residual effects of leaving Adam finally catching up with me, but I suddenly feel like crying. The thought of having to try and chronicle my thoughts and feelings over the last few hours seems both terrifying and absurd. What was I thinking? I don’t belong here any more than bloody Desra McKinley does. Reluctantly, I open my notebook. I have never thought of myself as the least bit creative. As a nurse, I spent years training to be practical, observant, efficient; I know how and when to put emotion aside to do my job. That, and the death of my son, means that I have actively refrained from ‘exploring my inner world’, as McKinley so insipidly suggested.
Still, I will have to try and write something, won’t I?
The room is very dark. I can barely see the page in front of me. There are sounds all around: a projector cooling, the ventilation turning on and off. They fill the space like a shadow.
I throw my pen down and watch as it clatters across the floor. There is no way this is going to work. Feeling frustrated, I head back to the hall of residence to make myself a cup of tea, doubtful that a hot drink will produce any inspiration.
The common room is empty; the group is clearly taking advantage of the late afternoon sun. I make myself a drink, shut the bedroom door tightly, and settle on my bed. I need to come up with something. I don’t want McKinley to become suspicious or recognise me as a fraud; not until I can find out what she knows.
