My daughter told me the story of an acquaintance of hers, who is a successful, popular young man. He’s in the same industry as her and she always felt a little intimidated by him, until one day during lockdown she noticed a post from him on social media. It said he had started regularly sending friends WhatsApp voice recordings of himself reading poems aloud, and asked would any of his online acquaintances like one too?
My daughter was tickled by this, as the ‘macho’ young man had not seemed to her the type to be reading poems aloud, much less in order to send them to his friends and colleagues. We laughed together, and she said that she admires this man even more now, as he clearly has the confidence to be who he is, even if that means admitting online that he reads poetry.
I like his idea of recording poems and sending them to other people. It’s a personal touch, and a way to stay connected to people you can’t see in person at the moment. It also means sharing poems, which can be a lovely thing. Poems can sometimes offer us reassurance, amusement or hope when things are a little tough.
I have a beautiful book given to me by a dear friend of mine called The Poetry Pharmacy. It’s by William Sieghart, and contains more than a hundred poems by different poets, listed by the affliction they may help, from ‘glumness’ to ‘fear of the unknown’. It was a touching gift from my friend, and while poems cannot actually solve any problems you may have, I find they often cheer me up when the issue is not too grave.
One of my favourites is ‘Sometimes’ by Sheenagh Pugh. She has said since the poem was published that she doesn’t like it all that much, but as Sheenagh Pugh herself admits, poetry is as much for the reader to interpret as for the poet to intend, and readers have every right to enjoy a hopeful interpretation of ‘Sometimes’.
She has stopped publishing the poem herself but given permission for it to be reproduced in blogs, so here it is:
‘Sometimes’ by Sheenagh Pugh
Sometimes things don’t go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don’t fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.
A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can’t leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.
Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.