The Poems Came Home

In my forties I entertained a dream of living a bohemian lifestyle in a small village in provincial Italy, where everyone knows everyone, and I spend my days crocheting and writing. Having levelled-up into my fifties, I am realising the impracticalities of living in a remote village when one has a (seemingly infinite) number of chronic health conditions needing management. I have therefore resorted to creating my own enchanted cottage garden – growing wild flowers and weeds in equal quantities – and befriending the medical, retail, and hospitality staff that I see regularly.

I haven’t given up on my dreams. I have merely refined them.

One thing I have definitely not given up on is my dream of becoming a published author. Technically, I have achieved this goal with the publication of my Master’s thesis. But I don’t expect anyone to ever read it in its entirety – and certainly not for pleasure!

It was during the writing of that thesis that I found my way back to poetry – something I hadn’t indulged in for many years. I rediscovered the joy of reflecting on experience and shaping thoughts into verse.

Some time after my grades were finalised and my thesis published, a string of events led me to submit three poems to an ethnographic poetry competition. I haven’t spoken about this previously because, quite frankly, I suffer from imposter syndrome when it comes to my writing. However, I have really enjoyed the opportunity to write purely for pleasure whenever thoughts and emotions arrive. And despite feeling like a fraud, I have found myself submitting poems to a variety of competitions and publications.

Today I received my first round of rejections: three separate emails for three separate poems, each one identical. A copy-and-paste response praised my “really nice imagery and a good sense of craft” and “poignant” phrasing, whilst critiquing the poems’ structure. The editor felt the “vastly different line lengths disrupted the flow.”

I smiled because the uneven line lengths are intentional. I spend hours considering where each line ends. Every comma, every line break, every extended line is there for a reason. My poetry has evolved away from consistent rhythms and rhymes towards something quieter, more spacious, and more reflective. Whether that style resonates with a particular editor is, perhaps, simply a matter of taste.

With this round of rejections I find myself quietly relieved. Those poems are no longer waiting in someone else’s inbox. They are free to find their readers.

My poems have come home.