From Reluctance to Revelation

Challenging Myself to Something I Thought I Would Never Enjoy

When I was 15, poetry was my nemesis. English Literature lessons turned what should have been art into an exercise in overanalysis. Each word of every poem was dissected to find motivations, hidden meanings, and subtexts. It felt less like learning and more like the most boring word puzzle on the planet.

One poet, in particular, took the brunt of my frustration: Seamus Heaney, with his poem "Digging." While others also featured in our exams, Heaney's work was the one I remembered most vividly, and not in a good way.

At the time, I believed poetry should rhyme and be humorous, much like limericks or greeting cards. "Digging," with its sombre tone and free verse, didn't fit that mold. It left me feeling cold.

When my exams ended, even the mention of poetry would make my eyes glaze over. Poetry became like hearing someone recount their dream: dull, meandering, and best met with polite nodding.

An Unexpected Challenge: Writing My Own Poem

Fast forward years later, and the amazing

Moon Arica

suggested experimenting with writing styles. I’ve toyed with tone and voice before but I've never felt I’ve landed on "my" style. So I thought, why not give it a go?

Moon listed several suggestions I picked the one suggestion I liked the least: poetry.

I picked it specifically because I loathed it, and the idea of writing it filled me with dread. But I wanted a challenge. What's the point of trying something new if it's easy?

So, I stared at my empty phone screen and wondered, "What should I write about?" Unlike my other writing projects, where ideas are plenty, this felt unfamiliar. Isn’t a poet supposed to have a muse? I had no muse. I had a kettle. So like any Englishman with a problem to ponder, I decided to brew up.

Inspiration in the Mundane

As the kettle boiled and clicked off, inspiration struck. I jotted down what I saw, felt, and heard, and to my shock, it turned into a poem. I had no idea if it followed the rules, mainly because I didn’t know them, but I liked it. Or rather I kind of liked it, I chopped and changed, wrote and rewrote and what I ended up with looked like something I'd previously have yawned at, so I think I satisfied the brief.

Tea Time

The kettle clicks off.

Steam rises, like a ghost being born.

Water spills into the waiting cup,

coaxing tea leaves to surrender their flavour.

A spoon invokes a miniature whirlpool,

spinning promises of warmth and comfort.

Afternoon sunlight carves scars across the countertop,

where crumbs of this morning's toast linger, forgotten like rocks in an ever-shifting desert,

waiting for the inevitable sweep of the dustpan.

I posted it as a note and received a supportive feedback. I’m terrible at taking praise, but those comments encouraged me to keep going. For the first time, I saw poetry as a way to convey an outline, add visuals, and sprinkle in emotion, a way of setting a scene differently than my regular writing.

Diving Deeper Into Poetry

Buoyed by this small success, I decided to take on a bigger topic. I spent hours crafting, rewording, and fine-tuning another poem. Again, I ignored formal poetic rules and leaned into what felt right and what looked right.

I'll post what I wrote at the end so you don't lose interest and skip straight to the lesson I learned.

The process of challenging myself to something I didn't want to do, to create something I didn't like, taught me something invaluable: Trying something you think you hate can lead to unexpected enjoyment. Poetry, once my least favourite form of writing, is something I now look forward to dabbling in.

Even now I'm shuddering a little having wrote that. My previous hatred so deep.

What About You?

What do you hate or avoid, convinced it's not for you? Maybe it’s food you’ve never tried, a genre you’ve dismissed, or an activity you’ve always dreaded.

I spent 13 years convinced I didn't like cheese, avoiding pizza, pasta and sandwiches that had cheese in them until one day, starving a friend gave me a slice of pizza and my mind was blown. What actually fueled my imaginary hatred of cheese was the fact my dad didn't like it, so like daddy dearest I had always avoided it. Weird how that works isn't it.

What if, by giving it a chance, you discovered something you actually enjoy? I hated poetry for years, but now, I'm actively waiting for inspiration to strike.

Now here's where the article ends, so I'll say goodbye and Stay Curious, but if you'd like to read two other pieces of poetry that I have written you can find them below.

Gone

She left as normal,

the morning folding into itself without fanfare.

No cause for concern,

no whisper of the problem festering beneath the surface.

Hometime came,

but she did not.

Her schoolbag hangs from the chair,

the accusation silent.

Her bed, an empty void,

the blankets creased from the morning.

How long before I call the police?

The hours gnaw at my resolve,

sharp teeth on fragile nerves.

Midnight swallows the house whole,

its darkness heavier,

crushing without the glow of her bedside lamp.

Every sound outside, a false promise.

Every creak of the floorboards, a cruel joke.

I pace the same route around the living room,

my eyes snag on the blackcurrant stain on the rug,

she did that, even if she won’t admit it.

My hands twitch the blinds open,

then closed.

Open, closed.

The street offers no answers.

And then, she walks in.

No apologies.

Her scowl, sharp enough to cut.

Her attitude icy, like the street outside,

as though I am the one in the wrong.

But it melts with a hug,

unspoken forgiveness,

if only for now.

Her tears come like a flood from a breaking dam.

We hold each other.

The fear dissolves into the space between us.

The worry evaporates.

The problem remains,

a shadow in the corner,

waiting for the morning.

Sunshine

I walked up the stairs,  

the landing window unobstructed,  

morning sunlight spilling through,  

a solar flood washing over the staircase.  

The light strikes my face,  

and I close my eyes,  

letting it bathe me,  

a touch both ancient and indifferent.  

Outside, frost clings to the edges of the world,  

soon to be forgotten.

The sun’s beams warm my skin,

a fleeting lie I’m happy to believe.  

I stretch, arching my back like a cat,  

bones cracking in protest,  

even they understand it's worth.  

I stand still, drinking it in,  

a quiet communion with a distant star,  

its gift carried across endless space  

for this brief connection.  

Winter in England wears a face of muted grey,  

a monotony rarely broken, 

unlike today, a rare rebellion.  

Thirty seconds of sunlight,  

and everything shifts.  

The cold retreats,  

beaten back by warmth that travelled the solar system to find my face.  

I continue with my day,

that little bit happier.

Thank you, sunshine,  for this fleeting clarity,  

for the golden touch, that reminds me I’m alive.  

If you've made it this far I'd really appreciate an honest comment about the poems I've written, I've got absolutely no barometer to measure them against.