First off, I should tell you this poem owes its existence to the generous funding of Arts Council England and two lovely people who worked at Canterbury City council nearly a decade ago. So if you like this poem, support the funding of the arts! The two lovely people had seen me speak about my public art commissions at a conference and approached me to write a number of poems about Herne Bay, on the coast of Kent. We ended up agreeing on eight sonnets (which became known as the Seaside Sonnets), and this was the first. The day I wrote it, I knew it was something a little bit special. Since then it has proved to be so: popular in postcard form with people working in cubicles, it has proliferated itself all over the internet. Someone even posted it on the Bolton Wanderers fan forum, at which point I realised it was really going mainstream.
I wish all my poems spoke to all manner of people the way this one does. It’s been amazing to watch it, in the last nine years, get a life of its own. That it’s now introducing thousands of young people to my poetry is very exciting. So long as it doesn’t cause anyone pain! I also wish all my poems came so easily; it was more or less complete in under an hour. But it would be hard to recreate the circumstances of its birth. For one thing, I hadn’t written a poem for nearly a year: while pregnant with my daughter, I lost the ability to create anything but baby. Everything I wrote was garbage, so I stopped writing (what’s the point in demoralizing yourself?). In May 2004 she was eight months old and for two thirds of a year I’d been devoted to nothing but the all-consuming business of early motherhood. Beyond the relentless rigours of baby care, the smallest of tasks were swamping me. Keeping on top of my e-mail was impossible. Professionally, I was overwhelmed and inefficient. But I still managed to get the commission lined up somehow, and one sunny morning in early May, I drove to the Kent coast.
It was the first day I’d spent in my own company since my daughter was born. Alone in the car, free of responsibilities, the peace was glorious. I was listening to Radio 4, and they were reading from the book ‘In Praise of Slow’. I took my foot off the accelerator a little. I stopped rushing. I arrived at Herne Bay and strolled the seafront. The sun was warm on my skin, it was ten in the morning, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Though I don’t remember, I suppose the title must have arrived first; the opening came very easily, and by the time I had a few lines in my head I knew I must get to a cafe and get out the laptop.
And if you think you can hear Auden’s most famous poem, you’re right.
Let faxes butter-curl on dusty shelves.
and flash like glorious fireworks somewhere else.
the roads where distant drivers queue like sheep.
Let e-mails fly like panicked, tiny birds.
Let phones, unanswered, ring themselves to sleep.
now make the air in your lungs your livelihood.
itself upon the beach and vanish. Breathe.
If you want to hear me reading this poem, go here.
Beautiful, brilliant observation, with perfect precision in this: Let phones, unanswered, ring themselves to sleep.
lovely poem Ros… reminds us of what all the fuss about poetry is there for.
Love this little poem! I have decided to recite this poem at The Poetry Challenge at the Poetry Cafe in Covent Garden on 10 October. I organise this annual event in memory of Nicholas Albery, author of Poem For The Day book one. I will recite for the Natural Death Centre, a charity we founded in 1991. I aim to raise £1000. Come and recite a poem and get sponsored for a charity of your choice? Musicians and singers are welcome too!
Came across this poem when invigilating this Summer and loved it! Thank you for a moment’s peace.