Joan Poulson - still travelling, still dreaming - Hello again, Joan. Good to talk with you again. So... what are you working on at the moment? A poetry collection for small children: Diggery, Daggery, Sugar Pig & a children's novel set in 18th century Manchester. Did you always want to be a writer? As a child I used to have fantasies about being a writer. When I was in my teens I wanted to travel. How I got into teaching, THE most difficult job of all, I'll never know. I didn't stay there long. Now, there are times I find it hard to believe: I AM A WRITER! - the most enjoyable, fascinating job possible. I'm very, very happy to be back with my childhood fantasy. What was your favourite book as a child? We didn't have many books at home (awwwww!) but one Christmas I was given one I treasured. It had lots of illustrations of orang-utans. I can't remember what it was called but I still love those apes! Have you any pets? Only one. She's my imaginary, rough-coated lurcher called Frida - named after the Mexican painter Frida Kahlo. I'm thinking of getting an imaginary Irish Terrier. Any ideas for his name? I like writing about dogs, my poem Sam's Song is in your anthology Taking My Human For a Walk (Macmillan) and That's my Dog is the poem most requested when I read in schools. That's My Dog Mum took me to the Dogs Home on my birthday. I'd waited years it seemed for the day to arrive. We went inside. There were dogs of all sizes - long-eared and short, in every dog colour you'd imagine. They jumped up at the wire, barking a plea: Choose me to take home. Choose me. Take me! They were lively, bright-eyed, with wagging tails that said: It's me you want beside you when you go for walks, to lie next to your bed, protect you in the park. I'll be your mate, search your room before you go in when it's dark. All of them, that is, but him. He lay watching from the back of the pen, black ears drooped over big brown eyes, shivering, afraid, half the size of any of the others. Then I saw on his face that look I knew from my mirror, look that says: I'm quiet, not brave, nothing special in any way. But I'm stronger than I seem, would love to have a friend, someone I can trust. I'd gladly share in bad days and make others full of fun. I winked at him, grinned up at Mum and firmly said: That's my dog. That's the one! Do you have a special time for writing? I like to write every day but if I have a residency, or I'm travelling, I write when I can. I usually start with pen and paper and progress to my computer. It's important to write regularly - as with most things, you need to keep in practice. Do you keep a notebook with you? I always carry at least one pen and some paper. But if I get an idea & haven't got any paper I'll write on anything: skin, paper tissues, whatever. If desperate I'll go in a shop, find the toilets & use toilet paper to write on or go to the counter & ask for a paper bag or some scrap-paper. Where do your ideas come from? All over the place - I find them scurrying among tables in cafes, sliding down walls, rushing to keep up with the train. These train ideas are most slippery but I managed to catch some once on a train leaving London where I'd been working at the Poetry Library. They were really difficult to hold on to & were lightning-fast. It took me some time but I managed to grab a few & scamble back into my seat. Then Graffiti started to arrive..... Graffiti Over the tracks back of the flats it's growing like a garden. Round the streets all concrete no grass, no trees nothing green but over the tracks back of the flats it's growing like a garden. There's every colour you can think of every shape every size words spark like fire-works jazzy, dazzling - mind your eyes. Zig-zag letters fizzle and fall, squiggles, splodges surprising the wall. Spiralling showers luminous, bright, fluorescent flowers fresh overnight. Over the tracks back of the flats it's growing like a garden. What do you do when you're stuck with a poem? Play - with words or paint or in the garden. Weeding's good but swimming's even better, which is why I'd like a swimming-pool or, better still, a house overlooking the sea. What is the most unusual situation you've been in while writing? I was walking in a wood when I got an idea which I realised was going to develop into several poems (about socks). It was raining but I sheltered under a tree & got out my notebook. Suddenly it seemed as if I was in a thunder-pocket surrounded by lightning. Later, someone told me it's not a good idea to stand among trees when it's lightning - but how could I abandon such a brilliant idea. Rainbow Socks If I had new socks that were striped and bright, I'd put them on my feet, one left, one right. I'd be glad if they were magic and grew wings to let me fly. I could sit upon a fluffy cloud, pick stars out of the sky. I'd climb onto a rainbow to slide down to the ground. I'd slip in and out of rainbow stripes and listen to the music of rainbow-sound. I'd sing as I slid in my stripey new socks and I'd count all the stars in my rainbow box then whoo-oosh I'd toss them back up high... speckling silver stars into the rainbow coloured sky. Have you ever been on radio or T.V? I was on television often when I wrote about food & once presented three programmes in which I cooked dishes from my books. I've been interviewed about my poetry on radio, especially during the 3 years I was 'writer in residence' for the Onetree Project, the largest arts / environmental project ever in this country, over 70 artists were involved What is the most unusual thing that inspired a poem? In March I heard on the radio that I was at war with the people of Iraq. I wasn't. Thoughts of war, of children and babies being killed & maimed, of vast amounts of money to be spent, made me profoundly sad & I began to write what became Love Poem. When asked by an editor for writings about peace I sent a copy & it was included in Lines in the Sand (Frances Lincoln). It's a brilliant book & every penny of the proceeds & profits goes to UNICEF's Emergency Fund for the children of Iraq. Buy it!!!! love poem, (wednesday morning 19 march 2003) she cuts off her hair she shaves her head daubs ashes on her face as statesman and politician heap disgrace upon disgrace she digs up earth plants rye, plants wheat feeds thousands with her bread weeps for the politicians juggling bombs about her head but the thousands she fed the thousands unborn are smashed, violated, dead she cuts off her hair she shaves her head feeds thousands with her bread plants daffodils, plants rye, plants wheat writes a poem for a child she fed. If you could have 3 wishes what would they be? Way ahead of all else would be that people would stop being afraid of each other & would try to understand each others differences. This might lead to an end to war. How much money would then be available to improve schools (how could your school be improved?) & the health service: money, money, money into medical research. Second: I'd like several imaginary cats. Third: a house overlooking woodland & hills in one direction, the sea in another, have a fantastic little food-shop a stroll away & a brand new Mac computer on my desk. What are your ambitions? To keep improving my writing, making it more interesting, exciting & clear; to work in Lapland, Dublin & in India again; to have picture books published; to live beside water (Frida loves water, too). Do you have a favourite place? Several: the school I'm working in when you ask (I LOVE reading my poems in schools); home; Florence, my favourite city. What did you do before you became a poet? I wrote about traditional English food & the way in which festivals always had an associated food or drink such as Dock Pudding at Easter, mincemeat at Christmas (made from real meat), Parkin & Gingerbread on Bonfire Night. You've mentioned food several times. So, what is your favourite? I love Italian & Indian dishes & I must have crisp, interesting salady stuff each day. And fruit. Oh, cheese, too. I couldn't live without cheese. Is there anything else you couldn't live without? Well, I really dislike shopping, I hate it, but in book-shops I go wild. I'm safe in music shops & clothes shops, can't stand supermarkets but if I risk going near a bookshop I'm lost. SOMETHING grabs & drags me inside. If I'm cautious, don't put my hand near my money, I can still be safe. But once I buy a single book, it doesn't matter how slim a volume, that's it, I've lost it: book on books under my arm, between my teeth, in the basket, to the till..... Do you write anything other than poetry, Joan? Yes, fiction and drama. I used to be scriptwriter for a radio soap, had two very short plays on stage in Manchester & wrote text for a modern dance production about coal mining. I have almost finished a stage play which would work well for classroom production: Armadillo's Night. It's based on South American creation myths & has been fun to work on - I walk round the house with my imaginary dog, singing songs from it. Most recent fiction was a novel: Dear Ms (A & C Black). It's very fast-moving, written entirely in dialogue. What advice would you give to young poets? Write like a wild thing, write about things you think about most, trust yourself, enjoy what you're doing. What is your own favourite poem? At the moment I have two - Love Poem and First Kiss. First Kiss My problem is I don't know how to kiss. What happens to your teeth? Will our lips stick? Should you blow? What if I spit and dribble? I'd like to (kiss) but hope I don't giggle.... And I might just decide to say no. Thank you, Joan. If you enjoyed treading this - read Joan's first interview by clicking here. That's My Dog, Graffitti, Rainbow Socks, Love Poem and First Kiss all © Joan Poulson Would you be so kind as to give me a lift back to the top of the page, please?