And by that I mean been touched by a muse. And by that I mean non-sexually. Poets reveal where they’ve composed.
Benjamin Zephaniah did it stuck in a lift with a drag queen, Phillis Levin in a car on the side of a mountain, Patience Agbabi 20,000 feet above sea level in a spasm of guilt about her carbon footprint, and Kenneth Steven did it in his head during a sermon in church.
Poets don’t need a tranquil room of their own to write, the Ledbury Poetry festival has proved, by asking this year’s participants for the most unlikely physical location in which they have practised their art. On this sample they’re far more likely to be inspired by being in a car than at sitting at an orderly desk or wandering among the dancing daffodils.
For me it was standing on a dog-shit-strewn sidewalk watching a bunch of snails “race” across the concrete for the cliff of a curb.