So Twitter recently made me aware that #NaPoWriMo is also known as #GloPoWriMo (Global Poetry Writing Month, I presume). It never occurred to me that this challenge was a thing beyond the UK. Heck, I'm still yet to be convinced that this is a thing for anyone outside London's circle of mad poets.*

It's interesting. Other than sounding like a hashtag for seasonal Instagram fitness break selfie series featuring avocado-based vegan gluten-free health food snacks, of course.

But that said, maybe it isn't so far away from what myself and other poets are up to with blogs and tweets and open-mic preamble publicising this challenge. For various reasons, we want our work on ourselves and our craft this month to be [more] public. In some sense, it's like the Insanity of poetry: we're looking to push harder and Dig Deeper (hold tight Shaun T). We are putting ourselves under immense creative pressure, with fixed daily milestones to hit, under the guidance of a rigorous programme tailored to individual needs goals in order to sharpen our creative endurance, galvanising our connections, driving ourselves and one another forward to becoming the best shape we can be.

Maybe these reasons are just mine. But on a weekly basis, I'm reminded of the transformative power of creativity and poetry in my life and those of others. After much reflection and a recent birthday, I've chosen to act on my resolutions and turn 2017 into the Year of the Glo-Up. Avelino said "2016 is the rise of the lyricist"; Boiler Room confirmed that in October. Now having risen, we must shine.

*I mean that in all senses but the ableist one.

Enough from me.

Enjoy.

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

You never saw beauty in yourself
because beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
so it became infallible
unless the beholder was you -
in which case, it was irredeemably flawed,
your irises were funfair mirrors warping what was natural and balanced in it’s own right.
It is no wonder, then, why you are always fat
and fat is wrong
and dark is serious and heavy and raw.

This is why you ask to be read late at night and known only with the lights off
and you keep your reader’s hands away from the softer parts of your form,
or where your creases are a bit too deep for you
- or even where bone is a little too close to skin.

My dear
Who told you beauty was in perfection? Or perfection in symmetry
or that perfection was a spotless sun?

But you’ve stopped listening to me
when I tell you how these palms love the balance of your form.

It’s why I’ve stopped laughing at your jokes.
When shade is now your only reprieve, it is no wonder that you dream of shadows.