And I’ve always written poems while walking or swimming, or I often find when I’m sort of moving or doing something physically, but, you know, I have nothing to occupy my thoughts. I was quite sort of bored and lonely and had a lot of thinking time. But it wasn’t very demanding of my thoughts. I was constantly either breastfeeding or pushing a pram around, it seemed. Because it was very demanding of me sort of physically. But weirdly, I found it quite conducive to writing. That’s what everybody warned me, especially that first year. Mark: Clare, where did this poem come from?Ĭlare: So, like a lot of the poems in my collection Incarnation, which I wrote the bulk of sort of the year after my son was born, my eldest son who’s now nine, and I thought when I had a child, I wouldn’t write anything. Knowing angels bespangle every bough of every treeįor my son, perhaps, or for someone not me. On Rye Common, now, I scrub puree off my jeans, I try to let pale roses pool with supernatural lightīlake was four when God put his head to the window.Īnd have wanted for there to be SOMETHING so long and so much –Īnd, yes, my child reveals the holy in dull reality,īut he makes dullness and reality my responsibility.Īt four, I believed I too was destined to see visions.

Sleeplessness, I’ve heard, can induce visions – If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would be infinite I see doors and think: can I get my pram through that?

Lately, I see through a narrow chink in a stairgate.

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