Why I Write Poetry: Notes

I write poetry

because

I believe

imagination matters.

Not as an escape from reality,

but as a way of returning to it.

…….

Walter Brueggemann describes the prophetic task as seeking “to nurture, nourish and evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture around us.” That has become something of a compass for me over the years.

The older I get, the more I wonder if many of our deepest problems begin in the imagination. We are shaped by stories. Stories about what matters. Stories about success. Stories about where hope is found and what it means to live a good life.

Consumerism tells a story. Individualism tells a story. The myth of endless growth tells a story. The church is not immune to those stories. Nor am I.

I do not write as someone standing outside these forces, pointing at them from a safe distance. The idols I write about are not merely out there. They are in here too.

Perhaps that is one reason I write poetry.

Poetry helps me pay attention.

Or perhaps more truthfully, it helps me recover attention.

…:

Left to myself, I am often distracted. I move too quickly. I skim over reality rather than inhabit it. Like many people, I can find myself pulled from one thing to the next, my attention scattered by worries, responsibilities, ambitions, news feeds, emails, and the endless noise of modern life.

Poetry slows me down. It asks me to linger. To stay with things a little longer than I otherwise would. A phrase from Scripture that catches in my spirit. A conversation that stays with me for days. The face of someone others have stopped seeing. A grief I have been carrying without acknowledging it. A question that refuses to leave me alone.

Most poems begin there.

Not with an argument.

Not with a conclusion.

Usually with something that keeps tugging at my sleeve

….

The poem becomes a way of staying with it.

A kind of prayer.

A kind of meditation.

Journaling with metaphors.

The poems are not simply for other people.

They are for me too.

Often they change me before

they change anybody else.

…

These days I find myself wondering whether much of the spiritual life is simply learning to pay attention.

The Scriptures are full of people who fail to see what is right in front of them. Israel forgets. The disciples misunderstand. The rich man does not notice Lazarus at his gate. The travellers on the road to Emmaus walk with the risen Christ and fail to recognise him.

Again and again, the problem is not simply what people believe. It is what they fail to notice.

Perhaps forgetting is often a failure of vision before it becomes a failure of memory.

…

When I speak about poetry being prophetic, I do not mean prediction. I mean truth-telling. The prophet is often the one who notices what others have learned to ignore. The one who names what lies beneath the official story. The one who refuses to accept the world exactly as it presents itself.

We live at a time of climate breakdown, loneliness, anxiety, widening inequality, and deep social fragmentation. Yet much of our culture trains us towards distraction rather than attention.

Keep scrolling.

Keep consuming.

Keep moving.

Do not linger too long.

Do not look too closely.

Do not ask too many questions.

….

The church has its own versions of this. We can become captivated by influence, growth, platforms, and success. We can speak about the poor without really knowing them. We can turn vulnerable people into projects rather than family.

….

My poetry often returns to the margins, not because poverty is beautiful, but because people matter. I have no interest in romanticising suffering. Homelessness, addiction, trauma, exclusion, and grief wound people deeply. They should grieve us too.

Nor am I interested in poverty porn.

What interests me are the stories that are easily overlooked. The people who become statistics, labels, case studies, or problems to solve.

The poor are neither saints nor projects.

They are friends.

Neighbours.

Brothers and sisters.

Again and again, Jesus directs our attention towards those whom society struggles to see. I find that deeply challenging. And deeply beautiful.

Yet I do not want to become cynical.

The prophetic task is not only about exposing what is wrong. It is also about imagining what might be possible.

Not fantasy.

Not denial.

But hope.

I am not talking about optimism. Nor the kind of hope that pretends everything will work out neatly. I mean a hope rooted in Jesus. A hope that takes suffering seriously. A hope that makes room for grief. A hope that can look honestly at the wounds of the world without concluding that despair gets the final word.

The Kingdom of God offers a different imagination. A different way of seeing power. A different way of understanding success. A different vision of belonging, neighbour, creation, and community.

….

Poetry is one of the places where I try to learn that way of seeing.

I have also come to think of poetry as a form of remembering.

The prophets were constantly calling people to remember. Remember God. Remember the poor. Remember the stranger. Remember who you are.

We are forgetful creatures. We forget what matters. We forget one another. We forget our dependence upon God. We forget that creation is gift.

Many of my poems are attempts to remember. A conversation that stayed with me long after it ended. The names of people others have forgotten. Those I have loved and lost. The grief beneath the jokes. The wounds carried by creation in a warming world. The harm caused by churches and church leaders, and the need to tell the truth about it without bitterness. The strange persistence of grace. The stubborn presence of Christ among the wounded.

…..

Poetry cannot solve our problems. It cannot end wars, reverse climate breakdown, heal trauma, or mend every wound.

But it can help us see.

Sometimes that matters more than we realise.

It can crack open settled assumptions. It can awaken attention. It can nurture a different imagination.

When I write a poem, I am usually trying to follow something I have noticed. A truth. A question. A wound. A glimpse of grace.

I am trying to pay attention.

I am trying to remember.

I am trying, however imperfectly, to nurture a Kingdom imagination shaped by the crucified and risen Christ.

….

Poetry is not an escape from reality.

For me, it is one of the ways I find my way back to it.

-Rev’d Jon Swales