As a poet, I’ve reached a point where I no longer care about how people react to my work. What I care about is staying true to my voice. I don’t write safe poetry. I write what feels real to me, and if that challenges or unsettles some readers, that’s fine. In fact, I believe that if you’re not upsetting someone with your art, you’re doing it wrong. Poetry shouldn’t be safe—it should push boundaries, raise questions, and, most importantly, be honest.
I have a unique writing process that reflects this mindset. I don’t force my poems. Instead, I let them happen naturally. Over the years, I’ve developed a habit of jotting down lines, fragments of thoughts, and images. I have hundreds of lines on a series of topics, a bank so to speak. I might not write full poems every day, but I’m always writing something. When the time comes to create, I pull from this bank of lines—some recent, some years old—and build my poems from there. It’s not a method I’d recommend for everyone, and I admit it’s a bit passive, but it works for me. I’m not pushing for a finished piece all the time; I’m waiting for the right lines to come together.
This leads to a style that’s fragmented, with poems that feel like reels—snippets of life captured in sharp, intense moments. That shift in style is central to my work. It gives the reader room to interpret, to find their own meaning in the gaps. I’m not interested in being too explicit. I want my readers to linger on the lines, to make their own connections, and to feel a sense of agency in how they engage with the work.
For me, writing is about realism. I ground my poems in real experiences, often pulling from memory and personal history. A single image, like a belt tying two doors together in my granddad’s house, can become the focal point of an entire poem. It’s in these small, strange details that I find meaning. They’re relatable but unique enough to stand out. That balance between familiarity and strangeness is important to me—it hooks the reader in, but also challenges them to see the world differently.
Mood and atmosphere are everything in my work. Whether I’m writing about drunks in a bar or an old couple in a garden, I’m focused on establishing a clear sense of place and time. My poems aren’t always driven by plot or traditional narrative structures. Instead, they’re driven by mood and the feeling of a moment. This is where the realism comes in, anchoring even the most abstract themes in something tangible.
“a half body of a bird lies in my garden – a scalp of feathers”
As a straight man, my work is naturally written from that perspective, but I’m always thinking about how I represent gender, particularly in relationships between men and women. It’s important to me that I don’t constantly reduce women to one-dimensional roles like love interests or objects of desire, although sometimes this is important. Indeed, I often try to write strong female characters, but I also write about women I have loved, balancing these portrayals to stay true to life.
This is where honesty really comes into play. I don’t shy away from the complexities of relationships, but I also don’t over-explain them. I let things percolate. There’s subtlety in the way I approach these themes because I want my work to reflect the messy, layered nature of real life.
“slow blue eyes – bright like glass pierce the smoke hanging heavy like darkness”
Over the years, editors have told me I need to write more about myself, to make my work more personal or more accessible. But this is personal. This is my reality. I write from my perspective, and I stay true to what feels authentic to me. I no longer feel the need to dilute my voice for a wider audience or make my work “safe” to attract more readers.
I know that people who connect with my poetry do so because of its authenticity. I don’t need a massive following—I need a loyal readership, people who understand what I’m doing and appreciate the rawness and honesty in my work. I’m not interested in manipulating my work to fit a broader market. It’s not about the number of people reading my poems; it’s about the depth of connection with those who do.
“i push its sharp, cleaved edges into the heart of my palm”
While I remain committed to my poetry, I’ve also made sacrifices to lift up other voices. As the editor of The Broken Spine, I spend most of my time focusing on other people’s work rather than my own. It’s a trade-off, but one I’m happy to make for the time-being because it allows me to contribute to the poetry community in a meaningful way. This will not always be the case. That said, I do still write—though not as often as I could. When I do sit down to write, the lines I’ve stored up over time come together quickly, and I can build several poems in a short burst of creativity.
Lately, my work has shifted towards themes of brutalism, decay, and punk attitudes. I’m exploring darker, more apocalyptic imagery, diving into themes of death and destruction. This is where I feel most at home now—on the fringes, writing poetry that isn’t safe, that challenges not only the reader but myself as well. I’m not here to make people comfortable. I’m here to say what needs to be said.
In the end, poetry is about honesty, realism, and staying true to my voice. I write from my perspective, and I’m not interested in compromising that for the sake of pleasing more people. My poetry isn’t for everyone, but for those who connect with it, the bond is real and meaningful. I’m here to challenge, to provoke, and to give my readers agency. That’s what matters to me.
“my leaves – turned wood – are falling”
Find more of my writing here.
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The Broken Spine is a poetry and arts collective proudly published on the coastal edge of North-West England. Founded in 2019 by Alan Parry and Paul Robert Mullen – two school friends reunited after twenty years through a mutual love of poetry.
