My debut pamphlet ‘Weeding’ was published with Hazel Press in September 2021. It had been quietly taking shape behind other poems and projects for about two years, and really started to come together during my Masters in Poetry at Queen’s University Belfast. Whilst in Belfast I worked with and learned from a number of fine poets, such as Gail McConnell, Padraig Regan, Leontia Flynn, visiting fellows Jenny Browne and Vahni Capildeo. By a stroke of wonderful luck, one of the poets I admire most on this earth, Stephen Sexton was my thesis supervisor. During this time I benefitted from many heartening conversations in the Heaney Centre discussing poems, and can confidently say my writing would not be half of what it is without his input and guidance.

September 2019 onwards was the first time in my life that I had a prolonged period to focus on writing, breaking from the rhythm of full time work and the quick pace of Dublin city. I had been feeling quite depleted before this, struggling to balance working to afford rent during a housing crisis, whilst finding time to research and germinate sincere creative work that I could be proud of. The Masters was at first a pipe dream, which quickly became a light at the end of the tunnel. It was something I saved hard for, the promise of which kept me going on dark days. The move and the return to academia represented a new chapter, and once underway I tried to always savour the experience, acknowledge my privilege and good luck every day.

At first I was admittedly somewhat afraid of returning to education after several years’ break, but soon found the structure of classes and workshops of great benefit to my writing practice. My library card was permanently maxed out with as many books as I could borrow at a time. Studying new poems, poets, themes, forms and collections each week, bolstered by my own research and experimenting, all left me feeling so inspired that my head and heart were constantly buzzing. I’d go to the Mc Clay library every afternoon after class and the QFT cinema several evenings a week, usually on my own with a keep-cup of Earl Grey tea to sip in the dark. It seemed that everywhere I turned there were so many inspiring conversations, books, films and artworks to drink in. I’d never felt so fulfilled or like myself in my life.

I mention all these sources of inspiration as many of the poems in the pamphlet are ekphrastic in a sense, influenced and in-conversation with pre-existing sources and artwork. Using poems such as Slouching, Orlando, After Ailbhe, and Prospect Cottage as examples. The starting point for the first two poems were the books by Joan Didion and Virginia Woolf, read among the many during that year. The third was inspired by Ailbhe Darcy’s poem Ansel Adams’ Aspens, which after hearing read aloud, I had wanted to continue the conversation.The fourth and final poem was a slow-burning response to the Derek Jarman exhibition PROTEST!, particularly Susan Thompson’s photo of Prospect Cottage, which had been on display in IMMA during the same year. I had been familiar with his story and work previously but was so moved by seeing the image in person, the cottage and garden as a symbol of defiance, that in that moment I began making notes for a poem.

A lot of poets in interviews make note of certain elements of writing that they find difficult. I do think there is strength to this vulnerability, in admitting that it is not always a divine channelling of inspiration from mysterious sublime sources, but a process that can be trying in parts. The part I find difficult most often is starting poems, or rather finding a way in. It is as if the inspiration, the sense, the feeling and conversation is already in existence, and I’m trying to reach in to shape it, or capture even a small part. Sort of like a lightning rod if that itself isn’t too mystical an image. Due to this, I sensed that finding a way into writing a pamphlet might be similarly trying. Then came what I like to call ‘the green poems’, my saviours. Three ekphrastic prose poems Fern, Olive and Sea which respond to ‘green’ instances in artwork, and specific green tones distinguished by universal hexadecimal codes. These poems form the central essence of the pamphlet, led by The Good Kind of Green, which itself was a response to Federico García Lorca’s Romance Sonámbulo, written for the love of green. Once these poems were written I knew something definite had started to take shape.

Writing a pamphlet had long been known to me as a sort of ‘next step’ in poetry, after talking to so many poets of great substance that I admired over the years. I’d been trying to decode the bewildering path to publishing, which akin to many other creative pursuits, was often shrouded in mystery. I remember slowly starting to tell people about the project I was working on, and a very sweet friend saying that she was excited to see something curated by me. This made me feel at once very excited and inspired, as I had not quite yet starting thinking about it in that way, but also trepidatious. I had never ‘curated’ anything.

The experience of selecting poems, ordering the pamphlet, and generally giving it form was quite different to a lot of the experience I had with individual poem publications until then. By that time I had been relatively blessed with publications at exciting journals such as The Moth, Banshee, The Stinging Fly, Abridged among others. However I had at most written several poems on a theme, or in sequence for collaborative projects. I thought about creating this new object abstractly for quite a long time before making any more moves, before eventually doing what I always do to problem solve; putting pen to paper. In the central pages of my notebook at the time, I arranged a column-like list either side of the binding, to work out and represent the different sections of the pamphlet. This is when it became clear to me, that despite my worry that I might not have enough poems to conjure something of substance, I had rather too many.

Finding myself thankful again for the green poems, which formed a sort of central line, around which I began to wind other work. Drafting and redrafting, arranging print outs on the floor, to determine what fit and what didn’t. I kept trying to sneak up on the poems, feigning the stranger, as if I was seeing them for the first time and attempting to look with fresh eyes of a new reader. Eventually distinct sections began to appear, thematic coherence drawing closer with each shuffle.

At the same time I was researching how long a pamphlet should be, ideally, for which there appeared to be many suggestions and no definitive answers. I researched competitions accepting manuscripts, and asked my poet-friends who warned me of the line between pamphlets and collections, each grouping of poems representing a different step in one’s writing career. Finally I spoke to my publishers and together we worked out a number which accommodated the work, and were able to reduce my bulky manuscript down to its finer distilled essence, like a big pan of slow cooking tomatoes simmering for a rich spaghettino.

Finding a publisher was another funny thing, a process in which everyone seems to take different routes. I made a list of publishers I admired, who produced work with poets I enjoyed reading, and began sending out emails. During this process I accumulated many kind responses, guidance and recommendations. Whilst researching, I was reading a pamphlet called Field Notes by Anna Selby, which was one of the most sincerely interesting thing I’d read in a while. I remember holding the pamphlet in my hands, admiring the cover and stitching, the fact that it was made from fully recycled materials, before looking at their website and making a note to email them the following day. In a curious turn of events, while the email was in drafts, I received one from them. A moment of divine serendipity, for which I am still very grateful. Here they were asking if I had considered writing a pamphlet and expressing their interest. I was so excited I immediately ran downstairs and told everyone in the house.

From here, this process all sounds rather dreamy and perhaps quite straightforward. I can assure you however that there were many uncertain days, unforeseen circumstances, and bumps along the way. One such being a global pandemic, which saw me, a cautious asthmatic, moving back into my father’s house in Donegal for what I thought would be two weeks, and ended up being several months. During this time I finished my Masters thesis remotely, aided by a bunch of borrowed books that were well overdue. Some of my favourite poems from the pamphlet were written in these months, at a side-table in the sitting room, a make shift desk in the once again crowded Donegal home. A new space reclaimed from television remotes, family pictures and a few small religious icons wrapped in paper and carefully put way.

Being in Inishowen during the first lockdown brought an interesting dimension to the work. Like many other writers and artists during the covid period, I have had dry patches, but these first months and the looming thesis deadline were an unlikely motivating combination. In the time that we were confined to the 2km radius, I had three places I could go for a walk, to the graveyard, Cullens’s corner shop, and my grandparent’s garden over the road. Looking for inspiration in this well-trodden area I’d known since childhood, trying to unearth something new in the old, saw me taking a lot of walks up the back roads, getting lost down lanes, and collecting wildflowers. With a book borrowed from my grandmother, I began the process of learning to identify several species of Irish wildflower. This leads me to the final section of poems I’ll mention, the botanical bunch.

Leamhán Sléibhe, Lus Moileas and Aiteann deal in the identification, Latin genus and Irish translation of common Irish plants and wildflowers. They bloom at the intersection of landscape and nostalgia where I thrive. Plants, trees and wildflowers have always had a respectable presence in my life, taking up more space over time, inspired largely by my foraging grandmother, meadow-planting tree-grafting grandfather, and gardening aunt. Talking about these poems often leads onto the tangent of me explaining ‘The Bible’ at my grandparents’ house. This was in actuality a copy of the Encyclopaedia of Garden Plants and Flowers (Readers Digest, 1971), which would be summoned whenever there was a disagreement about any type of plant, leaf or seed, and to this day holds the answers to most questions. This section of the pamphlet was the last one to be written, which accompanied my semi-graceful acceptance of the fact that I am probably, mostly, a nature poet. In the end that is why the primary thanks for the pamphlet goes out to my family, the ones who raised a garden in me, without them this green article wouldn’t exist. 

Weeding, Published with Hazel Press, can be purchased here: https://www.londonreviewbookshop.co.uk/stock/weeding-jess-mckinney