Maddie Smith meets one of Man

AN AUDIENCE WITH THE AUTHOR

Maddie Smith talks to a Manchester poet who draws inspiration from where he lives, his imagination and teaching English as a foreign language

10 Composing against the backdrop of Manchester, 28-year-old poet Sam O’Neill has a deftness for writing verse that is both gritty and romantic.

Calling on his own experiences, as well as thought-up dimensions, his poetry illustrates the peculiarities of 21 st century life in a charming brew of the contemporary and the old-fashioned.

Asked about his influences and motivations for writing, and his favourite poets and poems, Sam says: “I don’t have a definite favourite poem, because they aren’t written with the intention of evaluation or comparing intrinsic progress.

“However, if I did have to choose one, I think I’d say The Rime of the Ancient Mariner or Ozymandias. My favourite poets are my mum, Samuel Coleridge, Benjamin Zephaniah, Edgar Allan Poe and John Keats. I love romantic poetry.”

Sam is inspired to write by the urge to express himself.

“I think that feelings are meant to be expressed and exist in the moment and that moment alone and allowing them to have their own life in writing is somehow relieving to me.

“Sometimes I feel that there are emotions too complex to simply explain to another person, so having others read and reflect upon what you write, even having your future self reflect on the moment that you wrote in, feels almost like having an emotional photo book to flick through.”

Sam started writing as a child because his mother and grandfather were enthusiastic writers, who used to tell him stories endlessly. “I wanted the same ability to let my imagination share space with the world around me just like they did.”

Drawing from his enthusiasm for the power and potential of language, Sam teaches English to non-English speaking

‘The only thing you can leave behind is what you pass on to others’

students in Manchester. He attributes his admiration for the teaching profession to his mother, who was a secondary school teacher in his youth.

“What I like about teaching English as a foreign language is that you can reach people. You really can’t compare the impact you have on young people’s lives to any other vocation. Especially teaching English as a foreign language, you can be the difference between someone getting a visa or not, being understood and communicating or not, finding a partner or not, and more.

“I value communication over almost everything. I think that in the grand scheme of things the only thing you can leave behind in life is what you pass on to others, and I think teaching is the best way to do that – especially in the modern world where we have so many walls built up between us, bridging those gaps is so important.”

Sam continues to write and hopes to sustain his love of poetry by writing regularly. He encourages others to write and be creative alongside him.

MALAISE by Sam O’Neill

He had barely nudged his nose upright With his handkerchief in lazy flight, en-route To the underwhelming clot Of soot and city smog and snot inside his snout

Already begun to bear one cheek upon its axis Away from some sons of bastard, urchin How classless! When suddenly from an alley beyond, the familial flicking beckoned Of paper! Crisp, clear, alive like fallen leaves he is on his knees for a dropped I-O-U love letter signed by the bank, if only for a second

Realising that he’d diverged his usual course He’d already lowered his arms for thoughts of money And being rewarded for his usual patience Ashamed to admit he looked rather like a mental patient Mistaking the whirring of trash in the wind, and useless paper! Grubby

Hands on ebony keys bloomed silently further down the alley Stirring him from his grumbles, he fumbled and dallied to ponder What de Montainge could have written to describe the throes Of the horrors of the unknown, as he’d strayed his path

He strained his eyes to see, indeed A man in plain clothes, barely concealed in the daylight Sat before a broken piano, whose keys presented a dull thud As they tugged and shrugged on unwound strings

“Where did he find such a thing?” the man hissed Surveying the debris- as de facto judge and supervisor of this, he Chuckled and chortled as the plain clothed man laboured Spindling with his fingers as the instrument rattled, unstable on three

SHADOW PUPPET by Sam O’Neill

She moved her fingers on the wall Traced the cracks, bumps and all, smoothed the history with tools and plaster Moved the light- where did it fall?

Her collection of items, possessions Collections, delicate ornate cracked confessions That she’d mastered Lampshades, candles, each more expensive in succession

Arranged to catch a glimpse She’s already started to limp Knelt on prostrated knee, shuffling faster and faster Adjusting the angles and widths and perspectives, Slight as it may have been, slimmer than paper Belying her faith, her Eyes once did behold the shadow of a person, casted Wavering and responding to the candle’s lure

Filtered through the clutter and collected Nameless years of mementos, forgetme-nots, goodbye amendments The unnamed man appeared. Pareidolia? It was of no matter As the candle waned with the peeling moon, affected The shadow collected with hot wax and passing tick, and tock, In the cupped hand of brass basin below its wick Fervent, delirious, she bought more and more, Betraying her agoraphobic anti-social wishes She left the house and bought more and more The point where a sea of wax enveloped the floor Was ignored in favour of recreating that rapture Laughter, madness, and flaws As she endeavoured to illuminate the silence Left behind by his gliding, mindless she did not notice the shrinking of darkness Time and time again, elapsing the circle in her hindsight