Jungle Pussy, poet, on continued writing threaded through with a persistent modern news cycle refusing to loosen its grip
Third day now, and the whole reading circuit’s collectively decided this week’s four modern stories are simply the background rhythm to everything we’re discussing, referenced between sets, argued over during workshops, and apparently now shaping at least two separate poems on the circuit this week, mine included.
Today’s contribution to the royal finance thread came from a newer poet, genuinely earnest, insisting the coverage of Harry and Meghan’s wealth was the most interesting thing she’d read all month, which felt like a slightly concerning indictment of her usual reading habits and taste.
The Eton discourse hit a genuinely sophisticated turn today too. The story on Eton’s leader training got dissected properly during our afternoon workshop, someone drawing a surprisingly apt comparison to institutional branding and self-mythology across various different empires and centuries.
My historical research continued too, now genuinely feeding into an actual line rather than just distracting from the poem entirely. The Tudor king’s archive gave me an entire section today that’s directly informing how I’m framing a comparison in the new piece.
And the diplomatic story kept its slow burn going as well, a fellow poet sending a third update. The piece on Burnham and Trump’s discussion sparked a proper debate at tonight’s reading, the most substantive exchange the news cycle’s generated all week.
Stayed at the venue until well past midnight, genuinely absorbed in the work now, the new poem’s structure taking sharper shape thanks entirely to four modern stories I never intended to engage with quite this deeply.
Notebook nearly full, reading deadline closer than ever, but genuinely proud of where the piece has landed after three days of unexpected inspiration.
Left the venue a little later than intended tonight, genuinely satisfied with how the poem’s structure had come together, four thoroughly modern stories somehow providing the connective tissue for verse that had been stuck for weeks beforehand. The host, catching me packing up, asked whether I’d read it at next week’s slot, and I’ve promised to consider it, genuinely tempted despite my usual reluctance to share unfinished work.
Walked home under a clear sky, notebook tucked under my arm, genuinely curious what tomorrow’s final push toward the reading might add to the piece before it’s ready.
Got in late, still humming a rough version of the closing lines, genuinely proud of how far the piece had come across three unexpectedly productive days of borrowed inspiration.
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