Today’s ‘lost generation’ can find freedom through poetry. As Young People’s Laureate for London, this is how

Allow me to indulge in a cheesy statement; I believe in the power of poetry. I’ve seen first-hand what it can do, for myself and for all the brilliant young people I’ve worked with. Writing poems can have a transformative impact, allowing us to find the language to express ourselves where our everyday language just doesn’t do the trick.

Poetry is a language of dreams, where anything is possible. There is no “wrong” answer. You can float in a poem, or fly, you can bring back the dead. You can put out your hand and something will appear inside it – just because you say so. You can transmit that feeling you’ve had which you’ve not quite been able to understand before. Writing a poem feels like grasping towards truth, a process of wonder and discovery.

Beyond the writing of poems, there is the delight of reading them, watching them on YouTube, or catching them on the radio. After all, they don’t just have to exist in books. These poems can move us, breed empathy, open a small window to escape somewhere else whilst confronting ourselves. They can offer a tilted perspective and, crucially, make us feel seen.

Whether it’s Rachel Long exploring race, shame, religion, the body or the glorious realm of female friendship as she does in her debut collection, or Roger Robinson giving a voice to the too often voiceless victims of the Grenfell Tower tragedy in his TS Eliot Prize-winning collection A Portable Paradise, poems respond to the world around us. They’re an archive of our time, a mirror, a question, a protest.

This is why it is crucial that we involve young people in poetry, not only so they can enjoy the delicious feeling of creative expression, but to make sure that their voices and responses exist in the world, especially in a time when so many are spoken for and about, where we are divided and shouting at each other on the internet. A poem can cut through this, get to the heart of an experience. It can encourage compassion and understanding, shift the discourse.

In a brilliant poem by Tania Adoabi (untitled) for a gal-dem zine, she writes about her upbringing, reclaiming her story from the mouths of others, away from victimhood, into her voice. “I hear you/ I wouldn’t want them to write about me either”, she writes. “And yes, my mother worked hard and late/making money and making do/but she kept prayers on tapes playing while we/slept,/blessings penetrated our dreams.”

The poems I read at school didn’t set off a lifelong love of poetry. They relied on rigid form, rhyme and metre which seemed impenetrable and alienating. It’s no wonder that whenever I go into a school, students are disengaged with poetry, convinced their poem has to rhyme to be considered “good”. I didn’t really connect with the majority of poems in my GCSE syllabus and I know from experience, most London kids don’t either. They don’t see themselves reflected in the work and that’s like a big door shutting. Some young people tell me they don’t see their lives or opinions as a valid subject to write about.

The first time I felt I was given permission to write about what was important to me was at a writing group I stumbled across at The Roundhouse. I’d just left home, raised in Brighton by my single father and caring for my brother who struggled with addiction.

The poems that group exposed me to were exciting, dynamic. They were playful, broke “rules”. I saw my own life in them, they were modelling survival and change. My tutor Steven Camden centred the idea of writing about what matters to you, that our own stories were important. I wrote about what I couldn’t before; shame, growing up poor, being a woman, grief, loss. This was 2012. My brother had just taken his life. I had questions for myself and the world. I needed to find the words to ask them.

The course was subsidised, so I didn’t have to pay. Some poetry courses can cost over £2,000 and university tuition fees have risen since 2012, surely limiting who writes and accesses poetry. Courses like this are essential for opening up poetry to more young people.

When young people are made to feel that poetry isn’t for them, they miss out on this potential. It can be a space for young people to have fun, enjoy that process of discovery, the empowerment of speaking from their own mouths about what matters to them without being homogenised. Young people, myself included, have things to say about the world, about their city, about joy, their lives. That’s why access to the true variety of poetry and creativity is so essential, now more than ever.

As Spread The Word's newly-appointed Young People’s Laureate for London, I want to raise the visibility of poetry for young people. I want more young people to think of poetry – in its many forms – as a space for them to say whatever they want to say, in their own voices, on their own terms.’

Cecilia Knapp is a poet, playwright, novelist and Spread The Word's Young People’s Laureate for London

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