I love writing about figures from myths (I have poems in two recent/forthcoming MacMillan anthologies, Gods and Monsters and Heroes and Villains) I wrote this new poem after seeing the statue of Atlas at Castle Howard. It started off as a children's poem but would also, I think, appeal to adult readers.

The news is full of wars, conflicts and catastrophes. I wrote this poem to get some humour into daily life after reading the poem “Machines” by Phillis Levin. Levin’s line: “Machines have their own seasons” made me think of what kind of seasons, how many and what do the seasons mean to a lawnmower.

Friends know that I have family in the Armenian Quarter of Jerusalem, so as the war in Gaza has raged, people keep kindly asking after my family. I usually tell them the same thing, and so decided this should become a poem. I wanted to express how in my aunt's lifetime, so many wars have been waged and have been survived by the inhabitants of the house where she still lives, a retired nurse, who longs for peace.

Simon Armitage's poem 'Resistance' initially inspired this piece. As poets we should have the freedom to document the ugly realities of life, such as war and genocide without the fear of being censored. It beggars belief that the cruel genocide and occupation still remains at large. Resistance and the right to Defend is a legitimate aim. We must never forget what happened to the indigenous people of Gaza. Perhaps it's the poets, through writing poetry who will help bring about peace—​ I hope so, I pray.

I wrote this poem as a tribute to Caribbean people who have moved freely throughout the region and imparted aspects of their culture and consciousness in different countries. Ackee trees are popularly associated with Jamaican cuisine. In the poem, I explore Caribbean cross-cultural understandings of place, intimacy and belonging.

The idea that I could be in my corner of the world going about my ‘normal’ life while in many places there are people whose lives have been torn apart by war is crazy, that I can choose to not pay attention the suffering of others.
All wars are old wars, nothing is devoid of historical context. The line for when a war begins is murky and not as simple as when the first shot was fired.
These are thoughts that have filled my head this year.

I was thinking of the way we long to be understood despite where we are and how we are like, and when we don’t have that understanding it feels like some unbridgeable time difference across distances. It is also a letter to my mother in a way, this hope to be accepted, while drawing on memories of the pandemic when she stopped talking to me.

The poem is a response to a suspected cancerous cyst in my uterus earlier this year. Fortunately it turned out to be benign (but will need to be kept an eye on) and this poem represents my thoughts whilst waiting for results. The reading I had to do in one take whilst sitting in the bath! (The joys of parenting with a toddler and having little time for creative activities...)

My grandmother Zenatoon died before I was born, but there are notorious stories about her colourful existence. Some say she raised hell on earth with the sordid life she led. My own mother and 'Ma Zena' had an uneasy relationship. The vivacious Zena eclipsed her in many ways. This poem is a monologue of prideful hope: a mother boasts of her granddaughter, the first of their generation to get a formal education and escape disgrace.

The poem explores disillusionment with one's country and how this disillusionment is engaged with and reacted to. Many across the world live feeling betrayed by the countries of their birth, and this sense of betrayal often leads to unwilling migration. This is the reality of many in the Global South, including Nigeria where I'm from. This poem examines this unwelcome hunger for another country; I wrote it after one such bout of hunger.

This is a poem about having sex in a forest. It looks at the sensousness of Nature- the trees and how they view the lovers . How they laugh at them How the forests protects them and how Nature assists them with their exploring of their lust. Forests are a sumptuous space for meeting up - I hope to convey the lushness of it , the greenness and the fun of it all.

My Dog Has No Nose came from a prompt to write a poem that told a joke. I thought the structure of a villanelle might work. The repetends from the first verse only come together as a couplet at the very end. So, with a bit of juggling it should be possible to set up the joke with a feedline and punch line. I think I sort of managed to do that, but the villanelle format took the mood somewhere else entirely. The joke is now a bleak one.

Would You Rather is about two young people navigating their anxieties around intimacy and their own bodies, about how the natural world around us can be fascinating and beautiful but also frightening, how external stimuli and social situations can be overwhelming, and how difficult experiences can bring us together. It draws on my personal experience of neurodiversity and love of nature.

The poem came out of my thinking and writing about the deep time of my home landscape and the loss of human and other-than-human connection. Whiteway is an ancient road which I've known very well since I was a child and as I worked on the poem, the metaphor of the road / landscape as a living route of reconnection emerged.

This poem was based on a NaPoWriMo prompt by Amy Kay (@amykaypoetry): "Write about a rare or once in a lifetime event or experience." I wrote the poem on the day of this year's solar eclipse, which I missed because I wasn't in the path of totality and it was overcast. Missing it made me think of all the rare moments I HAVE been lucky to witness/experience, from watching the light hit my partners eyes to seeing the telescope that discovered Pluto.

Downsizing this year, I was struck by the range and depth of activities this book proposed for girls in the 1960s (before equal opportunities were officially enshrined) as well as by its commonsense tone. I realised how its practical, can-do approach influenced me, from creativity to DIY to careers. I won’t be throwing it out. Though I do wash my hair more often.