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Notes on Caleb Femi’s ‘Poor’, a Life-Changing Collection of Poetry
Reflecting on the book that re-sparked my love for reading
Sparking an interest in art is difficult. Finding that spark, which may still fail to actually bring any lasting flames with it, is almost impossible when nobody around you is burning themselves.
I had no one to show or to teach me art, in any form. I wasn’t encouraged to read very much as a child, and generally did little within my first twelve years other than go to school, run around outside, play (some) video games and watch a hell of a lot of Spongebob Squarepants. My interest in films stemmed, more than anything else, from moderate loneliness after moving home when I was 12 and then struggling to make friends, finding solace and comfort in films to place a plaster over the difficulties of a daily life which demanded more of me than I was able to give. There were only three of us — my mum, coping with being uprooted from her life and skirting the borderlines of poverty, myself, twelve years old and struggling with loneliness for the first time and my younger brother, who would have been six at the time, whose mental disability was exacerbated by the move in ways that we’re still trying to remedy.
And so, it fell largely onto my shoulders to solve problems that, even now, I would struggle to solve. Putting up TVs with my mum, and holding back my tears to ‘stay strong’ when I dropped it almost directly onto my feet, fearing the hell I’d have to pay if the TV was broken. I’d have preferred that my feet broke instead. Feeling my head spinning as I tried to put together sets of loft ladders, getting stranded up there as they came undone, paralysed by my fear of heights. And, once or twice, the escapist fun of smashing up old pieces of wood and, even, one wall we were removing entirely. Mostly, I would dread having to work on the house, not out of laziness but more out of my complete helplessness in these situations. I was forever wishing, and still do wish that, I would be able to fix everything and make these difficulties go away. My mother’s still terrifying anger issues, likely stemming from her consistent difficulties throughout her own life, also certainly played a role in my fears. There was a need for some escape.
