In 2014, I pledged to spend more time writing and learning about poetry. Galloping away from the Year of the Horse and into the Year of the Sheep (which starts on February 19) I’m wondering: What have I achieved? What tips can I offer to others attempting to stay the course?

Tip 1. Write drafts in Evernote

When poetic inspiration strikes I get my thumbs to work on my iPhone tapping out lines in Evernote. One of my best poems of 2014 germinated this way as I walked back to the car after a hard day in the loft where the muse had eluded me. I added a few lines to the fragment while I cooked dinner and the first draft was completed later that night as I sat pretending to watch TV. The Evernote app feels like a casual space where I can play. Its tiny slab of white is much less intimidating to work with than the large blank canvas a Word document offers. Sometimes it’s exactly what I need for my mind to roam free.

Tip 2. Read great poetry, new and old

Some poetry collections I relished in 2014 included Sharon Olds’ Stag’s Leap; Brenda Hillman’s Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire; David Malouf’s Earth Hour; joanne burns’ brush; Seamus Heaney’s New Selected Poems — 1988-2013; Robin Robertson’s Sailing the Forest: Selected Poems; and Australian Love Poems edited by Mark Tredinnick.

Individual poems I’ve loved and read more than a few times this year include ‘Silva’ by Robert Adamson; ‘Bernard and Cerinthe’ by Linda France; ‘She’s an Argonaut’ by Chloe Wilson; and ‘Japanese Maple’ by Clive James (this one went viral … James, sadly, is dying).

Tip 3. Read about writing poetry

For the last five months or so I’ve been reading Robert Pinsky’s Singing School: Learning to Write (and Read) Poetry by Studying with the Masters and doing the ‘exercises’ he suggests. The book doesn’t lay down rules or posit theories but emphasises ways to learn from great poems and how they are made. A recent thrill was reading Sylvia Plath’s ‘Nick and the Candlestick’ again with its eerie invocation to ‘Let the stars / Plummet to their dark address’.  This was one of Plath’s last poems before her suicide and my first reading of it in about 20 years. Such brilliance and sadness.

Other books I’ve been dipping into are: Why Poetry Matters by Jay Pariniwho, who writes, ‘The complex issue of voice also obsesses poets … But what exactly is this thing, its gold panned for in the stream of common language?’; The Muses Among Us by Kim Stafford; Poetry Notebook by Clive James; and The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within by Stephen Fry.

Tip 4. Let the work simmer

While it’s important to catch inspiration when it strikes and to get the words out and onto the page without too much intervention from your inner critic, it can’t stop there. I find most of my poems benefit from leaving them to simmer for a while. A couple of weeks later I’ll check in to see if there is anything I can remove, shuffle about or add to the draft. Questions I ask at this stage can include: Is the rhythm working? Have I cracked the form that will best suit the piece? Are there any generalisations I can change into specifics? Are there clichéd descriptions I can eradicate or fix? Does the language/tone suit the subject? What more does the poem need?

Tip 5. Jolt the mind

The renowned Canadian poet Anne Carson talks about trying to ‘make people’s minds move’ through her poetry. It’s a big call … but I think to even get part way towards achieving this you have to jolt your own mind first. It’s important to find ways to get your thinking to move laterally. Or, as Australian writer Hilary Hewitt puts it, to find ways to ‘loosen the strings of our mind’.

I did a great workshop with Julie Chevalier (Linen Tough as History and Darger: his girls) in 2014 and she talked about ‘sneaking up on an idea from the side’ in order to create ‘surprising combinations of words, sounds and ideas’.

The mind map exercise Chevalier used really did help me to turn off a rational tap and turn on an experimental one; and I’ve used this mapping process quite a bit since to help me out. If you can’t attend a Chevalier workshop, books like Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones or Barbara Turner-Vesselago’s Writing Without a Parachute: The Art of Freefall could help unlock the zanier poet within.

Tip 6. Read the work aloud

Once I’ve got a poem into reasonable shape, I always read what I’ve written aloud and this usually shows me where any remaining burrs are; the hangnails that catch and don’t fit the rhythm or tone. I also listen to other poets read their work aloud or read their poems aloud myself. This can add texture and convey insight not gleaned when reading silently. Occasionally, if I love a poem and really want to try to examine how it works, I will type it out. Feeling the nuts and bolts of language used by another poet coursing through my fingertips can be both illuminating and humbling.

Tip 7. Test the waters

I sometimes think a poem of mine is pretty good until I have to show it to someone else! At this point I become acutely aware of its flaws. I usually press on and try to iron out the flaws myself. But, if I can’t, the people I show my poem to can often identify them and help with a solution (NB: I have two excellent first readers). I seek honest feedback with a touch of encouragement. Once I have the feedback, I go back to editing my work. When I’m sure it’s as good as it can be, I send it out into the world to see if a publisher or award judge agrees.

Tip 8. Celebrate success

If I finish a good draft of a poem I often stop and treat myself to a cup of specialty tea poured from a pot. If I get a poem published or win a prize, I pour the champagne. I’ve had a few bubbles this year — and ‘sheepishly’ hope for more in 2015. However, the rewards of reading and writing poetry run deeper than this; refreshing, fulfilling, transforming, confronting, electric. Maybe my first poem in the Year of the Sheep should be about that?