Episodi

  • Brian Lewis on his memoir 'Last Collection' alongside Chris Jones on his book of poems Little Piece of Harm

    Brian Lewis on his memoir 'Last Collection' alongside Chris Jones on his book of poems Little Piece of Harm
    Jan 9 2026
    Here, in the first of two episodes, I take a slightly different approach and talk to Brian Lewis about his essay/memoir ‘Last Collection’ alongside my own book of poetry Little Piece of Harm. On Friday 26th March 2021 Brian set off on a ‘round’ of Sheffield to deliver copies of my recently published poetry book Little Piece of Harm (Longbarrow Press). He went on to write about this journey, a meditation on city, place, home and art itself in his extended essay/memoir ‘Last Collection’. In our conversation we explore connections between the two pieces of writing - both of which focus on traversing the city of Sheffield in ‘stressed’ times. Firstly, I talk to Brian about his duel role of being both a publisher and a writer, and about how one discipline feeds into the other. Brian reflects on walking as a way of making sense of the city. We examine how each walk taken engenders renewed iterations of Sheffield - we are constantly remaking the city through the act of observing the place. Also, Sheffield is reinventing itself - conceptually and physically, through demolishing older structures and planning new builds, new developments. We touch on Brian’s series of ‘Lockdown Walks’ before concentrating on ‘Last Collection’ for the rest of the podcast. Brian ruminates on the idea of slowness as a philosophical approach. We talk at some length about Lockdown as one response to the COVID epidemic, which leads me to talk about my time in Aldeburgh in the summer of 2020 when I was finishing Little Piece of Harm. Brian goes on to detail how he made notes while following his delivery route on the 26th March - and then how he ‘recalled’ and built up the particulars that are layered through ‘Last Collection’. I relate how I built up Little Piece of Harm as a ‘portrait’ of a city. I begin to pick out and focus on a number of the abiding themes in the sequence. Then Brian examines the notion of 'form', mixing (or not mixing) prose and poetry in 'Last Collection'. We reflect on 'the rhythms and refrains' in our writing that captures the essence of walking - and at the end of the first 'chapter' of this podcast, Brian introduces and reads from a section of 'Last Collection' itself. You can find a full account of Brian’s 'Lockdown Walks' here. You can find extracts from ‘Last Collection’ on the Longbarrow website here: ‘One-Way Mirror’ and ‘Last Collection’ . This is the section from ‘Last Collection’ that Brian reads on the podcast itself: From ‘Last Collection’ (in Local Distribution) The shutters are down on Highfield Post Office. It's a straight left to Andy's house from here, Woodhead Road to Cherry Street, the hard drives stacked in the flooded cellar. Andy was a poet of the city and then its photographer. The switch seemed to happen overnight. It was unexpected but it made sense. The images were striking and inventive and they accumulated quickly, they were fresh with possibility, they captured the city in its moments of transition and looked beyond those moments. There were landscapes without land and portraits without faces. Colour studies and achromatic grids. Found abstractions and literal objects. There was craft in the titling of the photosets, a lightness of touch, Rising River, Island Songs, Test Patterns. I looked forward to each new series. Then it all just went. He abandoned one account and then another. Dead links. The internet hadn't saved any of it. This was intentional. There was no sense in arguing with him. It was no longer what he meant or felt. The work he has made since then is still in the world, or some of it is, you could say that it equals or exceeds the earlier work, it is hard to know, the earlier work has gone, and the city of which it was part has gone, why make comparisons, this is the difference between us, the letting go. I remember descending a stone flight to the cellar at Cherry Street and taking the first few steps in an inch or two of water, the electricity had gone off, again, rolling debts and standing charges burning through the top-ups, the credit and the emergency credit. The batteries in my torch were dead, the terminals corroded. I lit my way with a lighter that I had found in the kitchen, four or five seconds before the flame brushed the tip of my thumb, then four or five seconds of darkness. After a few attempts I managed to turn the top-up card the right side up and the right way round and feed it into the slot of the meter. The cellar light came on, a flickering strip, it showed cobwebs, cracked walls, and a freestanding metal rack with two or three desktop computers veiled in dust. I wondered how much work had died in those machines and then I remembered that it was none of my business, that I was not his archivist. I was still his editor, a handful of last poems yet to be published, his night walks, his laments. The poems come back to me now, as I pass the closed doors of the Highfield ...
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    1 ora e 10 min
  • Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana on Kimiko Hahn's poem 'Compass' and her own poem "Madam Gout'

    Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana on Kimiko Hahn's poem 'Compass' and her own poem "Madam Gout'
    Dec 18 2025

    In this episode, I talk to Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana about Kimiko Hahn’s poem ‘Compass’ and her own poem ‘Madam Gout’.

    We discuss all things zuihitsu - reflecting on Kimiko Hahn’s own approach to the form and Alexandra’s inspired interpretation of this complex Japanese ‘standard’. As well as asking Alexandra about the essential qualities of the zuihitsu we talk about fragmentation, layering information, the public and the private detail. Alexandra also reflects on her own time in Japan, and from this, cogitates on Japanese influences in her own work. In zuihitsu how do we say something without actually stating it? We go on to discuss how the words, phrases, lines are laid out on the page in relation to the 'cartography of the poem.'

    In the podcast, Alexandra mentions a number of times The Pillow-Book by Sei Shõnagon, a version of which can be downloaded for free on Project Gutenberg here.

    Alexandra Corrin-Tachibana is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and author of Sing me down from the dark (Salt, 2022). She has Masters’ degrees in Writing Poetry and in Japanese Language and Culture and she lectured on the Japanese zuihitsu form at the 2024 Japan Writers Conference. Her poems have appeared in magazines such as The North, P.N. Review, Magma, Poetry Wales, The Pomegranate London, Anthropocene and The Madrid Review. This year, she was twice shortlisted for Verve’s Poem of the Month prize and commended in The Buzzword and Artemesia competitions. She is a freelance creative writing tutor, mentor and reviewer who has taught for The Poetry Business, The Poetry School and The Writing School. Alexandra’s second collection, Skinship, is due out with Salt in September 2026.

    You can follow me on Bluesky - @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes. You can find out more about my own writing through my website - chris-jones.org.uk - or on my Substack Swift Diaries.

    The end music was composed and played by William Jones.
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    1 ora e 30 min
  • Cliff Forshaw on Arthur Rimbaud, both in translation and as an influence on his own book-length sequence RE:VERB

    Cliff Forshaw on Arthur Rimbaud, both in translation and as an influence on his own book-length sequence RE:VERB
    Nov 17 2025

    In this episode, I discuss Arthur Rimbaud with Cliff Forshaw. We focus on Rimbaud's poem 'Vowels', translated by Cliff in his collection French Leave: Versions and Perversions, and Cliff's sequence RE:VERB which retells the life of Rimbaud in verse. Cliff also reflects on his latest book, Elemental, and reads the opening piece 'Remains' in full.

    Cliff relates how he first came to Rimbaud as a school boy. He talks about the long journey he took to come to write a book of translations of (mainly) 19th century French poets. He goes on to discuss, at length, his long narrative poem RE:VERB which illuminates the life of Arthur Rimbaud, from decadent poet to merchant and gun runner in Africa. He reads from, and talks about, the opening poems in the collection ('Hooligan in Hell' and 'Alchemy of the Word'). Why is Rimbaud so interesting as a writer and as an individual? We go on to explore Cliff's interest in art and how that feeds back into his identity as a writer.

    Finally, we discuss the work in his latest book, Elemental, landing on the opening poem - 'Remains' to read and reflect on. I ask him what he is planning to write/publish next.

    From 'Alchemy of the Word' But also...

    A Hermes Trismegistus, unseen unheard, I conjured the Alchemy of the Word; deciphered fragments of the vowels' spectrum, my mind a wand, a bow, a plectrum. I struck the rainbow's neurasthenic strings, plumbed all tenebrous, timbrous things. Then, when sounding out riddles as Gnostic songs, it came to me: I was going wrong.

    Sortilege and Thaumaturgy, Tantra, Sutra, Old Grimoires Hermeneutics, Oneiromancy, Transits of Venus, Mercury, Mars, Almanacs, O Dark Abraxas, Cabbalistic Hierophants, Orphic Devotees, Eleusis, Mumbo-jumbo, Obeah, Cant, Epiphanic Hocus-Pocus, Hoodoo-Voodoo, Occult Muse, Diabolic Psychomancy, Esoteric Marabouts. From such fiendish tomes I busked the Blues, left a hobo chorus of cryptic clues. But my rational derangement of all the senses (shamanically ancient, prophetically new) left me wondering: Who was the densest, Poet or Reader? I got no reviews.

    From 'Remains'

    I

    In Transylvania when I got that call - had been that day to Sighisoara, drawn to that famous undead batman's place of birth. Think: the Saxon cemetery high up the hill. Carved gothically upon one stone, I'd seen Ruhen in fremder Erde! Written it down. Lie still in foreign soil - but you never can: (stone blunts, moss overwrites your name) the earth remains so cold and strange. As do you. Whoever you were, laid low in the lie of the land, you are now (whatever now might mean) your own remains - just let the world, its weather, drain right through your tongue, your ribs, whatever stubbornly persists of you.

    Cliff Forshaw has been a Royal Literary Fund Fellow, twice a Hawthornden Writing Fellow, and held residences in California, France, Kyrgizstan, Romania, and Tasmania. Collections include: Elemental (Templar, 2025); French Leave (Broken Sleep, 2023); RE:VERB ((Broken Sleep, 2022) and Pilgrim Tongues (Wrecking Ball, 2015) https://www.cliff-forshaw.co.uk

    You can follow me on Bluesky - @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes. You can find out more about my own writing through my website - chris-jones.org.uk - or on my Substack Swift Diaries.

    The end music was composed and played by William Jones.
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    1 ora e 18 min
  • Helen Angell on T S Eliot's poem 'Preludes' and on her own poem 'Mancunian Way'

    Helen Angell on T S Eliot's poem 'Preludes' and on her own poem 'Mancunian Way'
    Nov 8 2025

    In this episode, I talk to Helen Angell about T S Eliot's early poem 'Preludes', and her own architecturally-inspired poem 'Mancunian Way.'

    Helen discusses where and when she first encountered Eliot's poetry (at Rotherham College) and how much his work has gone on to influence her writing. We talk about the public spaces versus the private rooms in Eliot's poem 'Preludes'. How does Eliot confront modernity in his poetry, and the psychological forces acting on open and vulnerable minds?

    Helen then goes on talk about her travels to Manchester (and other urban environments) with her pen and her camera. She elaborates on the thing that is the Mancunian Way - how it dominates the sight-lines of the city (and how difficult it is to actually get onto). Helen describes the underbelly of the road, and how this inspired her to write the poem. She reflects on her position as a lone traveller in possibly edgy environments. Helen also considers the issues of depicting the street people she encounters. We discuss architectural space (particularly post-war landscapes) and how this might be re-imagined in print.

    You can read T S Eliot's poem 'Preludes' here (on the Poetry Foundation website). Mancunian Way The underpass docks in early autumn chill. Its boat’s underbelly faded as worn planks, sooty striations and stone bleachings. A small, late butterfly flitters near the hull, uncertain ivory amongst sown meadow-flowers. Breaking the wall of sound with ocean breath, the A57 washes seawater noises. And in this undersea world of mist and sleeping bags, makeshift tents, a messiah unfurls a scroll beside London Road. It would be easy to be absent here for years. By the closed taco stand and the blue portaloos, skaters fling tied shoes to hook on grey ribs. Soles twisting from the double-knots, above boys who skid, hand-scuffed across the reeling surface. Wishbones hold roof to floor. Things hatch under Oxford Road, yellow containers expand, open doors into other worlds. Hydroponics stretch their roots in white trays. Behind wire fencing, the Mancunian Way’s elephant-legged stride is trapped. Our dreams turn to lullabies, chewed paper spat into an ashtray.

    Helen Angell writes poetry and non-fiction often inspired by brutalist architecture and post-war landscapes. She writes about the beauty and transience of urban life as well as its impact on human relationships. Helen has worked creatively with The Hepworth, Manchester School of Architecture, National Railway Museum and Kelham Island Museum as well as in collaboration with a number of visual artists and musicians. Her writing has appeared in a number of publications and anthologies including The North, Strix and The Modernist. She is currently completing a Creative Writing PhD at University of Liverpool based on the work of post-war landscape architect Brenda Colvin.

    You can follow me on Bluesky - @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes. You can find out more about my own writing through my website - chris-jones.org.uk - or on my Substack Swift Diaries.

    The end music was composed and played by William Jones.
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    1 ora e 26 min
  • Geraldine Monk on Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem 'The Leaden Echo and The Golden Echo' and her own poem 'Chattox Sings'

    Geraldine Monk on Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem 'The Leaden Echo and The Golden Echo' and her own poem 'Chattox Sings'
    Oct 24 2025

    In this episode, I talk to Geraldine Monk about Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem ‘The Leaden Echo and The Golden Echo’ and her own poem ‘Chattox Sings’ from her collection Interregnum (1993).

    We begin by discussing poets who could have been chosen by Geraldine as exemplars - Gertrude Stein, Harold Munro and Dylan Thomas. We then focus on Gerard Manley Hopkins - how he spent his time at Stonyhurst College, in the shadow of Pendle Hill (with its Pendle witches association). We reflect on Hopkins’ life as a Jesuit Priest. We discuss Catholicism and poetry which leads us to exploring the poem ‘The Leaden Echo and The Golden Echo’.

    Geraldine then goes talk about how she developed the work that went into Interregnum - the collection that focuses on the history of the Pendle witches. We discuss how she built up on section of the book through ‘harvesting’ lines from Hopkins’ poems and putting them into the mouths of the women who were put on trial. We talk at length about ‘Chattox Sings’ and a couple of other poems that lift phrases from Hopkins oeuvre - including his poem 'The Blessed Virgin compared to the Air we Breathe.'

    You can read ‘The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo’ on this website here.

    CHATTOX SINGS What we have lighthanded left will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind. This side, that side hurling while we slumbered. Oh then, weary then why should we tread? O why are we so haggard at the heart, so care-coiled, care-killed, is there no frowning of these wrinkles ranked wrinkles deep. Down? No waving off these most mournful messengers still messengers sad and stealing (Hush there) - only not within seeing of the sun. Resign them, sign them, seal them, send them, motion them with breath. Whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that’s fresh and fast flying of us, seems to us sweet of us, and swiftly away with, done away with, undone. So beginning, be beginning to despair. O there’s none, no no there’s none: with sighs soaring, soaring sighs deliver. Them: Beauty-in-the-ghost.

    Geraldine Monk was first published in the 1970’s. Since then her poetry has appeared in countless magazines and anthologies and her major collections include Interregnum from Creation Books, Escafeld Hangings, West House Books, Ghost & Other Sonnets, Salt Publishing. They Who Saw the Deep, was published in the USA by Parlor Press. In 2012 she edited Cusp: Recollections of Poetry in Transition from Shearsman Books.

    Together with her late husband, the poet and artist Alan Halsey and the musician Martin Archer she was a founding member of the Sheffield antichoir Juxtavoices for which she wrote many pieces most notably Midsummer Mummeries. She is an affiliated poet at the Centre for Poetry & Poetics, The University of Sheffield.

    You can follow me on Bluesky - @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes. You can find out more about my own writing through my website - chris-jones.org.uk - or on my Substack Swift Diaries.

    The end music was composed and played by William Jones.
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    1 ora e 20 min
  • Al McClimens on Simon Armitage's poem 'Evening' and his own poem 'Grand National'

    Al McClimens on Simon Armitage's poem 'Evening' and his own poem 'Grand National'
    Oct 6 2025
    In this episode, I talk to Al McClimens about Simon Armitage’s poem ‘Evening’ and his own poem ‘Grand National’. We discuss ideas of place and time in Armitage's 'views' of Marsden, the village where he grew up, and how these ideas are represented in his work. We focus on the formal designs of both Simon Armitage's and Al's pieces. I ask Al about the two different versions of his poem that he is weighing up here. We talk about horses and the 'form' and how things can balance so precipitously upon an edge between success and failure. How can poetry articulate these kinds of two-way moments? Al goes on to outline his journey toward writing poetry after a career as a lecturer in Health and Social Sciences. Evening You're twelve. Thirteen at most. 
 You’re leaving the house by the back door. 
There's still time. You've promised 
not to be long, not to go far. One day you’ll learn the names of the trees. 
You fork left under the ridge, 
pick up the bridleway between two streams. 
Here is Wool Clough. Here is Royd Edge. The peak still lit by sun. But 
evening. Evening overtakes you up the slope. 
Dusk walks its fingers up the knuckles of your spine. 
Turn on your heel. Back home your child sleeps in her bed, too big for a cot. 
Your wife makes and mends under the light. 
You’re sorry. You thought 
it was early. How did it get so late? This poem is reproduced from Simon Armitage's collection Magnet Field: The Marsden Poems (Faber, 2020). Grand National (original version) I backed a horse at five to one –
it came home at ten past.
 We had a ball tho, it was fun
 but it could never last. The money flew, the good times rolled, 
the future opened wide.
 We thought that we were solid gold
 and jumped on for the ride. Wot larx, such thrills, our names in lights
 the fizzing, shiny things…
 the bubble popped and from what heights
 we lost those fragile wings. And now the screens are up, the vet
 is walking down the track.
 Is it too late, is there time yet
 to get our money back? Achilles drags the corpse away,
 parades it round the walls.
 All’s fair in love and war, they say.
 Troy crumbles and then falls. Grand National (published version) I backed a horse at five to one –
it pulled up at ten past.
 We had a ball tho, it was fun
 but it could never last. The money flew, the good times rolled, 
the sky cracked open wide.
 We thought that we were solid gold
 and jumped on for the ride. Wot larx, such thrills, our names in lights
 the fizzing, shiny things…
 ...the bubble popped and from what heights
 we lost those fragile wings. Now the screens are up, the vet
 is walking down the track.
 Is it too late, is there time yet
 to get our money back? Achilles drags the corpse away,
 parades it round the walls.
 All’s fair in love and war, they say.
 Troy crumbles and then falls. Other poems mentioned (and read) in this podcast include Robin Robertson's poem 'About Time', from his collection The Wrecking Light (Picador, 2010). W H Auden's 'The Fall of Rome' is also briefly discussed - a piece you can read here. Al McClimens was born and brought up in Bellshill some time after Matt Busby and just before Teenage Fanclub. He escaped by studying for his first degree at Edinburgh University where he ‘majored’ in sex, drugs and rock’n’roll. During a lull in his study he signed up for the poetry society. Well, duh. He peaked when he was chosen as the warm-up act for new rising star Liz Lochhead. When asked about her co-performer’s act Ms Lochhead later said, Who…? He later moved to Sheffield in the same year as the miners’ strike where, after a few years, he attended a WEA evening class run by Liz Cashdan who pointed him at the various open mics available in the city. It was also around this time that his university work meant he was getting papers in journals and the two strands, the published academic and the gradually getting more stuff published poet began to coalesce with his enrolment onto the SHU MA Creative Writing degree. Well, we all know how that one ended. So there it is, the trajectory to international stardom or how a youth from Bellshill became one of the best poets in his own house. Or make that second best if Denise is visiting. You couldn’t make it up. Except I just did. And some of it was true… Al Mclimens books include Keats on the Moon which was published by Mews Press in 2017, and The Other Infidelities which came out in 2021, which you can purchase from Pindrop Press here and The Placebo Effect (Dreich, 2024). You can follow me on Bluesky - @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes. You can find out more about my own writing through my website - chris-jones.org.uk - or on my Substack Swift Diaries.
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    57 min
  • Matt Black on Edward Lear's poem 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat' and his own poem 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat and the Turtles of Fun'

    Matt Black on Edward Lear's poem 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat' and his own poem 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat and the Turtles of Fun'
    Jan 20 2025
    In this episode I talk to Matt Black about writing his own versions of 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat' by Edward Lear. Matt reflects on when he first heard 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat' as a child. He then goes on to talk in depth about the task of creating a homage to this 'iconic' piece of work. He discusses the intricacies of the poem - how it uses all sorts of different techniques to make it a memorable piece of work. He throws about the idea of what it means to be a nonsense poem. He reflects on the notion of using landscape as a safe space to explore possibly difficult themes. He talks a little bit about Lear's background and what possibly brought him to write this enigmatic poem. He then goes on to delve into his own prequel and sequel - grouped together as 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat and the Turtles of Fun'. He talks about the triggering incident that led to him taking on such a task (an encounter with a stuffed owl in a museum's store). He reflects on how in the two different versions of 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat' he has written the first narrative must lead up to the boat (of the original poem) but the second poem is 'un-moored' from the route-map of the classic work. He can explore all sorts of complicated themes - the break-up of a marriage, infidelity and so on, but still create it within the framework of a 'children's' poem. He reflects on the qualities of the poetic language itself and the references in the poem to Brid, other animals, and pop references too. Finally, he talks about performing the work in schools - a 'nonsense poem for a nonsense curriculum'. Matt Black lives in Leamington Spa. His most recent collection is Fishing Dentures Out of Mashed Potato (Upside Down, 2025) which includes poems on various themes, including getting older, looking after elderly parents, the joys of domesticity, lanyards, dogs and knees. This is a fund-raiser for Myton Hospices - £5 per copy - and he is currently available for entertaining readings from the book. Since being Derbyshire Poet Laureate (2011-2013), he has successfully completed over 25 commissions, with poems on 15 benches, 20 milestones, a large glass panel and in exhibitions and publications. Other recent works include a collection of poems about dogs, Sniffing Lamp-posts by Moonlight (2017), which became an Edinburgh Fringe show, and the tour of his play about floods in Cumbria, The Storm Officer. He is currently Lillington Poet Laureate, Chair of Cubbington and Lillington Environmental Action Now (CLEAN), and a very proud grand-dad. www.matt-black.co.uk Copies of The Owl and the Pussy-Cat and the Turtles of Fun can be purchased here. You can follow me on X - @cwjoneschris or on Bluesky - @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes. This is the last podcast of series two. Look out for updates about series three later in 2025. Thanks for listening! The Owl and the Pussy-Cat (the Prequel) The Owl and the Pussy-cat went for tea With a parakeet in the park. Owl said politely, “It doesn’t delight me, This hunting of mice after dark.” The Cat said “Life in the city is mean; We’re squibbling youth away. Let’s go to the sea. Let’s quit this mad scene.” So they cycled to Brid for the day, The day, The day, So they cycled to Brid for the day. On arrival in Brid, they met a great squid With a sailor who told them a tale Of a mermaid and man, who had met in Japan, And lived in the mouth of a whale. “I like it here,” said Owl on the pier, While the Cat, with a grin, went “Miao”. They stayed for a week. They played hide and seek, And the Owl jumped over a cow, A cow, A cow, And the Owl jumped over a cow. The waves, they were lapping, blue butterflies flapping, “O guys, you should stay for a while. We’ve striped candyflosses, and rides on the hosses. It’s wicked whatever your style.” Said Cat, “Life’s absurd. Let us sail, dear Bird, To the land where the Bong-tree gleams.” In his crocodile coat, Sailor lent them a boat, And said “Steer by the star of your dreams, Your dreams, Your dreams.” He said “Steer by the star of your dreams.” The Owl and the Pussy-Cat The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!” Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?” They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. “Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.” So they ...
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    1 ora e 13 min
  • Vicky Morris on Hannah Lowe's poem 'Fist', Georgie Woodhead's poem 'When my Uncle Stood at the Top of the Office Block Roof’, and her own poem ‘Sea Road’

    Vicky Morris on Hannah Lowe's poem 'Fist', Georgie Woodhead's poem 'When my Uncle Stood at the Top of the Office Block Roof’, and her own poem ‘Sea Road’
    Jan 6 2025
    In this episode, I talk to Vicky Morris about Hannah Lowe’s poem ‘Fist’, Georgie Woodhead’s poem ‘When my Uncle Stood at the Top of the Office Block Roof’ and her own poem ‘Sea Road’. Vicky begins the podcast by talking about how she first came across Hannah Lowe’s work and what appealed about to her about the poetry - the voice (plain style), the subject matter and control of the material. Vicky discusses what she learnt from Hannah after being mentored by the poet as an Arvon/Jerwood mentee. She delves into the ideas of utilising poems for ‘teaching’: why choose a particular piece to show to young poets who are learning the craft? Vicky talks about the ‘cinematic quality’ of the poem ‘Fist’, how it uses specific details to draw the reader in to the situation at hand. She focuses on Lowe's uses enjambment to create particular effects in the poem. Vicky talks about technique at length - and how the craft in this piece can be used to help students think about writing about their own lived experiences. Vicky then goes on to explore Georgie Woodhead’s poem ‘When my Uncle Stood at the Top of the Office Block Roof’ - how Georgie took Hannah’s piece as a a starting point for her own portrayal of a high-risk situation. She talks about Georgie’s adoption of metaphors as a means by which to illuminate the Uncle’s (and narrator’s) state of mind. Finally, Vicky reads and ‘unpacks' her own poem ‘Sea Road’. She examines the choices she made in the poem around the adoption of a ‘long line’ structure and the use of triplets, how she ramps up the tension through telling details. She spends some time talking about the ending and how she redrafted those final lines until she was happy with the conclusion. She goes on to discuss and illuminate other poems in her pamphlet collection, including the poem ‘Lesley’. You can find a version of Hannah Lowe’s poem ‘Fist’ here, on the Poetry Archive website (with Hannah reading the poem herself). You can also read the version eventually published in Chick (Bloodaxe Books, 2013) here, on the Poetry International website. You can read Georgie Woodhead’s poem ‘When my Uncle Stood at the Top of the Office Block Roof’ here. You can find out more about Georgie’s collection Takeaway (Smith/Doorstop, 2020) here. Vicky Morris is a British/Welsh poet, mentor, editor and creative educator from north Wales. Her debut pamphlet If All This Never Happened (Southword Editions, 2021) was a winner of the Munster Fool for Poetry International Chapbook Competition and shortlisted for Best Poetry Pamphlet in the Saboteur Awards 2021. Her poems have appeared widely in magazines and journals, including: The Rialto, Poetry Review, Mslexia, Poetry Wales and The North. Vicky has placed in various competitions including first in the Prole Laureate Competition 2019 and the Aurora Prize 2020. She was shortlisted for the Mairtin Crawford Award for Poetry 2022 and highly commended in the Liverpool Poetry Prize 2022. Vicky mentors poets at all stages and is the editor of seven anthologies of poetry and fiction by emerging young writers. For the last 14 years, she has built development opportunities for writers aged 14 to 30, founding Hive in 2016. Through Hive, she has mentored many emerging young poets who’ve received accolades such as the New Poets Prize and the Foyle Young Poets Award. Vicky received a Sarah Nulty Award in 2019 for her writer development work and was an Arvon/Jerwood mentee 19/20. www.vickymorris.co.uk You can also follow me on X - @cwjoneschris or on Bluesky - @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes. Sea Road (Summer of ’85) Remember the night you and Lorn walked back this way, past the jangling cluster of amusement arcades, the bingo caller’s muffled boom on the mic, the slot machine beeps and flashing lights, then the long quiet stretch of Sea Road. Remember the man who stopped his car, not once but twice, pretended to fiddle behind a torch-lit bonnet, and you saw his open fly, his hand offering up his cock like a fairground prize to two young girls in beach dresses. Lorn still chattering, heedless of the whisper in your ten-year-old throat, and you daren't look back or turn off the road. Then up ahead, you see a shape in the dark, that same car waiting, bonnet raised, headlights off, engine ticking, the dim glow of torchlight. But this time, he's upped his game. And now you are running, Lorn pulling you down this long, empty road, running like the dark is closing in behind you, like it's stroking the backs of your legs, running from the edge of something sharp and faceless, until you burst into the hall, gasping, out of breath. Mum shouting — What, what is it!? Both of you mute, moving along a road somewhere. The dark of a car boot, your mouths gagged shut.
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