The theme for this episode is 'other' and so I asked Jane Burn, who describes herself as working class, neurodivergent, pansexual and who has chosen to live off-grid, to make a recording about herself and otherness, including readings from her own work and from writers she values. I was prompted in part by a Facebook post where Jane described the experience of being 'othered' by some impatient attendees in a queue at a Raymond Antrobus book signing, only to be warmly greeted by the poet himself, which triumphantly put the boot on the 'other' foot.
As with all the prompts I offer, this one can be very widely interpreted and so the range of work it has attracted is correspondingly wide. Poems included come from Lucy Ingrams, Richard Lister, Siobhan Ward, Lizzie Ballagher, Heather Moulson, Trish Broomfield, Heather Shakespeare, Kate Young, Carmel McKeown and Slava Konoval.
Jane Burn is an award-winning, working-class, pansexual, autistic person, poet, artist and essayist. She has an MA in Writing Poetry from Newcastle University; she won the 2022 academic prize for best overall performance. In 2022, Jan explored her neurodivergent writer's theories funded by Arts Council England and is currently putting these ideas into a book. In 2023 she was awarded a grant by the Royal Literary Fund. Her poems are widely published and anthologised. Her laest collection, Be Feared, is available from Nine Arches press. She lives off-grid with her family in a Northumberland cottage for most of the year. She has recently won the Michael Marks Environmental Poet of the Year Prize 2023-2024, for her pamphlet A Thousand Miles from the Sea,which can be ordered from the British Library and Wordsworth Grasmere. |
We would like to thank the poets Jane quoted for permission to use their work:
Ruth Middleton for 'Snow' in Anthology of Illness, ed. Amy Mackelden and Dr Dylan Jaggard, Emma Press, 2020.
Rachel Boast for 'The Infernal Method' https://www.badlilies.uk/rachael-boast
Raymond Antrobus for 'Lovable' in All the Names Given, Picador, 2021
Jane also quoted writers from Disability Visibility, edited by Alice Wong, Knopf Doubleday, 2020.
She also cited Fran Lock in White/Other, The 87 Press, 2022.
Lucy Ingrams
shadow
‘… will serve for summer’ – Shakespeare
what was f r a c t u r e d
by the rain
feathered
with gloom
tamped in
the intestines
of a gale
has opened
to coordinates
of blue
and at the horizons
along
the
ecliptic
cumuli
sway
cloud and un-
cloud the face of the sun …
so now walking’s
this sequence
of meetings
with a skinned
thin ancient
who spikes in
and out
of doors
of rye grass
to bare
her surprise
again and
again
seeing
you back
after the
long squat
of winter’s
poorlight—
Lucy Ingrams' first pamphlet, Light-fall (2019) was published by Flarestack Poets and her debut collection, Signs (2023) by Live Canon. Awards for her work include the Manchester Poetry Prize and Magma’s poetry prize. She is based in Oxford. |
Richard Lister
I was sand:
flurries shaved from a dune’s crest.
Pressed down in a sheltered dip
with weight upon weight,
fused grains without gaps: stone.
Shunted north on a tectonic tide
to split and slide into the sea.
I could be bread encased in ash,
grabbed while warm to the touch,
clutched as a girl’s last crust
before her frantic dash
for a low slung boat rammed tight
with frightened men, an ox and mule.
As a rock, I should not speak
yet have much to tell:
be wary of the black, rich soil
that, without toil, will spring your wheat.
For now, or in a thousand years,
that quiet hill will burst and let rip hell.
But who will hear my voice and heed?
A man may hold a conch up to his ear
and note the rumble of his blood
but no one stops to listen to a stone.
Watching the tribe
A poet needs to observe
to catch life’s tics and tells:
how a lady spreads her fingers
or a man nibbles toast
with finely measured bites.
They emerge midmorning
in tone-perfect jackets,
broaches and scarves;
cluster like blackberries
in slants of autumn sun
and trade their lines:
grandson's prickly girlfriend,
knee op, orchid's bloom.
Talk precise as a bonsai
clipped for show.
You see them at the fringes
of TV - worried relative
beside the bed - few lines,
rarely the protagonist.
We worship the wrinkle free.
They can seem less solid
than the young as if,
with their faded hair
- Dove Grey, Slate, Smoke -
they blend into walls.
How do they see me?
A man alone who stares
until seen, jots down notes,
skin slack, face gone to jowl,
almost one of us.
Richard Lister draws you into stories of intriguing characters, places and images. In his recent collection, 'Edge & Cusp', his poems ‘capture life like a vibrant painting’ with ‘fiercely original descriptions’. His work is published in twelve international magazines including Acumen, Orbis and Ekphrastic Review and is carved into the Radius sculpture. He coaches leaders to bring life-giving transformation in the UK, Asia and Africa. |
Sarah J Bryson
High School for Girls
1972
.
Each morning 600 girls gathered in the Oldfield Hall
for a formula of news, reports, results, faint praise,
with lectures on expected behaviour and uniform rules.
Miss Renwick, blue rinsed, and woollen stockinged,
would stand square at the lectern, with her senior crew
of staff on stage, the rest spread like referees
along the hall’s edges, eyes peeled for small time offenders.
The length of a skirt was noticeable, when we knelt to pray.
.
When we knelt to pray it was noticeable that all those girls
around me closed their eyes, attended to the sentiments,
spoke aloud a chorus of amens. Really seemed to mean them.
When we stood to sing the hymns, they all joined in.
I was lost in my new found disbelief.
One, among so many.
Sarah J Bryson is interested in words, words for well being, people and nature and the connections between these elements. She has poems in print journals, anthologies and on line. |
Lizzie Ballagher
RUMBL IFFS! TAY BAC . ANGER!
You loved to tease:
knew I’d fall for the trick,
the trap, the trail of cookie-crumbs.
Your line was always baited,
while I flailed—open-mouthed,
bass hooked on the line,
rabbit frozen in headlamps,
deer held hypnotised
in hunters’ flashlights….
But one day you went too far.
The fence was down, sign
to warn us upended on the edge
with painted letters missing:
RUMBL IFFS!
TAY BAC . ANGER!
You turned on the knife-edge,
gave a flippant grin, glanced at me,
waved to check I was watching;
twisted daggers in my heart
as in blind terror I saw you
freefall off the cliff, still laughing….
You sauntered back across cracked ground
to find me shaken, tearful,
fixing my eyes on the one still point:
lighthouse by lovers’ leap,
steady and painted white in dead grass.
I wept. Could not look at you.
One week later that lighthouse fell
in a landslide—tons of chalk and rock
into the Channel below—cue
newspaper photos of riven chalk slabs,
broken warning signs, paths
ending in a breathless void
Tug of Love
That egret balancing on stick-legs
has not flown in today;
nor the grey heron on his stilts.
Instead, below the lock where,
most days, the river runs peacefully,
there is the shock
of water’s boil & turmoil loosed
from floodgates—wild, unbridled.
I watch its race as the tide draws down,
as the moon heaves through all
that water-weight, that freightedness;
and feel—standing on the riverbank,
that, although bone-dried, I am
hypnotised, tethered, and sinking
under the rush of floodwater…though
it’s only the familiar Medway….
Yet life—
its roil, its coil,
its random rage—runs over me
while my lumpen feet are tied
in the lead of the riverbed
as in a trap: caught
in a tangle of boat-rope
by an unyielding anchor.
You summon me
in your helplessness.
I drown in the overwhelm,
the inescapable,
the unrelenting
of this lunar-crazed
tide
called love.
Ballagher's focus is on landscapes, both interior and exterior; also on the beauty (and hostility) of the natural world. She has studied in England, Ireland, and the USA; worked in education and publishing, and is now preparing a second volume of poetry. Her poems have appeared in print and online in all corners of the English-speaking world, most recently in Canada. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/ |
Kate Young
Opposites Attract
I offer you Hardy and Eliot
their crumbled spines lining the shelf
beneath your Grisham’s and King’s
arranged with alphabetical precision.
It has always been this way
from the day we first met,
the poet and the scientist
magnets drawn to the other’s depth.
I see stories in shadow-clouds
while you unfold their origin,
cast aside their wispy tails
in meteorological explanation.
I drag you through walls in the Tate
excited by works of Monet and Blake
while you favour the coloured lines
of a tube map, the beauty of logic.
You patiently explain the workings
of a Boeing 747 as easily as oiling an engine;
I play you songs on an old guitar
frets marked with years of chording.
We stare at the landscape before us,
you through the zoom of a mobile screen
my eyes squinting into the sun
both of us drawn to the horizon.
Dad, There’s a Dragon in the Window
Young limbs clamber the crest of a chair
ascending Everest, rucksack packed
with torch, teddy and morning snack.
Staring out through Corstorphine haar
he scouts the outline of a spine
and longs to climb its heathered scales.
It’s not a dragon, his father explains
unfolding a map of the Pentlands,
fingers tracing contours and hills
not even a mountain, his tone rising
as he treads a very different terrain
to the boy who shapes the dragon.
Rivulets course down salted cheeks,
the slow drip of his imagination
quickly pooling at his feet.
Kate Young lives in Kent with her husband and has been passionate about poetry and literature since childhood. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Words for the Wild, Poetry on the Lake, Sea Changes, The Poet, The Alchemy Spoon, Dreich, Fly on the Wall Press, Poetry Scotland, City, Town & Village, Boundaries & Borders and New Ways of Looking at Rye Harbour. She has also been published in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Beyond the Storm. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate are published with Hedgehog Press. Find her on Twitter @Kateyoung12poet. |
Carmel McKeown
Archetypes
I hate being told I’m an archetype—
nothing in this life defines, that I
should wear my dunce's hat upon my
certain head, or wear my yellow
badge, that tells you, what,
I do not know myself.
How dare I show my empathy
putting shillings in her cup, she
shouldn’t sit with one leg gone, we
know where she is from:
how far we think that we have come, but
we don’t know where to put her.
The charity-shop girl’s horror talk, which
struck my ear of late, of
a black girl’s hair, so full of life, would
clean their loos so well, yet
my tongue was struck just as my ear, to
my shame I muttered little. Some
shop girl’s fear and unknown knowns,
was supposed to tell me why—why?
she’d degrade with words in her own mind and
let them flow right out. And why—
why I muttered little to my shame, I’m
just as much to blame.
Carmel McKeown, a Meath born Irish writer, creates poetry and short stories which reflect her journeys from Meath, through the surrounds of Gormanston Castle, where she walked among yew trees planted by her ancestors. Her travels took her to Dublin, Australia, Limerick, Galway, the US and finally Skerries, where she now lives. In 2023, she was awarded a place by The IWC on 'The Northern Souls Roadshow' which she found to be a fantastic learning experience. Last year she participated in an online open mic, which was based in London and, recently read at two different online open mics for the Irish Writers Centre, based in Dublin. Carmel has also done many short story writing courses with Claire Keegan and, with Claire Keegan’s own tutor, Professor Mary McCay. |
Slava Konoval
Look around, stop, and be careful!
Look around, stop, and be careful!
Wherever you go
blat* solves the social torments,
it forgives the criminal a wallet of Mr. Kurchenko,
Rosenblat at large.
Oh well? Not on such a scale
I will write you these few lines,
we, Ukrainians, are enemies of each other
from the grandfathers, at all times,
in the name of the ages.
We push in friends,
letting get the best men to work,
we drag a familiar mother-in-law.
She is someone's niece from Tsirkuny village.
Vertically from top to bottom,
family contracts can be seen,
you can also lose the state.
Well, God will not forgive such a thing.
*As Slava explains in the podcast, 'blat' is the word used in Ukraine to mean all kinds of corruption.
Vyacheslav Konoval is a Ukrainian poet whose work is devoted to the most pressing social problems of our time, such as poverty, ecology, relations between the people and the government, and war. His poems have appeared in many magazines, including Anarchy Anthology Archive, International Poetry Anthology, Literary Waves Publishing, Sparks of Kaliopa, Reach of the Song 2022, Diogenes for Culture Journal, «Scars of my heart from the war», «Poetry for Ukraine», «Rhyming», «La page Blanche», «Impacted», «Military Review», «The Lit», «Allegro», «Innisfree poetry journal», «Antunes Galaxy Poetry», «Ekscentrika», «Mere Inkling», «EgoPhobia», «Fulcrum», «Omnibus», «Lothlorien Poetry Journal», Revista Literaria «Taller Igitur», «Tarot Poetry Journal», «Tiny Seed Literature Journal», «Best American Poetry Blog», «Quilled Ink Review», «Chronograph Poetry Journal», the Appalachian Journal «Dark Horse», «Agape», «Mascara Literary Review», «Gray Sparrow», «ArLJo», «Ekstasis», «The Bloom Litarery Journal», «Novus Litarery Journal», «Lyrical Somerville», «Charleston Poets», «Briefly Zine», «Varied Spirit», «Taos Poetry Journal», «The Skinny Poetry Journal», «Academy of the Heart and Mind» Journal, «ARIEL CHART» International Literary Journal, «Poesia Ultracontemporanea», «New Ulster 124», «Revista Cronopio», «Gotic Nature», «WordCityLit», «TSaunders Pubs», «London Grip New Poetry», «Mill Valley Literary Review», «Zeitglass», «The Coin», «Coal Literary Journal», «Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal», «Diamonds in the Rough magazine», «Spy Community Media», «Delmarva Rewiev», «Synchronized Chaos Journal», «The Horror Zine Journal», «The Bosphorus Review», «Interalia Magazie», «North Meridian», «Bellwether». «Bylines Cymru». Vyacheslav's poems have been translated into Spanish, French, Scottish, Italian, and Polish languages. |
Siobhan Ward
At the Hospital
I remember never seeing her more alive -
eyes wide open, arms wide in greeting,
as if we’d surprized her with a party,
she who’d never liked surprizes.
All the pigeons flying home she said.
Then, when the last of us landed -
enunciating like when she’d taught us
poetry to recite - do you know I’m dying?
I knew. The doctor had told me,
the eldest, she’d last the day at most.
He was wrong.
She held rowdy court for a week.
At quieter times we had a look in.
holding her hand in his both, his gaze
concentrated on her while she slept on.
When it was my turn, I said to her I’ll miss you.
I nearly missed the end when it came –
a pause – two puffs of baby breath –
like blowing out candles on a cake.
I remember the nurse came in and opened the window.
After the Stroke
he goes for short walks,
tells me sometimes he gets lost.
I’m scared I’ll lose him.
Siobhan Ward lives and works in London. Her poems have been commended in the Segora International Poetry Competition 2020, Cannon Poets Sonnet or Not Competition 2022 and Ver Open Poetry Competition 2023. Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in journals and anthologies including Porridge, BODY, Wildfire Words, The Cannon’s Mouth and Dreich. |
Heather Shakespeare
Seeing Through
A window is a generous soul
kinder than a wall or a closed door
clearer than a chimney or a gable end.
It offers a way through, a view out or in,
invites you over from your chair to admire
the confidence of a June rose as she flaunts
cerise petals to the bees, swishing
her dress in the breeze like a restless
debutante looking for love.
Whether bay or sash, bow or leaded light
it may stop your steady tread along
the pavement at dusk, ask you to pause
a moment to observe the seated figures leaning
in to the polished table, heads low,
chewing over the day.
A window is a generous soul which
points a quivering finger at a shape you think
you recognise but haven’t found a name for yet,
shares another angle on the broader scene,
frames a fragment of the image we bear.
I lean across to yours.
Heather Shakespeare lives and writes in the beautiful Surrey Hills, which often provide inspiration for her poetry. After working for many years as an English teacher and teacher trainer in colleges and prisons, she now facilitates writing for wellbeing workshops, which centre on the therapeutic benefits of the writing process. Heather is a co-founder of Writing for Life, and Membership Secretary for her local poetry stanza, Mole Valley Poets. Her poems have been published in Antiphon and The Interpreter’s House. |
Trish Broomfield
The Other Woman
They share each others sadness
staring face to face
but instead of hate
the widow and his lover
melt eye to eye
feel his presence when they meet.
Reflecting the same pain
their isolation
becoming balm to both
soothes hollowness and loss,
a sorrow shared
more comforting than words.
Judgement suspended, bar a glance
at coat and bag assessing quality,
their eyes allow a window in
to where once he lived
dissolving spite
and for that moment
bring him softly into light.
Trish Broomfield writes poems and short stories. She has three pamphlets published by Dempsey and Windle and poems published in many anthologies and online poetry magazines, including the Lancaster One Minute Monologues. She is one third of The Booming Lovelies who have appeared at this year ‘s Cranleigh Literary Festival on April 3rd and the Guildford Institute on May 13th. There will be a souvenir pamphlet for sale Meet the Booming Lovelies. As a member of Cranleigh Writers’ Group she has contributed to an anthology of their work, From the Crane’s Mouth, out in time for the above Literary Festival and her own book, My Acrostic Mother, illustrated by fellow ‘Lovely’ Heather Moulson, is also due out soon. Her poem ‘It’s only Maths, was featured on BBC Upload in January. |
Heather Moulson
A Bit of the Other
You suggested a bit of the other
And now I’m about to be a mother
With this ring I thee smother
But stretch marks kill passion
Breast feeding all the fashion
A bit of the other on ration
While I wear nipple pad covers
You take on other lovers
a bit of the other from others
Eying up all the yummy mummies
Meanwhile I sterilise dummies
A bit of the other are just memories
I talk to women at the NCT
While you finally hold the baby
A bit of the other ancient history
Now that our child has a brother
And I have turned into my mother
I’m turned down flat for a bit of the other
Heather Moulson has been writing poetry since 2017. She has performed extensively in London, particularly Celine’s Salon and Soho Poets, and Guildford and Woking. Her debut pamphlet Bunty, I Miss You was published in 2019. Heather won the Brian Dempsey Memorial Award in 2020. Heather is part of the Booming Lovelies who performed at the Guildford Fringe last year. |
That's all for Episode 24. I hope you enjoyed it and that you have listened to the poets at
The next episode will be an election special based on 'political' -small 'p' , big 'P', it doesn't matter, but poems should be high quality, brave and, if possible, kind. Deadline 22nd June.
Please share this episode and the call for submissions which should be sent to poetryworthhearing@gmail.com. Suggestions and comments, which are always welcome, to the same address.
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