Poetry Worth Hearing: Episode 37

Episode 37 of Poetry Worth Hearing ( you can find it at https://creators.spotify.com/pod/show/7IR7ltf5pxOs84DTJh17b7/episode/5B0OWm9QD29n6ty1ayNrAs/wizard or on You Tube, Spotify and Audible pocasts) had for its prompt 'hiding and seeking' which drew a huge range of poems and approaches. The episode is bookended by an interview with Nancy Campbell and her reading of some of her poems.

Nancy Campbell's debut collection Disko Bay (Enitharmon, 2017) written during a winter residency at Upernavik Museum in Greenland, was shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best First Collection. Subsequently, Nancy turned her attention closer to home as the UK’s Canal Laureate, a project managed by The Poetry Society and the Canal & River Trust. Many of the poems written during her laureateship were installed along the waterways where they could be seen projected on wharves at night, stencilled on towpaths, or engraved into fish gates; they are collected in the pamphlet Navigations (HappenStance, 2020). In her latest book, Uneasy Pieces (Guillemot Press, 2022) prose poems reflect on the experience of being a caregiver, and queer relationships, which are also explored in her memoir Thunderstone. Nancy received the Royal Geographical Society Ness Award for environmental writing in 2020 for her creative response to the climate crisis across poetry, as well as non-fiction, radio journalism, and artist's books. nancycampbell.co.uk

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Guy Jones

Crow

The eyes of crow

black

glinting

in the cold after Yuletide sun

survey the storm's crooked line

left high on the sand

at tide turn

Crow is ancient

a watcher of things

Crow takes in the scene

at a glance

The seaweed

whelk eggs

mermaid’s purses

ripped

still living

from the battered rocks

and dumped

amongst plastic bags

bottles

eroded sea glass

A girl moves through the trail

of washed up things

looking for meaning

where there is none

Sheltering from her own

coming storm

she picks her way

turning kelp to find

burnt out shells

broken crab legs

masonry from last cliff fall

Everything reminds her

The girl sees crow

perched on a sandy cliff

head on one side

like a question mark

dark on the page

Their eyes meet

She knows crow

Crow has been in the tree

that shades granddad's window

waiting

watching

casting its eye

over the debris of a life lived

 half drunk cups of water

barely eaten meals

packages of drugs

that ease the passing

But crow sees more

in the becalmed time

when moments come

and go

and the clock

by the bed

ticks

Crow sees the emptiness

of deeds not done

things unsaid

the would have beens

the could have beens

the should have beens

And reflected in crow's cold eyes

she sees them too

Its work done here

crow calls out

and with an effortless hop

takes to the sky

soars around her once

then is gone

Guy Jones is the Writer In Residence for Hothouse Theatre, a community theatre, audio and film project in Nottingham. He has written several fringe style plays and short films for Hothouse.

He is also the editor of Oh My Nottz, an online magazine which is used as a focus for the creativity of young people. Oh My Nottz includes Writer’s Block pages which support and promotes written work, workshops and events from Nottinghamshire and beyond.

He performs his poems on the Nottingham Poetry scenes and is an active member of DIY Poets.

Zelda Cahill-Patten

Poem in which you’re Eurydice

I went down to the underworld and

found you loitering by the Styx

as though you were at a bus stop:

resigned to an eternity of leaning

on cave walls. You saw me and lifted

your arm in greeting but your eyes

said visiting hour had passed.

I took your hand and it was warmer

than expected, veins still pulsing

with lukewarm, sluggish blood, and

I felt sure that you might live again -

surely, if the organ which once loved

was still doggedly pushing blood

between your lungs and limbs.

Minutes passed, or maybe centuries,

and I whispered honeyed nothings in

your ears. But when I asked your place

or mine, you only shook your head.

When I left you there, in that sunken

world, it was easy to pretend

you were playing hard to get.

It had seemed so real, your need

to be close, as we walked hand

in hand through the land of the dead.

Zelda Cahill-Patten’s poems have been published in journals such as Magma, The North, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Interpreter’s House and folk ku. She was runner-up in the 2024 New Poets Prize, highly commended in Primers Volume Eight, and the winner of the 2025 Philip Burton Poetry Commission.

Lesley Saunders

Coming to Terms

Sitting tall

on a white mare

the emissary rides

through stubble

and sunflowers,

catching a glimpse

now and then

of the ocean’s glint

at the horizon.

Long after noon

a breeze lifts

the mare’s mane;

fields give way

to forest, oak

and chestnut.

Slowing the horse

to a steady walk

the emissary weighs

how much can be

given, which words

will most touch or tell.

Into the clearing

at next day’s dawn

the adversary’s envoy

shouts greeting.

The two hold parley,

a private parliament.

Soon they will gallop

back to their camps

with their satchels

of hard-won, hinted-

at half-truths.

Only the horses

heard how much

was promised,

and at what cost.

Lesley Saunders is the author of several poetry collections, most recently This Thing of Blood & Love (Two Rivers Press 2022) and, with Rebecca Swainston, Days of Wonder (Hippocrates Press 2021), a poetic record of the first year of the Covid pandemic. She is also a prize-winning translator of modern Portuguese poetry. Her current work is an exploration of the connectivities between poetry and dementia.

Pat Winslow

No Network Coverage

One day it will be like this:

no way to reach you and ask

where it was, which house

which rooms had the sun

and which ones didn’t and

when the washing was done

which streets you liked to push

the pram along every day

your favourite songs, shoes, polish

who lived next door, who could

be relied on for a cup of sugar

how it sounded when it snowed.

It might develop over time, a bit

like the slow advance of cobwebs

too difficult to reach; it might

be a bulb that flickers and pings

softly and goes out; it could be

one of those catastrophic things

a tumble of bricks and a cloud

of dust revealing the gap where

you stood, the shape you made.

Dark Water

The gate opening the wrong way

was the first thing to unsettle you.

Something said backwards

a bird that flew widdershins

a look that withdrew itself

to the centre of its beginning.

His rear-view humour made them laugh

but you wonder how much his family knew.

Something lean and stropped about him

sapwood exposed to sunlight.

They said he was like fruit sweets

but his smile was never sugar.

It was water that came from another place

the sort that seeps behind fridges and cookers

the sort that lifts floor tiles and warps doors

so they never close again.

You drove away leaving

their unhinged secrets creaking.

A man with a voice like orange juice

was singing on the radio.

The lights kept changing.

The traffic kept moving.

You knew there was never

going to be an end to it.

Pat Winslow worked for twelve years as an actor before leaving the theatre in 1987. She’s published seven poetry collections, including Kissing Bones and Unpredictable Geometry with Templar Poetry. Pat is currently working on a novel. She is also a celebrant for Humanists UK.

Richard Lister

The tale of Admiral Booth

Two sparkling mackerel

lie on a cheap plate -

he steals their mirrored light.

Mrs Booth waits near the hearth,

hair swept back and held by twine.

The Old Admiral charms her

with his turn of phrase.

He plays his part: ruddy as a man

who’s spent years on a pitching deck,

strafed by the wind.

Wrapped in a blanket,

he perceives when the mudflats

will start to shrug off the tide.

His deep-stained hands

are rarely washed.

Neighbours know he’d fought at sea,

the ferryman can recount his tales.

Only when he dies and The Times

announces he will ‘lie in state’,

do they clock his real name:

JMW Turner.

Richard Lister enjoys coming alongside people and helping them to take their poetry to the next level.  His poetry draws you into stories of intriguing characters, places and images.  Richard’s latest book, Scattered with Grace, is ‘a sumptuous collection, sprinkled with humour and a generosity of spirit’.  He has had work in 14 international publications and 5 exhibitions.

Dinah Livingstone

The Dark Night

On a dark night,

anxious and on fire with love

– oh, how luckily! –

I went out unnoticed

my house being now at rest.

In darkness, safely,

by the secret stairway in disguise.

– oh, how luckily! –

in darkness, stealthily,

my house being now at rest.

On that happy night

no one saw me, it was secret,

and I looked at nothing,

with no other light or guide

than the one burning in my heart.

That guided me

more surely than the light of noon

to where he waited for me –

well I knew who –

hidden out of sight of anyone.

Oh night that guided,

Oh night more delightful than the dawn,

Oh night that united

beloved with beloved,

she who was his love transformed,

becoming her love, him.

On my flowery breast

which was kept for him alone,

there he lay asleep.

I caressed him

and the fanning of the cedars gave us air,

air from the battlements on high

and when I stroked his floating hair,

with his quiet hand

he gave my neck a wound

that made all my senses faint away.

I stayed there and forgot myself,

I leant my face upon my beloved.

Everything stopped, I left myself,

dropping all my care                                      John of the Cross

among the lilies forgotten.                             translated by Dinah Livingstone

Dinah Livingstone has given many poetry readings in London, throughout Britain and abroad. Her tenth poetry collection,Embodiment, was published in 2019. She has received three Arts Council Writer’s Awards for her poetry, which has also appeared in various magazines and anthologies. She is a translator of poetry and prose. She edited the magazine Sofia  from 2004-2024.

katabasis.co.uk/dinah.html

Sarah Mnatzaganian

Lifta 1947 In the mornings, Takouhi and Mehribeh 

face each other in their wicker chairs, 

feet up, sewing, retelling their dreams. 

Takouhi calls, Apraham! Are you listening to us?

He keeps still, happy behind the curtains, 

hugging their sister secrets.

Hagop, his big brother, hangs a target

from the branch of a pomegranate tree so his father

can practice with his air rifle.

When the militia attack, Shoukriya the landlady 

bangs the door and shouts Krikor!

Be a man, fight for your home!

Where do 3,000 Liftawi go? To Lebanon,

Jordan, Nablus? To Palestinian refugee camps?

Lucky ones have family in Jerusalem.

How did Takouhi persuade Krikor 

to load her brother’s handmade furniture 

onto the truck, as the boys clung to her?

5, St James’s Street

The gateway to her is metal, painted grey,

set in a badly pointed arch. It’s not locked.

Push hard against the springs, mind the lintel

and find the cobbled pathway to her door.

Bougainvillea spreads overhead in spring.

A vine gives leaves to blanch and stuff with rice.

Push open the stiff grey gate of your sadness.

Hear the screech of unoiled regret and step

into the last place she knew before she left.

The whitewashed house, the little kitchen

where she pumped Calor gas, scrubbed pans.

The chairs her brother made to take her weight.

Open the grey doors of your eyelids, and look

to one side, as if imagining or remembering.

Think of your father and grandfather’s voices

and subtract their colours, one from the other:

she’s there, warm, laughing, singing, teasing,

sowing the seeds of herself all around.

Sit in her chair under the vaulted ceiling

and smell the jasmine from the open door.

Every time you blink, she’ll wake.

Every time you breathe, you’ll draw her in.

When you start to smile, her eyes

will crinkle in the corners of your face.

Finding my grandmother Takouhi, August 2022 

I can’t be sure I found her grave. 

The place I think she rests, under a tree 

as my uncle said, is shadowed 

by a metal cross with trefoiled arms

as my father said, the paint worn off

which might have spelt her name.

I didn’t have time to bring her flowers 

so I stood, talked to her and prayed.

I scooped a handful of sandy soil 

and put it in a plastic cup, dropped 

by someone who didn’t care; capped it 

with another cup, put it in my bag.

I took this fragment of her home to Ely 

to find a second coming of roses. 

Gertrude Jekyll, soft as a cheek, 

pure as a life cut far too short.

I gather all these English flowers

and lay them in her ample lap. 

I have her hands and feet, her gait,

they say, and when I consider someone

I love, I lean my head to one side.

I’ll breathe this scent for her, take

her hand, invite her in, make coffee,

find some pistachios for her to crack.

Sarah Mnatzaganian is an Anglo Armenian poet. Her father was born in Palestine in 1939 and her paternal heritage inspires much of her work. Sarah’s award-winning Lemonade in the Armenian Quarter was her publisher’s best seller and inspired a song cycle by Noah Max. Work has featured in journals including PN Review, The Rialto, Poetry Wales, Poetry Ireland Review, The North, Magma and 2024 Poetry Archive Now!

Fokkina McDonnell

his ashes on a corner

of the dining table

by the small square

votive container

the discreet

undertaker’s logo

she greets him

will have a glass

at six      his ashes

waiting with us

for borders to open                

 The visit

Thank you, he said. Thank you for that. For what, she thought as she sat down. It was just a cup of tea and a small, wrapped biscuit she’d saved from her visit to the hairdresser. O’Riley looked down, He was still stirring his tea. He looked older since his last visit. A slight smile. Was he nervous? Did he have something to hide? He was the Welfare Officer on his six-monthly visit. Had they got something? She’d been so careful: no photos on social media, she always wore her mother’s old raincoat, varied her routes. Had he planted something while she was in the kitchen? O’Riley cleared his throat.

Obit

Alex had a fulsome obituary. He was only twenty-five. I have written books and articles about us, how clever, intelligent, and eloquent he was. Yes, I loved that parrot with devotion. But the past is a bronze statue. I want to love again. My first choice wouldn’t be the owner of a circus, or a vet. Clockwise round the table, every person I could fall for is an embryonic disaster.

Fokkina McDonnell now lives in the Netherlands. Poems have been widely published and anthologised.  She has three poetry collections (Oversteps Books, 2016; Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2019; Broken Sleep Books, 2022) and a pamphlet (Grey Hen Press, 2020). Fokkina received a Northern Writers’ Award in 2020. She blogs on www.acaciapublications.co.uk where she also features guest poets.

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 That's everything for this episode. Just to remind you, you can listen on https://creators.spotify.com/pod/show/7IR7ltf5pxOs84DTJh17b7/episode/5B0OWm9QD29n6ty1ayNrAs/wizard or go to You Tube, Audible or Spotify podcasts. If you have comments or suggestions, you can contact me on poetryworthhearing@gmail.com. This is also the address for submissions. The theme for the next episode, post - COP, is all things 'eco', interpreted as widely as you choose. The closing date is January 18th.

Happy Christmas