Poetry Worth Hearing: Episode 38

The theme for this episode (https://open.spotify.com/episode/1FeZemtLFiCIBpkyFqC24u?si=y7M0SktZQXSU1-8FcCiVrw) was 'writing nature/writing eco' and it was prompted by some comments by Nancy Campbell which, unfortunately, I didn't have room for in Episode 37. The other relevant context was the end of COP 30 which seemed to close without achieving very much. Eco-writing and eco criticism can be problematic and controversial, reflecting just how important it is at this time. Nancy suggests that traditional writing about Nature can seem voyeuristic, perhaps because such writing still sees all nature as a human protectorate or perhaps because nature has traditionally been a treasure house of imagery through which humans can express themselves. The new uneasiness about our relationship with nature and guilt about what we have done to our own planet has prompted a huge range of new writing about Nature. I have been very fortunate here to be able to showcase a sample of such writing in the recording of the Eco Sonnet launch.

Here is the website for Whaleback Press which has organised and published these sonnets: https://whalebackcitypress.co.uk

The publishers of Whaleback City Press are WN Herbert and Andy Jackson. This collection was edited by Linda France, who is also a contributing poet, with the opening and closing sonnets. The others, in order, are Emma Must, Caleb Parkin (read by Bill Herbert), Sophie Balzer (read by Linda France), Jane Burn, Tishani Doshi (read by Andy Jackson), Jemma Borg, Jacqueline Saphra, Jacob Polley, Sophie Herxheimer, Helen Mort, Steve Ely, Bill Herbert and Glyn Maxwell.

Other poets who have generously allowed me to use their work include Kathleen Jamie, Philip Gross and Sarah Watkinson. Other poets are Inge Milfull, Lizzie Ballagher, Helen Overell, Richard Lister, Kate Young, Georgia Hilton, Derek Sellen and Sara Stegen.

Kathleen Jamie, former makar of Scotland, poet and essayist, needs no introduction from me. This poem, which I encountered in her recent collection of prose and poems, Cairn,(Sort Of Books, 2023) is widely available online.

Philip Gross also requires little introduction. Recent collections include The Shores of Vaikus (Bloodaxe, 2024) The Thirteenth Angel (Bloodaxe, 2022) This poem has just been published in Acumen 114.

Sarah Watkinson is a poet and retired plant scioentist. Her collections include the pamphlet, Dung Beetles Navigate by Starlight, (Cinnamon Press,2017) and Photovoltaic, (first published by Graft in 2023 and republished by Valley Books in 2024). Her poem 'Earthwork' was commissioned by the Natural History Museum in Oxford to accompany a Kurt Jackson painting entitled, 'Fungi Forage'. "The End of August at Hethpool' is forthcoming in the next issue of Tears in the Fence.

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Inge Milfull

Library Closure

After Nancy Campbell

In the library of ice

the opening hours are shortening.

Patterns on the surface like wrappers—

stars and flowers, arrested flows.

Deeper down, older records—

folios of history beyond human memory,

pollen blown on unimagined winds.

Deep in the core, low in the bore—

Imprinted the steps of lumbering giants.

Whole volumes disintegrate on their shelves.

Script thaws off a discarded page.

Inge Milfull is half German, half Australian. She grew up in Germany. She works in Oxford as a lexicographer and writes mostly in English. She is a member of  Back Room Poets and the facilitator of their poetry workshop.

Lizzie Ballagher

Chalklands

When fields are white aprons pegged

on the long line of the downs’ spine

to dry under an east wind

then I know

spring is coming to these chalklands.

When wind switches to south,

swings up from the Weald,

cuckoos may come or,

this year,

they may not….

Then hearing no other plaintive voices

but my own, I stand

with a basket of pillow cases,

lift an apron to my face

as I weep

for what has gone:

for what I may not hear again,

not even on a southern wind.

O.S. #1: Dark Peak                                 

I

Lost:

mere dots on the map, or dashes

where stone walls pile siltstone

on sandstone, on shale,

we are specks, even smaller,

too small for maps of glaciated peakscape,

lost

between broken cloud

that brings no rain under

that aching bruise of domed sky

and the tinder dry

of Kinder’s moorland;

lost

where even dark peat steams, desiccating;

where marsh grass withers,

hisses in a hot wind at either side

the narrow footway; the oblique camber

clings in ragged roots to clough-edge.

II

No use

looking to our ancient mother,

not even here, for Mam Tor shivers.

Shale and karst-stone slip away.

Only black outcrops remain to bare

dour faces to a burning wind.

No use

looking for water

in what used to be a sodden land.

Forget your memory of a hundred feet

of thundering white water-force

at Kinder Downfall.

No use:

it’s gone to dust, to melting mist

in the gritstone thirst of this fruitless,

overheated pilgrimage. And as for us:

far too insignificant to feature on an O.S. map;

mere irrelevance in time’s slow hand-clap.

Ballagher's focus is on landscapes, both interior and exterior; also on the beauty of nature. Having studied in England, Ireland, and the USA, she worked in education and publishing. Her poems have appeared in print and online in all corners of the English-speaking world; some have been set to music by the composer Simon Mold. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/

Helen Overell

Today's walk takes us through the dell

near Talybont-on-Usk

Our path is blocked, the stile a mere stage prop,

we follow faint tracks along the fence, see

rough-hewn steps cut into the fallen tree,

the makeshift gap in the fissured backdrop

lays bare the unweathered heartwood. We stop,

consider the tip-toed reach, clamber — knee,

hand, foot — over to the other side, free

to find our way. Startle-green moss on top

of the slewed trunk now pall and not waymark.

Branches torn from sky, the oak, in full leaf —

hundreds of years held within that great girth —

parched, toppled, roots blinded by light, ridged bark

snagged by barbed wire — such immoveable grief —

felled by untimely gales, wrenched from the earth.

Helen Overell has work in several magazines and some of her poems were highly commended or placed in competitions including the Poetry Society Stanza Competition 2018 and the Poetry News Members' poems Summer 2020. Her first collection Inscapes &

Horizons was published by St Albert's Press in 2008 and her second collection

Thumbprints was published by Oversteps in 2015. A booklet of her poems

Measures for lute was published by The Lute Society in 2020. She takes an active role

in Mole Valley Poets, a Poetry Society Stanza group.

Richard Lister

Ayrmer beach in October

The stream cuts left

with muscled force.

Our trench diverts a rivulet

that slides into the sand.

Each slate we place

into the flow is tugged,

undermined and over-swept

but, backed with clumps of quartz,

seaweed and sand might hold.

Our arms are tired,

feet squodge in sodden socks,

the stream rips round our dam

but we nudge and fail and nudge.

Tentative

Swifts comb the sky.

One dips into the lane,

her course flirtatious:

distant, flitting then

passing so close

she could sip

from the curls of my hair.

She skits away

over a hedge,

resumes her endless

breeze-doodling

through these

full fat days of summer,

half listening for the Masai

to call her home.

Richard Lister MA, ACC

Poetry Judge, Mentor & Workshop Facilitator

Mole Valley Poet

(M) 07484 100450

Scattered with Grace 'abounds with light & shade' 'sumptuous poetry collection'  

Edge & Cusp 'a truly beautiful collection of poetry that will leave you changed' 

Workshops 'really enjoyable', 'stimulating' & 'thought-provoking' 

Kate Young

Bruce

Attracted to his eyes, I’m hooked –

all Aussie bravado basking in light,

an aptitude to scale Uluru heights.

It’s in his nature. A clip on TikTok

states he’s sassy, curious, adventurous.

He is none of these things.

On our third date I spot him stretched

out on gnarled branch, skin morphed

an angry shade of red, spikes raging

his spine, his scales, his bearded chin.

He’s feeling crook, sick of wasting

every arvo encased in toughened glass.

Tedium takes half-shuttered lids

to the glare of an overhead LED.

Sadness reflects in amber eyes.

Where is the charm, that saucy wink,

bob of a head to attract a mate?

He’s drongo, feels it in his cold blood.

For £750, Bruce, (plus tank)

could be mine. I’d fly him Business,

back to the land where Uluru rises

in sandstone skies, where red-bearded

dragons scuttle free over peaks,

speak in soft tongues of Tjukurpa.

* Tjukurpa: pronounced chook-orr-pa

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, Fly on the Wall Press, Poetry Scotland, The Lake and Littoral.

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 X @Kateyoung12poet or her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk

Georgia Hilton

Zebra Escapes from the Zoo in Seoul, South Korea, is Recaptured.                                    

Bars of light and shade stripe the enclosure

where the young zebra lies, still under sedation.

Might he remember, when he awakes, the bars

of light and shade that striped the alleyways

through which he trotted, breaking into a gentle

canter as the window grills were flung open,

disturbing the patterns of light and shade

(oh, the incredible stir he made!), the shouts

from the ornate doorways of Bukchon?

A living barcode, traversing the city, dainty

on his feet as a ballerina, elegant in his black and white,

day-to-eveningwear, his stripes of dark and light –

where does he begin and end? He makes sense

only in a multitude, a zigzag back and forth tumult

of spiky manes, sweaty flanks and flicking tails,

wobbling in the midday heat currents of the Savannah,

or in the confusion of lengthening shadows at dusk.

He is part of a multipack, not for individual resale,

cannot be processed singly – yet singular he is –

sleeping off his glorious misadventure in the city

of Homo Sapiens, who leapt and hooted, pointed,

and shrieked – whilst others, unperturbed,

continued to forage and feed amongst the food carts

on that busy Myeongdong street –

and still others held up small rectangles of light,

scanning his mammalian QR code to capture

that fleet-footed spirit of a distant continent.

Scientists Encounter Rare ‘Dumbo’ Octopus

The Dumbo Octopus is poorly named,

for an apparition in the inky deep-sea –

for such a pale and graceful ghost –

eight-limbed with two expressive

arms out front – as if dancing through

enchanted midnight, a girl searching

for her beloved. Spectral echo

of Victorian romance, slow-motion,

silent movie Estella, gliding in her

bridal gown into infinite, starless space. 

To livestream this ancient being feels

demeaning – there are no mysteries

left now – but Jana and Daniel intone

their oohs and aahs all the same, part

of a chorus of scientists watching

from the Nautilus and speaking live

to David on ABC News. We hear them

say oh wow and those flappy, flappy ears

(of the creature’s ear-like fins) and

I’ve never seen one like this, when surely

the only appropriate response is

profound silence. And no silence so

profound as that of the octopus. Its

peerless flight. I’m concerned

about the observer effect – after all –

observation can affect the outcome

of a phenomenon. Is the octopus now

self-conscious? Is the deep ocean no

more than a two-way mirror?

We, the tree-descended, were never

intended to spy this phantom

of the seafloor. This ineffable, deepest

dwelling of known octopus species –

but maybe they encountered us first.

Perhaps they explored our shipwrecks,

tenderly probing the empty sockets

of our sea dead. Maybe they built their alien

cities of our sunken treasure chests.

Collared Doves

Softest grey, exquisite plum blush –

they take only what is freely offered,

bowing to the grain sacrifice,

calm and courteous in their devotion.

Daylight seeps away, dew beads the grass,

each blade a string of pearls gifted by the dusk.

Flight seems superfluous now, in the blue hour.

May your dreams be like a pair of collared doves.

Georgia Hilton is an Irish poet and fiction writer, now living in Winchester, England. Her work has been widely published in the UK, Ireland, the US and Australia. Georgia is the author of two books of poetry, ‘I went up the lane quite cheerful’ (2018), and ‘Swing’ (2020), both published by Dempsey and Windle. She is also co-author of the collaborative poetry anthology ‘Sea Between Us’ (2022), published by Nine Pens Press.

Derek Sellen

The weather speaks of change

True, I have sometimes misbehaved –

held you hostage in your houses,

trapped you in your flimsy vehicles,

blinded you with blizzard,

ignited your rafters with lightning,

vandalised your cities with hurricane,

then been merciful,

                           freshened the soils

and ripened the harvests to sustain you.

I’ve tempted you to outdoor loving,

amused you with rainbows and sunsets.

In winter, I turn magician

and fill the air with sparkle.

                                                 But lately,

I have surrendered to my taste for disaster.

I am like an old man

you have fed on garbage for too many years.

Flatulence makes me bad to be around.

A woman whom you’ve lodged by swamp-waters,

                               inhaling miasmas

until my womb produces monsters.

Soon I’ll be at the limit of personification,

         an outdated device, you’ll agree.

I shall not “speak” to you even

in the intelligible words of climatologists –

                                  listen instead for my roar,

          my fists pummelling the sky,

          my hot breath melting the ice,

          my storms erasing you from the planet,

no longer a topic of conversation

but a merciless revenge,

                                 unless you hear me now.

Derek Sellen, from Canterbury, has performed his work in the UK and Europe. His poems are published widely and recognised in many competitions, twice winning Canterbury Festival Poet of the Year and three times winning O’Bheal (Cork). His collection The Other Guernica – poems inspired by Spanish art  was a finalist in the Poetry Book Award. A third collection, The Night Bus will be published in November 2026 by the Cinnamon Press imprint Leaf by Leaf.  

Sara Stegen

Will we have hay fever in the future?

A soaring metallic eagle

counts our roofing tiles         

images from the hovering drone

show man-made traces etched in the landscape

concrete lawns black-tiled roofs granite paving stones

our neighbors hate dirt and greenery

The drone shows me how

we pummel our land

we like our outdoor spaces stone and tidy

neat - we don’t want mess

no leaves nor cones nor bees nor birds

no nuisance no bother

Our garden - one speck

of brown and green in winter coat

our fir tree higher than our house

like a glacial erratic left behind

when glaciers shoved the rocks

from Sweden to this place

pushed down the land

Sleek solar panels line these roofs

like blackened snow expanses

heating rooms, heating food, heating water

turning off our need for fossil fuels

my Oma always said

‘Turn off the lights when you leave the room.’

And if I speak of loss

I think of my Oma who used to say

‘It is my punishment.’

her Christian father’s stern legacy spoke

‘You can only marry in black.’

On the solar panels pollen settle in spring

my children sneeze - Gezondheid’^[i]

my grandmother got hay fever in her sixties

after she farmed the land

it makes no sense

Will we have hay fever in the future?

^[i] Dutch for ‘Bless you’

Sara Stegen is a Dutch poet and non-fiction author who writes about land, family, nature, and neurodivergence. Home is a boulder-clay ridge in the northern Netherlands where her bike shed contains 8 bicycles and where she is working on a memoir about apples and autism and her first poetry collection.

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That's all for this episode. Please listen at https://open.spotify.com/episode/1FeZemtLFiCIBpkyFqC24u?si=y7M0SktZQXSU1-8FcCiVrw or on Audible, Spotify or You Tube podcasts. Share with friends. Spread the word.

The next episode will be 'Other Spaces' which you can interpret as widely as you like. However, if you are tempted into the area of translation, please include the source text and make sure the work is either out of copyright or that you have the appropriate permissions. I have no money!! The deadline is February 18th and, as always, you should send up to 4 minutes of your recording plus texts plus a short bio to poetryworthhearing@gmail.com. Suggestions and comments to the same address.