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Poetry Worth Hearing: Episode Three

Welcome to the third episode of Poetry Worth Hearing. In this episode we begin with two poems by poet and plant scientist, Sarah Watkinson, followed by an interview in which she talks about science poetry and how, in a time of ecological crisis, we should write about Nature. We follow up with poems which look at different aspects of Nature by Andrew Dixon, Sharron Green, Margot Myers, Claire Cox and Eva Wal. These are poems about Nature and humans in Nature; as Sarah Watkinson reminds us, humans are always a part of Nature. Then we have an extract from a Zoom reading by Robert Etty who writes about the people and places of his native Lincolnshire, while Diana Bell takes us to the Black Country, Suzannah Houston to people and things and Lyn Thornton transports us to celestial fields with poems influenced by her reading of Dante.

You will find here the texts of the poems in Episode Three ( as well as background information about the poets and details of their publications. If you would like to submit to Poetry Worth Hearing please send your 4 minute recording to Further information about how to submit can be found in the post on December 7.


Rural Assets, Blenheim

Underfoot's not dirt, not soil - but earth,

skin of the planet where we live, allowed by leaves.

This morning bluebell shoots poke up. It's spring!

Moss glows green in the wood, paths run with water,

snails are on the move. Sun spotlights the palace.

Let's deny our dread at the jaundiced field,

think instead how like prairie a huge field

can feel, how a sea of barley covered the earth

last summer, foreground to a vista of the palace.

Let's pretend we're not offended at the dead leaves

of sprayed-off oat grass, forget our fear that water

flows nitrate-glutted even from the spring.

The farmer's doing his best. We spring

to his defence and praise how the field

is spread with sewage sludge, how flood water

drains off through new ditches, how gaily his earth-

moving JCB shines through quickthorn bare of leaves,

his entangled banks richer than the lawns of the palace.

The park is let for shooting; corporations fill the palace

with away-days and silver service lunches; by late spring

guides will talk of Blindheim, seen through tapestry leaves

on the eve of battle; show private rooms; Tatler, The Field

on rosewood tables; the animatronic ghost. Who on earth

eats round a rococo gold centrepiece? The ground water

that rises at Rosamund's Well - unholy water-

sells for souvenirs, custom-battled for the palace,

linked to a legend: King Henry and his girl, the earth

briefly theirs alone, the wildwood leaf-dark in spring

myth-haunted, concealing, with ho house or field

near; horned figures, magic, eyes behind the leaves.

Then, only autumn yellowed the leaves,

lakes and streams glittered with living water.

The ploughman dreamed his fair field

full of folk who'd never see a palace -

new grass and milk made their spring,

creatures beyond imagining, their earth.

This spring walking leaves earth on my boots. My house is no palace

but I have hot water; and my study, where I write and field calls.

Black Box

with lines from Robert Frost and John Donne

You think, as the leaves

go down into the dark decayed

and the woods drip with winter

the world’s whole sap is sunk.

But buried isn’t dead. You only need

a child’s small microscope to see

inhabitants of this fermenting compost;

arthropods, larvae, snails and tardigrades

grazing fungal threads. A seething crowd

inhabits dark horizons underground -

layer on layer on layer of leaf-fall.

In November woods, you might hear

- as if there’s somebody there -

a scuffle in the litter. It’s only a blackbird

tugging up a worm by one end. Think of his body

as the apex of an upside-down food-chain

ascending from the cold furnaces of fungi.

Down in the earth, their filaments melt fallen trees,

break and reclaim the woody architecture

of daylight and photosynthesis.

Sarah Watkinson is an Oxford University plant scientist and emeritus fellow of St Hilda’s College. With Jenny Lewis, she ran SciPo 2016-2020 and she led O.U. TORCH SciPo New Network, 2018-2020. From 2019 to 2020 she was an inaugural writer in residence at Wytham Woods, the Oxford University ecological research station. Sarah is passionately concerned that everyone should have access to be in and learn about Nature. She is also deeply interested in building bridges between science and poetry. The photograph shows her poem on show at the Oxford University Natural History Museum in a biodiversity exhibition bringing together the art of Kurt Jackson and the reflections of university researchers.

Sarah has just published her first full collection, Photovoltaic (Graft Poetry, 20210) She has also published two pamphlets: The Woods of Hazel, 2020, with Romola Parish; Dung Beetles Navigate by Starlight, Cinnamon, 2016.

Recent Science Poetry books recommended by Sarah:

Steve Ely: The European Eel, Longbarrow Press, 2021

Essay on writing The European Eel, on Longbarrow Press blog

Katharine Towers: Oak. Picador Poetry.

John Kinsella: Brimstone: a book of villanelles. Arc Publications. 2020.

Peter Larkin: Seven Leaf Sermons, with artwork by Rupert Loydell. Guillemot, 2020.

Anna Selby: Field Notes. Hazel Press, 2021.

Sarah Westcott: Bloom. Liverpool University Press, 2021.

One of my favourite poems: 'Wonder', by Thomas Traherne (not recent, but still relevant).


My own book, using various forms to attempt poetry about things I’ve explored as scientist. Sarah Watkinson: Photovoltaic, Graft Poetry, 2021.


Plane Trees

The old man never really talked about the war

excepting when a TV program set him off -

the well-worn reels of London in the Blitz,

another documentary. God

how he’d huff and puff, yell at the TV

We’ve seen it all before! enough!

and then he’d pause, not wanting to go on

except for saying…’I was there you know young man.

The city lit up like a bloody birthday cake…’

his hands would shake before he settled back

and dropped his voice to say

I’ll tell you one day why I talk like that….

…We are in Hyde Park amongst the towering trees.

He whispers confidentially as if to mark respect.

These Plane trees took the force of bombing too

gave lives as real to them as mine to you

and others, they still carry injuries they bore

when shrapnel ripped into their heartwood core.

And for the many buildings round the park

the plane trees were protection from the shock.

How many Londoners know this, he asked -

the courting couples, people with their dogs,

the old, the young, the children at their play,

do they go home quite innocent of Hyde Park’s history?

And then he told me what he wanted me to know.

Why he comes here when he has the chance -

to find his memories and give thanks

that in the heat and hell of strife

the Plane trees, he was sure, once saved his life.

Andrew Dixon a scientist by profession, has come late to writing poetry.

His poems often come from noticing (or remembering) some small incident. He particularly likes to write poems that can be read aloud. He sings in a choir and believes that has taught him to listen, really listen, to sound associations and rhythms.

What was Wished for…

The plants had been crying out for weeks, in a tone that was at first round sob, then croaking rasp. A verdant request grown crackled and parched. Daily their colours deepened in ravishing desperation, a rain dance mistaken for attention-seeking. It was the thrusting thirst of dying petals. Then, at dawn, an amber sky signalled change. The sun was ominously blocked, the heavens grew flinty and weighted. The earth waited. In the distance, there was a rumble of disquiet – an impudent threat, mounting in intensity, drawing nearer. An army now of stomping boots accompanied by the pent-up tears of mothers. Heavy drops planted at random on the dusty ground, punishingly plentiful. The argument escalated, crossed boundaries, prodding the torpid, unprepared. So disconcerted was the ragged rain, fleeing from the uneven battle, it darted to the ground in spears, pierced past vegetation, to provoke a pungent petrichorus. Whilst the thunder receded, the rain persisted – waterfalls from an unfathomable source – sheets and curtains dragged down to blanket and smother. With no time to acclimatise, no time to savour or swallow, the baked crust gulped down the deluge with startled speed. Until it couldn’t.

Stomping pent-up tears

Ragged, darting spears pierce past

Pungent petrichor

Shall I read you?

Will your words skip

from the page

and tantalise my tongue?

Twist and turn and tumble

out in torrents

or trickle timorously?

Shall I read you?

Can I process

your emotions

and intent?

Can I place myself

within your tortured exuberance

- empathise with your screams?

Shall I read you?

Will my heart beat

to your rhythm

and vibrate with your vitality?

My lungs swell

with the weight of your dreams

and propel them to the ears of angels?

Shall I read you?

Sharron Green, known as @rhymes_n_roses on Instagram, describes herself as a 'poet of a certain age' and shares poetry with elements of nostalgia, attempting to make sense of modern life and celebrate nature.

In 2021 Sharron completed an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Surrey. As part of the New York based Poetix University community, Sharron has delivered a couple of week-long poetry forms workshops on Instagram.

Sharron has produced two booklets 'Introducing Rhymes_n_Roses', and ‘Viral Odes’, the latter a collection of pandemic poems published by Ink Gladiators Press and available via her website or Amazon and Lulu.


Here you are in the garden

out-yellowing the yellow daffodil

upstaging the polyanthus, cheer-leading spring

and sending the black bee into spasms, your pom-poms

pungent and powdered in champagne pollen as if this were

the Riviera or a bar in Mayfair or along the train track

between Florence and Pisa where I first saw you

floozing in yellow. Oh let me pick you and sit

you on the kitchen table in a vase.

Just thinking about you

I want to sneeze.

The Farmer's Wife

after Charlotte Mew

My quick little wife ran circles round me,

sparks flew from her hair, and in the swing of the gate

the frosty air – oh, the sharp young musk of her!

She'd dance sometimes, then curl into my arms

and gazing honey-eyed would nudge a kiss against my neck

as if it were a lover's bite; at night by the window

she'd watch the moon as it flickered through clouds

like a bowl of bright fish. I brought her fruit

the sticky thighs of chicken, tender rabbit breast

and she would lick her lips, half-glance, the slope

of her throat like snow. I sleep alone. Last night

I found her shivering by the door, awake

in heat to every skulking thing, her thick brown hair

grown rank — but not for me — for me

are scats of fur, the skin of grapes, crushed bone.

The Astronomer’s Daughter

You cut your teeth on the planisphere

dribble the gilded frame,

you like to spin its disc to the north horizon

turn day into night, time into space.

I speak of coordinates, latitudes and hemispheres

declinations, ascensions

while you love to circle the deep blue chart

with the tiny moons of your fingernails

tracing each silvery constellation —

Andromeda, Orion — our alpha and our omega.

Sometimes you press your feet into my lap

flex your toddler knees and stand stiff,

straight as a rocket,

as if to shoot the star-wheeling sky,

dispute the science with innumerate angels.

and dance on the head of a pin.

Margot Myers lives in Oxford. She has a PhD on fairy tales; enjoys the surreal, the ironic, the unexpected. She has been placed or shortlisted in several competitions, and has been widely published including in The Emma Press Anthologies, Mslexia, The Interpreter’s House, Under the Radar, Cinnamon Press online, Poetry News,Snakeskin online. Audio for Poetry Worth Hearing is an exciting new platform.

I Meant to Say (2020) is her debut pamphlet.


Listen – I’ve clicking bones;

marrow reactive, I cleaned out

my isotopes before you were born.

Pinch your safety between my finger

and pricking thumb. Here’s a wind

for you to out-run

a broken road to gust down.

Tuck your families

under your wing and motor hard.

Creep back home and bury

your garden, topsoil parcelled

in blue tarpaulin. Bury your garden

under your garden. Cover over

with gleaming white gravel, its

sparkle will help you forget.

No. 4 Reactor, 26 April, 1986

1:23 a.m. and we’re dancing, palm

to sweaty palm, swapping partners

in the tubular dark. How the steam

excites us. It goads us to strip off

our clothes, crash into fourteen-hundred

ruptured walls. You send your boron

too late, too insubstantial –

like the iodine you will guzzle to fill

your thyroids or the vodka ration’s

oily day-time burn you think will flush

us from the greying flesh you strain

to shovel and to bury. 1:24 a.m.

and we’ve cracked open your roof,

scorched the night. From a mile high

we see flame and debris,

fire engines small as toys.

Snatched by the north wind, some

of us die young. Others eddy,

endure beyond biblical ages –

interstellar ghosts of hammer

and sickle: a crackle in the blood.

Windborne, 1986

I thought of holding you

as a buzzard called across the valley

from behind the pines,

each spry needle dusted

and ticking.

And eastwards,

we wondered,

what was over there? Lifting our nostrils like hunting dogs

we scented the source of it; turned our backs

to the water, waves bright

as isotopes.

Claire Cox was born in Hong Kong, but now lives and works in Oxfordshire. She is co-founder and Associate Editor for ignitionpress, and is a part-time practice-based research student at Royal Holloway, University of London studying poetry and disaster. Her poems have appeared in magazines including Ink, Sweat & Tears, Magma, Envoi, Anthropocene, Butcher’s Dog, Lighthouse and Poetry Salzburg Review. She was one of three winning poets included in Primers: Volume Five (Nine Arches Press, 2020), and is the winner of the 2020 Wigtown Alastair Reid Pamphlet Prize.

Blue Bird

The tiny thing

that you always kept to your heart

lies in a cradle of dark scented wood

pillow and cover of Banyan tree hair

You remember

You open the window

in this dark room of yours to

let in light and breath

sweetness and saltiness of air

The tiny thing starts to move

gently spreading its feathers

stretching clumsy wings

At dusk it will fly.

Das kleine Ding

das du immer in deinem Herzen trugst

liegt in einer Wiege aus duftendem Holz

Kissen - und Bettbezug gewebt aus dem Haar

des Banyanbaums

Du erinnerst dich

Öffnest das Fenster deiner dunklen Kammer lässt

Licht hinein und Atem

Süße und Salz der Luft

Das kleine Ding beginnt sich zu bewegen

spreizt die klammen Feder

Bei Dämmerung wird er fliegen

der blaue Vogel.

Blue Hour

When evening has fallen

I take off my fur

and put my feathers on

At dawn I let go my nightbird's

gown and see hair grow to fur again

Thick as felt in winter

wide and celestial blue in summer

I wear myself

In spring and autumn I cross a passage

in between

I walk through trees

over mountains and wander

under river streams

I dusk and dawn


Wenn der Abend fällt

ziehe ich meinen Pelz aus

und kleide mich mit Federn

Zum Morgen entlasse ich mein

Nachtvogelkleid und sehe Haar

zu Fell wachsen

Dick wie Filz im Winter

weit und himmelblau im Sommer

trage ich mich selbst

Im Frühling und im Herbst überquere ich

einen Zwischenraum

Gehe ich durch Bäume

über Berge und wandere

unter Flussströmen

Ich morgengraue und abendblaue

*These poems are taken from the bilingual collection, 'Poems in the Hourglas/Gedichte im Stundenglas' by Eva Wal.

Eva Wal is a visual and multimedia artist as well as a poet and writer of short prose.

In 2009 she published her first poetry collection “Marmorsee” (marble lake).

In 2017 she founded the group "Dada was all good" with participants of the workshops at the Arp Museum to meet members of Oxford Stanza 2 in Bonn.

Since the collaboration and friendship with members of Oxford Stanza 2, Eva has started to write poems in English as well as translating poems.

In 2019 she edited a booklet with English-German poems, “Oxford Stanza 2 meets Dada war alles gut”, together with Bill Jenkinson and, more recently, she has published a pamphlet of poems in German and English, Poems in the Hourglass - Gedichte im Stundenglas, from which these two poems have been taken.


Robert Etty was born in Lincolnshire, where he still lives. His poems were first published in literary magazines in 1985. The places and people of Lincolnshire provide the usual starting point for his writing.

His most recent collections are A Hook in the Milk Shed (Shoestring Press, 2013), Passing the Story Down the Line (Shoestring Press, 2017) and Planes Flying Over (Shoestring Press, 2020).

‘Etty’s poetry is characterised by its close attention to detail, but what marks the poems out most is their playfulness.’ -Stephen Claughton, London Grip

This extract is taken from Robert's Stanza 2 Zoom Open Mic Reading on January 24th, 2022.


Black Country Home

Where d’yow cum fr’m?

I cum fr’m where the air smelt of sulphur

and the smog turned off all the lights.

Where trucks rumbled all night

and spat coal on the tracks.

Where furnaces belched red ‘ot

and cullin towers breathed grey breath.

Where I erd miners boots marchin te werk

before t’er light.

and wimen lining up fur the buz to the factory.

Where the steel press put full stops

in yer ed all day

and the men drunk eight pints o’ beer at night

and went ume singing.

I cum fr’m where the cut passes under the road

and we walked the towpath on Sundays.

Where yow can get yer food on tick

and the neighbour keeps a pig in the garden.

Where the kids played on the street at night

and took the little ones to school.

Where mam took er washing to the laundrette in er pram

and carried the babby.

Where yow were always asked in for a cuppa

if yow knocked ont door.

Where the buz driver who comes from the Caribbean

calls yow ‘petal’

and people smile on the street and ask ‘Are yow alrite kid?

Diana Bell is a multi-media artist working with sculpture, installation, public

participation & painting. She often uses poetry and dance as part of her

work and enjoys collaboration. Diana has exhibited in France, Germany, The

Netherlands, Romania, Greece, Russia & Australia as well as the UK & has won

awards for her sculpture & for her work in hospitals.

Coat Rack

On and off they go.

Some dampened with tears, or snow

depending on how the day went and

where feet made their way.

Were you received, rejected,

don't know?

The coats clean themselves

at the front doors of our lives

because we continue to go out,

to go on, with Mum and the kettle close by

and the shoe rack waiting

to understand why.


Genevieve never knew her arms were too short -

her legs were too long to play.

She just kept goin' out to the softball field everyday.

She never saw the faces that were making fun of her.

She sat there in the ranks on the bench giving thanks

'cause this was baseball to her!

Genevieve made her way into the towns on the buses

into the shows.

She kept playin' though nobody knowed

she didn't really have the skill - by damn she had the will!

Go on and knock one out of the park for us Genny -

Knock one out of the park for us girls!

You stood up proud when you sat down on backs of buses

while police batons twirled.

Knock one out of the park for all your sisters -

they sent the men off to war while you were fighting yours.

You bat like an eagle soars -

Your borrowed mitt the crowd adores

brave black one - just hear them roar ...

Suzannah Houston has had poems published in Envoi magazine.

Her collections 'My Our Fathers' and 'Triad' were long-listed in

Cinnamon Press competitions. Her poem 'Cornered' was featured at

Hollaback Oxford's 'Reclaiming Space' Exhibition and several

poems were included in Oxford's International Women's Day Festival.

'There, there polar bear '(Envoi issue 183) is being used by WWF

to help raise funds. 'A Donkey Named Mouse' is being shared on

the Donkey Breed Society News page.

Almost Paradise

after Dante’s Paradiso

how is it that I’ve arrived here

in this elsewhere world

so bright, it couldn’t be filmed

in common sepia

colours beyond description,

an artist’s palette falls short.

I have lived in monochrome until now.

Across the water Virgil’s ghosts, dazzling

beneath a lapis sky,

cluster by the shore line, then become

almost invisible

in this radiance, a dynamic radiance

that wills me on

but I stand transfixed

between crystal blue and gold

between the forest and open pasture

between the oak and quivering

palm, between

the shingled roof and the lit fire.

I clutch a bunch

of primroses and gentians

from a meadow of that other world,

too timid to advance

into brightness.


(Inspired by Dante’s Paradiso, canto xxviii)

what can I tell you

that it was spring

flowers trapped

in their abundance

gentians, hepatica,

speedwell, yellow

archangel, under

a rainbow-sky

what can I tell you

that the climb

had been hard

that this forest

was like none

other that there

was no going back

a curtain had dropped

on all that deep


what can I tell you

that arcs of pure

light silvered trees

that the soft cadence

of water merged

with the trilling

of birds

that a girl

timid as a fawn

called to me

to cross

a crystal stream

what can I tell you

that her honeyed

words sang

like the sea

that she was Venus

Ceres, Persephone

that her image



and it was


​Lyn Thornton lives in Oxford where she tutors in English Literature and Creative Writing. She has an MA in creative writing from Royal Holloway University of London. Her poems have been published in numerous magazines and periodicals. She has been shortlisted or highly recommended in several poetry competitions She has a lifelong passion for Shakespeare and the theatre, reflected in her poetry. Her pamphlet The Tyring House, was published in 2021 by The Poet’s House Press.

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