The Poetry Rollercoaster

After the lull in poetry activities towards the end of last year, while I recouped some emotional energy, things have picked up again, coinciding with the return of spring. 

First, in February, the latest reading in Bristol Poetry Institute's series of Annual Readings, this time by Mohave and Latina poet, Natalie Diaz, whom I never expected to get the chance to hear in my home city. It was a privilege to be present.

March saw the publication and launch of Dominic Fisher's pamphlet, Migrations, at the Inn on the Green, Horfield, with support readings by Matthew Barton, Emily Reynolds and me. 

(Matthew isn't a giant, by the way; he just happened to stand nearer the photographer than the rest of us.)

The audience

The Northerner

Emily and Maggie

I was also due to be reading at Berkeley Square Poetry Revue the Tuesday following Dom's launch, but my appearance had to be postponed until July because I woke up on the Sunday morning with no voice to speak of, a situation which persisted for five days. It just squeaked back by the following Sunday, in time for the launch of the resurrected 'Outposts', courtesy Devon-based poet and editor, Clare Morris, which was held in the community bookshop in Totnes.

Of course, a chance to read a few poems in Devon had to be seized, as it meant I could go the scenic route and have a quick dive across Dartmoor. 

Bennett's Cross

Riding shotgun was fellow-poet Dominic Fisher, who not only had three poems published in the inaugural 'Outposts', but was also featured in one of the original issues back in the 1980s - or possibly the 1970s. 

The 12th century clapper bridge that crosses the East Dart at Postbridge 

Hemlock water dropwort growing by the modern road bridge (built in the 1780s)

Ice cream van at Haytor

Looking towards Hayne Down and Houndtor in the middle distance

It was brief. It was bleak. It was beautiful. And then we were bowling down off the moor, re-encountering the Dart near Buckfastleigh and accompanying it almost all the way to Totnes. 

The launch was under the auspices of Word Stir, an open mic hosted by Harula Ladd and Toby Richardson in the community bookshop. 

It was a memorable event, filled with friends in poetry and poets I'd communicated with but was meeting for the first time, including Clare and Peter Roe, the editor of Jawbone Journal, which published one of my poems - 'A brief feather confession' - earlier in the year and who, along with his two fellow editors, nominated it for a Forward Prize, about which I'm still astonished and deeply grateful.  

Clare Morris

Finally, some sad news, as my publishers for the last 16 years, Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling of Indigo Dreams, have decided to call it day as far as publishing collections and pamphlets is concerned, although they will still be producing their poetry journals, Reach and The Dawn Treader. It's been my privilege to work with them all these years, and I will always be grateful that they helped me realise my life's dream - to take up a half an inch on a bookshelf somewhere - not once but seven times. I've been the luckiest poet, and I'll never forget how, through their faith in me and my writing, I was able to rebuild my life and my identity when my spirits were at their lowest ebb. Thank you to them both, always. 

A spring in my step

The bluebells are beginning to flower, which means my spring delirium will soon be in full flood and it's time to catch up on how early spring played out in my Bristol haunts.

Actually, Cwtch the Collie was unimpressed with our first bluebell. The initial signs are pleasing, though. This was Badock's Wood this morning.

And not just bluebells, obviously. 

Mill Tut round barrow

The River Trym

And here it is a couple of weeks ago, when the blackthorns were out in force.

Of course, not all our walks have been sunny. There was an atmospheric walk around the floating harbour early one grey morning ... 

... and another down Boiling Wells Lane and up onto Narroways, while I was waiting for new tyres to be fitted on my car ...

... but on the whole, March was definitely more a lamb than a lion. Here are some more of the flowers that are popping out all over.

white violets; alexanders; alkanet and larch buds; dog's mercury; scilla; blackthorn; celandines; comfrey; speedwell; wild strawberry; fumitory; lady's smock (cuckoo flower); pussy willow; wood anemone; honesty; yellow archangel; wild garlic; greater stitchwort; violets; herb Robert; dead nettles; lungwort  

Cwtch in the primroses

The Trym meets its main tributary, the Hazel Brook, downstream on the Blaise estate. I don't go down there that much, on account of all the well-heeled locals clattering past with their walking poles, pretending to be in the Alps, but I did nip down to the Henbury village end and wandered along the banks of the brook to Bradford Mill.

I also hobnobbed with two of my favourite trees in the open space above the valley:

oak

veteran sweet chestnut

On the other side of the Hazel Brook, blackthorn on Castle Hill. I love this spot in the early spring ...

... and also the area between the two hill forts on Castle Hill and Kings Weston Down, that always feels to me like a place where time is wonky and ghosts are on the move.

 

There was plenty of blackthorn out at Winterbourne too, when Cwtch and I went for one of our favourite walks out by St Michael's Church and Monks Pool and Bradley Brook nature reserves ...

Monks Pool nature reserve

Bradley Brook Nature Reserve

... though just the general viridification of everything is exciting enough.

The River Frome at Snuff Mills ... 

... Wickham Glen ...

... and Purdown

With the earth becoming less slippery, it's easier to scramble about on the look-out for bits of pottery. 

In one of the lanes leading down to Wickham Glen, some of the above sherds had been dug up by a fox ... 

 and at Purdown I came across lots of bottles outside a den on an old dump.

With the demise of all the scarlet elf cups, there isn't much fungi in evidence:

On the other hand, the local birds are now at their busiest and much in evidence, particularly the wrens. I managed only a few poor photos of a crow, ring-necked parakeet, and the kingfisher we often see down on the stretch of the River Frome between Eastville Park Lake and Wickham Glen.

There was also a magical afternoon when the wood was filled with jays, their wings catching the spring sunlight.

I found a rather tatty, bedraggled tawny owl feather, which is a very early outlier of the moulting season.

We even saw a rabbit up on Purdown, which ran into a thicket of brambles when it noticed Cwtch. 

Each morning in spring

I conduct with a baton

my dog's Ode to Joy