Poems like falling leaves

Usually the end of October sees me charging around trying to absorb as much autumn colour and light as possible before the long slump into darkness. This year I'm experiencing a strange sort of half-life, lived mostly upstairs, while the Northerner stays down and tries to keep his distance from me and my Covid germs. The night the clocks went back saw me tossing and turning the extra hour away on my fever bed with only the dog for company; it was truly as long as the night Odysseus arrived back in Ithaca from the Trojan War and was reunited with Penelope, but almost certainly a lot less fun.

So, trips I'd planned around my son's schedule have been put off, first because of his Covid and now because of mine, and I haven't been anywhere. Time, then, for a poetry round-up, considering the occasional triumph, both modest and more modest, the first of which - completing the Sealey challenge of reading a poetry collection a day through August - I'm pretty proud of, as maintaining the focus required for attentive reading isn't something I find easy.

Some of the books I wished I'd had longer to linger over, and I've already picked one up again, to reread once I recover my concentration, and it's 'Jackself' by Jacob Polley. It took me a few poems to get into it, but what a strange, dark narrative it is. 

Here's another book of interesting narratives, although with only a couple of poems in. (They are mine, however. 😎)

It's always great to have a poem or two included in one of Jane Russ's nature books, published by Graffeg, the latest of which, The Crow Family Book, is now available and would make an excellent Christmas gift, because let's face it, most people love a crow, unless they once pretended to wave a stick at one, ever since when generations of corvids have passed down tales of this misdeed to their nestlings, who are thus primed for attack the instant this hapless miscreant sticks their head out of doors. Yes, that's what crows do. Luckily, our local tribe at Asda recognise me as Friend because I feed them, and just crap on my car roof instead. 

And here's another tome I contributed towards, this time with a review - the mighty Tears in the Fence, issue 78 of which appeared in August. 

Some of my more recent poems, which will be published in a collection by Indigo Dreams next autumn, have been making their way in the world, finding lodgings in both real life and online journals. I'm expecting my contributor's copy of Artemis Poetry some time this month; in the meantime, here's some links to online poems in Crowstep, London Grip and Amsterdam Quarterly.  

Meanwhile, one poem has returned to its roost twice recently, each time with a tattered laurel leaf or two in its beak, having been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and then achieving runner-up status in the Frosted Fire Fourth Annual Single Poem Competition, for which many thanks to judge, Angela France. Since the later accolade includes publication in the competition anthology, that is the end of its journeying until the collection's published. Well done, doughty poem, you've earnt your rest. 

Poetry changes lives

You hear it a lot. Poetry changed - or saved - my life. And it's not just me saying it, though I do have cause to be grateful, since this month marks ten years since my first collection, 'Communion', was published by Indigo Dreams and my life's ambition - to occupy a few millimetres on a bookshelf somewhere - happened. Since then, I've had three further collections published by the wonderfully generous Ronnie and Dawn, as well as a now suddenly topical coming-of-age novel set during the Black Death. 

Good things continue to happen for me where poetry is concerned. I'm currently more than half way through an MA in Creative Writing at the Manchester Writing School. Recently one of my poems was shortlisted in the 2021 Bridport Prize. And in February 2022, my next collection, a series of poems about my home city, Bristol, entitled 'Learning Finity', will be published.

After my children, my poems are my best things. I could never have dreamt I would be writing this post a dozen years ago, when I was at my lowest ebb. 

Talk to most poets and you'll likely find some sadness hidden not too assiduously in the background. Poetry attracts thinkers, and maybe also over-thinkers. Reading it can be a source of comfort. Using metaphor to shape loss, and come to terms with our unspoken fears, is a powerful way of moving past them. Noli timere, to quote Seamus Heaney.

A Poem For National Poetry Day 2016

It's National Poetry Day today and the theme is Messages.  To mark this, I'm posting a poem from my latest collection, Breadcrumbs. 

Dead Poet at the Swimming Pool describes what is probably the most powerful dream I've ever had, back in 1999. I interpreted it as a message to my waking self that if I continued to ignore my creativity - specifically, if I didn't write - something vital inside me, which was already close to death, would perish altogether.

So I started to write - poems and a novel.  Not that this stopped my subconscious pumping out admonition after admonition; in fact, I continued to be inundated with stressful dreams about imminent exams for which I had done no revision/attended no lessons or lectures/had no idea of the syllabus until my first collection, Communion, was published in 2011.  But I will always be grateful for this message, which I heeded despite being incredibly busy at the time with four young children, two of them autistic, a part-time job, and a troubled marriage.  Ultimately, it changed the course of my life. 

Dead Poet at the Swimming Pool

  

Outside rain clatters through gutters

pays thick ropes through gratings, drains

and still he’s here, hunched on the steps, his head

hanging in his hands. No one takes any notice

Not the receptionist in her office       

pool staff swabbing dingy floors, slick-haired men

fraught mothers trailing dripping kids with neon wings

all too preoccupied

to clear his eyes of silt and withered leaves

his dirt-stopped mouth

It’s early autumn when she kneels beside him

drops a coin to gauge the depth      

ten more years before she hears it

hit the bottom

©Deborah Harvey 2015

'Dead Poet at the Swimming Pool' was shortlisted for the 2015 Bridport Prize

Artwork by Dru Marland

Travels With Mr Poetry

The big white Home Improvements van was parked slantwise, almost encroaching on the neighbouring space in Tescos car park in Thornbury, but as this was the only one available, I took a deep breath and squeezed my way in.  With that, the driver and his mate reappeared.  In my side mirror I caught a glimpse of builder's bum as he got into the driving seat.  Then he got out and accosted my partner, who was sorting poetry festival brochures in the boot.  Oh God, he's going to accuse me of scraping his van, I fretted.  

'Funny you should say that,' I heard my partner say. 'Have one of these. See you there!'

'He said "You're that bloke from the poetry festival, aren't you?" my partner said as he got back into the car. 'I said "Yes, do you like poetry?" and he kind of half glanced at his mate and said "Well, the missus does, you know. Anything coming up soon?"'

It can be a thankless task delivering brochures and very difficult to know how effective it is. I suspect electronic publicity reaches more people, like you reading this now. Although possibly not the Mayor, whom we saw emerge from a restaurant on the waterfront on Thursday lunchtime.  

'Oh, I'll definitely come along to this!' he exclaimed as we proffered our post funding cuts, Bristol City Council logo-free publicity.  

'We'll be on the lookout for you!' I cried gaily. 


Being a dark poet, my dog Ted often comes with us on brochure runs, particularly when there's the prospect of a walk involved.  Like after the drop at Weston-Super Mare library. 

So the scones in our cream tea were on the dry side. You can't have it all.  And in a fortnight that saw the finding of what is to be my new home, one of my poems making the shortlist for the Bridport Prize, the offer of publication by Indigo Dreams Publishing of my third poetry collection in 2016, and the election of a Labour Party Leader who doesn't believe in punishing the poor and the disabled for the greed of the rich, there is more than a glimmer of light.