A yee-haw poetry round-up

In terms of poetry, 2024 got off to a good start with Clare Shaw and Kim Moore's Writing Hours, a month-long series of daily Zoom workshops, the majority of which I managed to attend despite work commitments. They came at the right time for me this year: I spent most of last year severing emotional ties to my previous project and not writing poems - something which would have sent me into spiralling panic years ago, but which I've come to realise is a vital part of the process - and now I'm ready to start again. To give me a gentle boot up the bum, a commission from Bristol Lyra Poetry Festival came my way, and with the help of a prompt from last year's Writing Hours, that poem is taking pleasing shape as I write this. (I say I don't panic, but phew.) 

The previous project - my next collection, 'Love the Albatross' - just needs some final arranging of poems and a last read-through before it goes off to my publishers, Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling of Indigo Dreams, and the act of emailing them will be additional impetus for getting started on a new obsession. 

A few excellent poetry gigs have come our way in Bristol over the last few months. I was aggrieved to miss the launch of Melanie Branton's new collection, 'The Full English' and Jonny Fluffypunk's gig, both at Satellite of Love, thanks to a bout of acute bronchitis, but I did get see Ruth Padel read some new poems at Bristol University, inspired by the snake goddess figurines found at Knossos in 1903.  

I've encountered a few adders in my time, two of them alive (rather than run over). I didn't pick this one up and wave it in the air like the goddess in the top photo; rather - since it didn't appear to want to budge from the side of the path - I picked up my young collie, Ted, and sidled past as quickly as I could (after I'd taken a photo, of course). 

I spent another excellent evening at the launch of Helen Dewbery and Chaucer Cameron's poetry film based on the collection of poems by Chaucer entitled 'In an Ideal World I'd Not Be Murdered'. 

To be frank, I'd been a bit of an agnostic with regard to poetry film - enjoying many but not quite appreciating the need for them, because shouldn't a really good poem be able to summon strong images in a reader's mind without assistance or embellishment? Obviously the right film had to come along, with poems I already knew well, for me to be converted, and this was it. Helen's film adds layers of time and place to Chaucer's poem, without taking away any of their inherent power. It's an emphatic vindication of the form and I strongly recommend it. 

A few opportunities have materialised for me to read some poems during the first few months of this year, although I need to focus on getting readings later in the year and into 2025, once 'Love the Albatross' is published. The reading with Words and Ears at Bradford Roots has been and gone already, but there are a couple looming connected with the aforementioned Lyra Bristol Poetry Festival in April, and on 15th February, I'll be reading in support at the launch of Tina Cole's new collection, 'What it Was', which takes place at the Poetry Pharmacy in Bishop's Castle.

It's a memorable collection, for which I was delighted to write an endorsement.  

A few contributor's copies have come my way, in which 'Love the Albatross' poems that have a home. (I'm always relieved when this happens with poems from a themed collection, as it means they stand on their own, as well as part of a whole.) 

I'm especially pleased that the poems published in Dream Catcher stand alongside two by fellow Bristol and Leaping Word poetry group poet, Marius Grose.

Finally, a link to my poem, 'Your silence is all I have left', which was runner-up in the 2023 Frosted Fire Single Poem competition, and can be both read and heard on the Wild Words website.

August Ban Collie Day at Wistman's Wood and Cox Tor

Cwtch doesn't care for Ban Collie Days; in fact, she gets quite peevish when they roll around. As for their homonyn, Bank Holiday Days, I'm not mad keen on them either, on account of the crowds and traffic jams, but Dartmoor is the place to go if you want to get away from it all, so we did.

And as we hadn't been there for some years, and it's an easy walk on a hot day, we settled on a wander up to Wistmans Wood. 

Coming into view

Following the unpleasant incident with cow shit on the Gwent Levels the other day - and in view of the fact there were sheep in the vicinity - Cwtch stayed on the lead, but it didn't seem to prevent her from enjoying her surroundings.  

As we advanced up the valley, I watched a raven doing circuit-and-bumps along the Beardown Tors, but apart from its occasional shouts, it was quiet, the West Dart being too low to make any noise as it limped down over the boulders. 

Crow Tor - one of my favourites - was visible on the horizon, but we weren't walking that far today. 

Notices request that you walk around rather than through Wistman's Wood, so as to avoid damaging the fragile habitat - and the adders that live there. (OK, I added that second bit, though actually, when I did bump into a live adder, a long time ago now on Meldon Hill, it was fascinating rather than terrifying.) (Though I wouldn't want Cwtch anywhere near one.) (Despite having an adder pack.)

In respect of this, we perched just inside the edge of the wood, and looked up and all around at the amazing lichens and mosses that hang like washing from a line, while a robin kept a beady eye on us to make sure we didn't trespass any further. 

After a while we exited the wood and headed a little further up the valley. This is the view looking back down, with Wistman's Wood on the right and the West Dart hidden in the valley. 

gorse and ling

Then we popped back into the shade for a bit.

As we'd got up quite early to reach Dartmoor at a sensible hour, it was now time to head back to the Dartmoor Inn at Merrivale for a light lunch. On the way a large Southern Hawker, which must have been at least three inches long, gave me a good looking-over, before flying off just as I was about to take a photo.

Beardown Plantation and the West Dart

After a little refreshment we headed for Cox Tor, which we last visited nearly two years ago, just after the death of our old collie, Ted.

Looking back towards Tavistock

Roos Tor

Cox Tor

Looking towards Plymouth Sound and the River Tamar

I've started thinking of this as Grief Tor, and it does feel like attrition to climb it, though the views are comforting. And having seen collie angels last time we were here, it felt right to be accompanied this time by our own beguiling little Cwtch ...

... and a passing foal that stopped for a cuddle (much to the dog's chagrin). 

Stand-off!

Return to Scorhill, Shovel Down and North Tawton

The person I took with me to Dartmoor on Sunday loved our whistle-stop tour so much that he wanted to go back again the following day.  'Show me one of your favourite spots,' he said. So, after lunch in the Northmore Arms at Wonson, I did. 

Ascending the drift lane to Scorhill Down

Looking over to Watern Tor from Scorhill stone circle

The Tolmen Stone on the bank of the North Teign

My favourite clapper of all, over the Wallabrook

View up the North Teign from the Teign-e-ver clapper
















Looking down one of the stone rows on Shovel Down to Batworthy  

Kestor Rock from Three Boys standing stone

 Beeches at Batworthy Corner

 A tiny adder, newly emerged from hibernation

Locals

 We then had to contemplate joining the serpent and headaching the car homeward back up the M5, but not before we had a quick visit to North Tawton, whose church with its witch's hat for a steeple always makes me smile.

The hedge of conifers that shielded Court Farm, former home of Ted Hughes and, for a time, Sylvia Plath, has gone since my last visit, leaving the old house rather exposed.  It was thrilling but also rather uncomfortable spotting the shrivelling remains of the daffodils that feature in both Plath's and Hughes' poems about their last spring together.

At a more respectful distance, however, you can see Plath's inspiration for the last two lines of the first verse of The Moon and Yew Tree.  

Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.