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Poetry Worth Hearing: Episode 31

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In this episode, you can hear Tony Curtis, the distinguished Welsh poet and Professor Emeritus of Creative Writing at South Wales University, talking about his life in poetry and his new book, Leaving the Hills.

The prompt for this episode was 'moving' which could be interpreted as anything from some kind of physical movement to the power of emotions. There are poems from Maggie Hall, Richard Lister, Dinah Livingstone, Fiona Perry, Heather Moulson, Helen Overell, Kate Young, Michael Klimeš, Adam Shaw and Lizzie Ballagher.



 



TONY CURTIS:

 

has published over forty books of poetry, criticism, art commentary and fiction.

 

He is Emeritus Professor of Poetry at the University of South Wales and is a Fellow of the Royal Society for Literature.

Several notable influences include Donald Hall at Goddard College, the mid/west poet Norman Dubie and fellow Welshman Dannie Abse, who became a friend and mentor.

In 2016 Seren published his From the Fortunate Isles: New & Selected Poems which brought together fifty years of his poetry.

 

Two books appeared at the end of 2021 – his first novel Darkness in the City of Light, set in wartime Paris, and Where the Birds Sing our Names, an anthology for the children’s charity Ty Hafan. Darkness in the City of Light was short-listed for the Society of Author’s Paul Torday Prize. His critically acclaimed eleventh collection Leaving the Hills was published in 2024.

 

Tony is very actively engaged as a speaker and is currently working on a new novel based on historical figures such as Augustus John, Sir William Orpen and Lloyd George; also a chapter for a book on contemporary art, edited by Iwan Bala, and published in 2025 – “Wales Facing the World: The Venice Biennale and Artes Mundi”.

 

www.tonycurtispoet.com

 


 





Maggie Hall is a poet and artist living in Australia. Her text is too long to include and is possibly still in process.


Richard Lister


98 Rock are playing


Metallica's Ride the Lightning

- good tunes to keep you awake

on the night shift.

Hetfield's singing

time is like a fuse

and the first girder snaps

like a strand of raw spaghetti;

then, fast as a jet,

bridge trusses

fail in a wave,

arch after arch.

The deck upends:

yellow cold-planers,

dumptrucks, cars,

slide, spin, fall,

steaming asphalt

sloshes free,

slurs the lanes

with tumbling,

boiling black

and Diago

in smudged,

reflective orange kit,

steel toe-capped

boots,

mug of tea,

black and two

falls

fifteen stories

Mississippi 1

Mississippi 2

Mississippi 3

hits the water

at 70 miles per hour.



Served cold

Minkisi, British Museum, London


Brooding,

blackened sculpture,

‘Container of power​​​

drawn from the dead’,

enclosed by glass

-fingerprint smudged,

slight break in one corner.​​


Your face impassive,​​​

body pierced​​​

by a hundred nails​​​

like a tortured Christ. ​​​

Cut and crafted​​

by the Kongo people, ​​​

swindled from the land​​

they named​​​​


by Portuguese men, ​​​

fair skinned like me.​​​

Does your rage still fester?​​

Your label: ‘to provoke​​

a Minkisi to action​​​

it must be insulted​​​

or have metal driven​​​

into its body’.​​​​


But you already have.​​​

I feel your stare​​​

like you’re searching​​

my face. I turn away.​​

And stop.

Is that the sound

of glass cracking?

I start to run.​



Lister’s poetry draws you into stories of intriguing characters, images & places.   His Scattered with Grace is ‘a sumptuous collection, sprinkled with humour and a generosity of spirit’. In Edge & Cusp, he ‘captured life like a vibrant painting’.  Lister’s work is in 13 international magazines (including Acumen & Orbis).


Dinah Livingstone


Dante’s Divine Comedy

 

He lost his Beatriz and after that

was exiled from his city

in the tumult of its politics

and lost his way in a dark wood.

 

After an epic trek

with Virgil as his guide

down through Hell’s lowest circle

and then back

 

he came out and saw the stars again,

climbed Mount Purgatory to Paradise

where he was met by Beatriz.

 

The one who went up was the one who’d descended

to the deepest depths,

there reclaiming what had been suppressed

to achieve integrity.

 

Then he was able to mount on high

leading captivity captive

to reach the happy state where finally:

 

Now what ran the will and the desires

like a smoothly rolling wheel was

love that moves the sun and the other stars.

 



Dinah Livingstone has given many poetry readings in London, throughout Britain and abroad. Her tenth poetry collection,Embodiment, was published in 2019. She has received three Arts Council Writer’s Awards for her poetry, which has also appeared in various magazines and anthologies. She is a translator of poetry and prose and, after twenty years, recently retired as editor of the magazine Sofia. katabasis.co.uk/dinah.html

 



Fiona Perry 


Floe

 

 

Buttercup snowfest

gold coins

in smouldering daubes

 

We march through

their showy largesse

faces lit lovingly as if captured

in an old movie still

 

Cool-minded

travelling with the ice floe

happy to drift

 

And we keep gliding

as the copse grows taller

tipping its sugar glass rays

on to the place we are meant to be.

 




Fiona’s first poetry collection, Alchemy (Turas Press, Dublin), won the Poetry Book Awards (2021) Silver Medal and was shortlisted for the Rubery Prize. Her flash fiction, Sea Change, won first prize in the Bath Flash Fiction Awards (2020). Her poetry and short fiction have been published widely.



Heather Moulson


Moving

Mum saves up her Embassy coupons

To replace the old pan cooking my porridge

I really think she should get me a Sindy doll

Because my only friend’s moving to Norwich

 

Doorstep toast emerges from under the grill

And my brother has nicked the jam

I’ll be alone in the midst of the playground

And no-one seems to give a damn

 

I say goodbye to Lynn, shivering in her mac

Standing outside her former front door

I now faced a long lonely walk to school  

And my Mum asks what I’m crying for




Heather has been performing and writing poetry around London and Surrey since 2017.  Her pamphlet Bunty I Miss You was published in 2019 and Heather is currently working on her next collection  



Helen Overell


Wattled Cranes


They are tall as a man,

and with great wings

outspread in dance —


dip of head,

bow to the ground —

courtly as any couple —

and sprung leaps,

feathers that flutter and sway,

and each move given and renewed,


as in shallows

where sedge and water-lilies flourish

above doubles that reach to rippled sky


in a life-long tether,

and this held freedom is the measure

the birds tread on the brow of the hill.


The woman watches,

her husband beholds her, and with arms wide

they honour each other with deep


salutation,

straighten up,

freighted with years, and step


here and there

in a rise and fall

that wheels and swoops,


puts a shape

to the loss of the son

they bore — grown and gone.



Helen 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.



Kate Young


Pastels

 

 

The soulful tones peer from a box –

soft pastel limbs needing human touch.

I oblige, peel back their outer clothing.

 

We have been asked to capture movement

in the style of Degas, dancers drifting –

flutters of chiffon in moondust and sky.

 

I lift the palest blue, feel its chalkiness

and attempt to coax it, stroke it to life –

microscopic cells of animation forming.          

 

It takes me to you, aqua butterflying

over the stage, all wings and ballet shoes

your instep spooning new leather.

 

A willow-supple-spine draws me in

takes me to that place before the tumour

shaped you inert, fixed you on its page.

 

My wrist has finished its whirligig dance.

I search for movement- my art is static,

the tutor’s expert hand brings you to life.



Snapshots

 

 

The fit is extraordinary,

a tiny fist curls round a finger

rosebud lips

opening     closing

clamped to the seam of a breast.

 

A blocky school

squat on concrete rises,

a monster with gated teeth.

A small palm nuzzled inside another,

the safety of the mother-shell.

 

Independence looms,

the hand uncouples itself

exploring the hands of others,

jostling, teasing

mobiles locked in crab-claws.

 

An auditorium, applause,

slick fingers ease over keys,

jazz spirals take flight

lifting     falling, always poised

on the edge of a question.

 

A wedding photo:

confetti-rain drizzling her braid,

her veil, eyes like fireflies,

a moon and sun circling –

hands singing a new tune.

 

Changes emerge.

Time drags its ragged breath

over liver skin, her son’s hand

soothing the mother-shell

her veins rooting for light.

 

Grief, a leaden sky.

A tiny fist curls round a finger

rosebud lips

opening     closing

clamped to the seam of a breast.

 



Kate Young’s poetry has appeared in webzines/magazines nationally and in Canada. It has also featured in the anthologies Places of Poetry and Write Out Loud. Her pamphlets A Spark in the Darkness and Beyond the School Gate have been published with Hedgehog Press. Find her on X @Kateyoung12poet or her website kateyoungpoet.co.uk


Michael Klimeš


What Happened to Mags

 

Mags cleans the three-storey house I stay in.

That is how we met. She smokes constantly,

coughs between life stories. The Yorkshire summer

has been patchy sun mixed with showers

that has made the countryside that goes forever

around Howden gleam wet. I run three times

each week to break the boredom as I do

shifts at the Press Association.

 

It’s a big glass mausoleum office alive

on the week days and empty at the weekends.

I spend some Saturdays there to feel less lonely.

Mags is the only person I have here and she is

the only person that has me in a strange way.

She works in a care home on the other side

of town near the church. Both back out

onto fields that are not farmed.

 

One day Mags invites me to dinner

and I accept out of politeness. We sit

in the White Horse Inn and I discover her kindness

but there is something very fragile about her.

Not much else happens in Howden afterwards –

Except flat fields of green that go on for miles.

When the three-month stint comes to an end,

Mags says Remember me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The School Bus


I see Paul Westerman

with his Harry Potter spectacles

and egg-shaped head

who was a good boy

 

in the first year

and read novels diligently

yet got a taste for being edgy

and so stopped living

 

in fiction and got

into the action

of playing

to the classroom. 

 

Next to him was Tom Pott

who was more quiet

and shifty. He stole

mobile phones

 

in the early noughties

including mine

and told me in PE

months after he stole it.

 

Behind him sat

Nadeem Abbas

who was also

in the phone business

 

and did various deals

in the school fields

where he gave punters goods

at cut prices, they didn’t always work.

 

He also did the dirty exchange

in a corner of the school corridor

when the day ended: I saw

a quick flash of silver notes.

 

His younger brother Naseem

got involved in the company

but specialised in CD players:

He introduced me to gangster rap.

 

The scariest person was Josh Welfs –

A short blond and blue-eyed boy

with a talent for violence.

He clipped everyone in rugby.

 

My best friend was Raza Dali,

we once talked about the future

with GSCEs and A – Levels ahead….

The letters and numbers

 

that would define our futures.

Before we knew it

the bus stopped and we all

got off on our separate ways.   



Michael Klimeš is a financial journalist based in London. He has been published in Alchemy Spoon, One Hand Clapping Magazine and Iota. His pamphlet Love Carries the Future was shortlisted in the Full House Literary Magazine Digital Chapbook 2023 competition and longlisted in the Black Cat Poetry Press pamphlet competition 2024 and Alchemy Spoon Pamphlet Competition 2022


 Adam Shaw


Palm in hand


I feel exposed, the power of my words.

Out of the verse, climbs a wasp.

What you heard is the buzzing of my limbs.

Learn, stop guessing, teach a lesson.

Got me thinking of your name double LL.

Listening like my ears on the side.

On the floor, invite me.

With the melody, school me.

She said glad you came,

I am too.

Smoke signals,

Earn fire red, you got me inspired.

Evoking poetics in your presence.

You give me peace of mind,

a smile that stops time.

Eating Jamaican, feel I known you longer.

Belonging, we breath music.

Love catches fire at the source.

You are simply beautiful.

Thinking of you, I am barefoot.

Reminds me of the ocean, touching land,

I feel you in the waves.

Home on the beach burning palm trees.

You got me glowing, like an owl in headlights.

In this moment we are still,

circling the field we can see in the dark,

two lovers spark by a riverside.

She said aren't your eyelashes white,

I smile say it's the light,

flying through every colour,

like crossing a rainbow.

Singing in the car, rev the engine.

Smiling at every kite, thinking,

this is how it feels to fly.

Love is the answer, ask the question.





Adam Shaw started writing poetry three years ago following a workshop at Oxford recovery college and being gifted a poetry book. Started attending workshops at Oxford poetry library and reading at various open mics in Oxford, just to say,hear the word, catweazle, Oxford poetry circle,evoke urban poetics, stanza 2, ekresiss poetry at ashmolean museum, wytham woods writing group, diverse poetry festival, action for happiness. I love poetry for its self expression and ability to connect with community.


 

 Lizzie Ballagher


At seventeen                                                         

 

That year, what changed took place when I

sat in the back of someone else’s car, set out

with friends who could already drive.

 

Three lanes ran like ribbons: the middle

for passing other cars…going either way.

So dangerous,

 

as I found out when our driver chose to leave

the road; that, or we’d all be pulped

by oncoming cars: too dark, too fast.

 

We shot the ditch, ploughed through a hedge,

crashed hard against the furrows of a field sown

with winter wheat—then flipped—rolled, flipped

 

in rain and mud: bounced, twisted, flung about.

Until I came to myself: five yards from the glass,

the busted heap of metal, smoking wheels.

 

I woke to watch the others crawl out

while all I could do was stare, sprawl, speechless,

choked with fear, tasting mud and grit,

 

hearing far off the wailing

of some poor person…who,

it turned out, was me…then testing

 

the bruises, contusions, cracked ribs

that belonged to some poor injured girl…

but then, it seemed, belonged to me.

 

What changed that year when I

was back in my own body and thinking

inside my own brain was that I knew

 

I could not learn to drive, nor would I ever

be a passenger along that road unless I was driven

blindfold, gagged to stop the howling horror.

 

Somehow, in forty seconds flat, I was tilted,

tipped, turned out of childhood’s chrysalis:

became a woman living in my woman’s skin.

 


 

 

Digging alone                   

 

My first time to dig the spuds alone:

I’d come with a spade too soon

and had to earth them in, and wait,

 

wait for flower; then wait for rain.

But when I return

to the compost box again

 

it overflows with sprawls

of frilled potato leaves—

white flowers shrivelled…time to see…

 

to slice the shovel deep through loam….

I catch my breath. Your miracle

has happened—even for me.

 

Pearl white, pearl hard,

pearl glossy…but bigger, smooth

as pebbles on the sea-worn Saxon shore.

 

I’ve longed for the consolation

of the crop; so, pause: inhale the smell

of soil; glad in this snatch of surprise

 

to find white globe-lamps:

inert, yet luminous

in earth’s thick darkness.

 

 


 

Newts                                 

 

They come, in spring, by night,

without a sound:

dun-and-silver shadows slipping

between last year’s rotten leaves

 

when flag-irises shoot yellow arrows,

when mud begins to warm,

when the water’s just right,

when the moon’s in the best quarter….

 

One morning later, I see

delicate toes splayed on the surface

as they feed, turn, dive, leaving

thin trails of bubbles.

 

They are acrobats:

quicksilver

in the dark tent

of spring’s fevered lake.

 




A winner in Ireland’s 2024 Fingal Poetry Festival Competition and in 2022’s Poetry on the Lake, Ballagher focuses on landscapes. Having studied in England, Ireland, and America, she worked in education and publishing. Her poems have appeared in print and online throughout the English-speaking world. Find her blog at https://lizzieballagherpoetry.wordpress.com/



 


 

and I hope you will listen.

Comments, suggestions and submissions for future episodes should be sent to poetryworthhearing.biz. The prompt for Episode 32 is 'house' and the deadline is April 18th; the prompt for Episode 33 is 'garden' and the deadline is 18th May. As always, submissions should be up to 4 minutes recording of unpublished poems plus texts plus a short bio. Please send texts as Word not pdf as pdf does not retain its format when copied.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 

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