Centenary Special..and a Christmas star: Kim Moore

Welcome to the 100th post of the great fogginzo’s cobweb !!!!

And I have to say, I don’t know which I am more of..surprised or happy? No problem. Surprised and happy in equal measure, and delighted that you could join me and my extra-special guest, and Polished Gem number 15: Kim Moore.

Actually, if you’ve not been with me since the beginning, it’s probably worth my explaining the title I chose for this weekly ramble through the lusher meadows of Poesie. It was like this:

schoolroom 1

There’s a story behind the grandiosity of ‘the great fogginzo’ which it would be well to have out of the way. This is it. As the English and Drama adviser for Calderdale, I got to visit all sorts of schools, some in the middle of old mill towns, some on moor edges, one tucked into the valley side where the trains that emerged from a tunnel, to run over a viaduct, came right past the staff-room window, feeling close enough to touch. There are small Victorian buildings in villages hidden away in side valleys, in deans and cloughs. Villages like Luddenden, say; villages that are like Haworth but interesting. Anyway, one winter (snow never closes these village schools) I  was supposed to do some kind of visit with a clip board and write a report about this school in a steep sided twisty valley. What happened was this. The Head, a 5 by 5 force of nature, greeted me. Don’t take your coat off, she says. We’ve not time for that. Come on. And she sweeps me off down a corridor and, with a flourish, flings open a classroom door.

Understand, this is a school of high ceilings and traditional virtues. These are the Top Juniors. (they can’t be doing with this Year 6 stuff). There are 34 children in proper desks with lids and holes for ink wells. Now then, says the Head. You didn’t believe me when I said he was coming, did you? She lets the silence hang a beat. The children of traditional virtues look at me and back at her. You didn’t believe me….ye of little faith. Well. She pauses just long enough. Here he is.

She turns to me. Fogginzo, she says. Fogginzo. They won’t believe me, but they’ll have to believe you. Go on. Tell them how you and I toured the circuses of Europe before the Second World War.

She knows that I know that she knows that I cannot back down and have any credibility. I am supposed to know about drama. She does. This is a small LEA, and all the Primary heads know each other. I have to tell the Top Juniors how me and Mrs. L. toured the circuses of Europe before World War Two.

So I do. I tell them, in my halting, heavily accented English (for which I apologise…I am Hungarian, you understand)  how their stocky little Headteacher danced on the high wire, like a jewelled dragonfly in the haze of an amber spotlight, and how she broke men’s hearts with her fragile beauty. The children look at her for confirmation. She nods. Yes it’s true, all of it.

schoolroom 3

I don’t do my clipboard inspection. It has been one of the best mornings of my life.”

And so it started. I had no idea about a direction or even of a purpose. I suppose I had a vague idea that I’d like to repay the debt I was beginning to feel to the community of poets as I started to write more and to send things out. I especially wanted to publish work by people whose work I liked..mainly through poetry readings and open mic.s….who had not yet been published. Actually, as it turned out, several of them had, which tells you a good deal about how little I knew (still don’t) about the world of poetry, and all its magazines and small presses. I began by calling them ‘undiscovered gems’ (thank you Thomas Grey), but then had to create a new category of ‘(un)discovered gems’. Finally, I got up the courage to ask well-known poets to let me write about why I liked their work so much; hence the third category of ‘polished gems’. Today is unique, because for one post only we are having a Christmas Star. The reasons for this will become clear once I get into my stride and I can stop thinking about what comes next, and just write.

Anyway, I realised that I couldn’t just reproduce formats that other bloggers and cobweb weavers had made their own. I wrote about the four who mattered most to me a couple of weeks ago in a post called ‘Running on empty’. I’ll try not to say the same thing all over again. What I missed in that post was the way that the pressure to develop a post meant that I was reading more and more, and that some posts were more like mini-essays. I was wanting to share what I’d just read….say, about landscape writing, or autobiography, or drafting, or competitions, or keeping notebooks, or workshops, or…and I was wanting to share it to find if I’d understood what I’d read. Which seems to me the ultimate reason for writing anything, apart from shopping lists. The upshot is that I find my Kindle stuffed with books that I buy around 1.00am. Sometimes I forget that I’ve done it. I’m reading someones stuff on a blog or on Facebook, and thinkk: ‘Mmm. Sounds interesting. If X likes it, I’ll have a bit of that.’ And the next day, or a few days later, I find I’ve got a copy of ‘Swithering’ or ‘Bright travellers’ or Don Paterson’s rumbustious take on Shakespeare’s sonnets.

And so it is that this week’s post will be lit mainly by the bright and wonderful light shed by Clive James and his Poetry Notebook 2006-2014. It makes me wonder what I’d have made of my degree course all those years ago if I’d been taught by irreverent and learned iconoclasts like James and Paterson, blown away by the exuberant breeze of their mixture of nonchalant scholarship, and their easy take on familiar, demotic, contemporay, and, above all, individual, personal language. I might have learned earlier, rather than later, that poetry was actually about the business of living. Whereas the academics who tolerated me in various tutorial rooms at Durham University in the 60s were more like Dickens’ Miss Blimber who ‘was dry and sandy from working in the graves of deceased languages. None of your living languages [for them]..they had to be good and dead and then [they] dug them up again, like a ghoul’.

What’s excited me, reading Clive James is to discover that I’ve found him at just ther right time..that is, a time when I can understand him. If I’d read him 4 years ago, I don’t think anything much would have happened. I think you’ll understand what I mean. The core notion that gripped me was that of ‘Poetry v. Poems’ and among the welter of stuff, the importance of the memorable, the unforgettable. Because I’m still at the stage of being excited and uncritical, I suspect the way to explain myself is to share a collage of quotations and simply assume you’ll share my enthusiasm: here we go:

James writes about the ubiquity of bad poetry:  ‘At a time when almost everyone writes poetry, but scarcely anyone can write a poem…. there are…..Slim volumes by the thousand….full of poetry…but few..with even a single real poem in them’

A real poem?  A real poem is  ‘Well separated’ . You hear ‘the force of real poetry at first glance’ (I love that!). Because ‘Even if you don’t set out to memorize a real poem, it somehow seems to be memorizing itself for you’. I think I probably punched the air when he wrote about ‘poets who want to keep technique out of it, because they don’t have any’ and set this side by side with ‘the spectacular expression that outruns its substance.’ What an important idea that is ..just that one word ‘substance.’ How good it is to be reminded that a poem has to be about something real and concrete, because ‘everything depended, and still depends, on the quality of the moment…whatever kind of poem it is, it’s the moment that gets you in.’ Of course, you have to have the ability to be alive to the moment that insists you write it, and ‘Confidence is the attribute that can’t be taught’. Like a class rugby player’s sidestep. Like the way Picasso or Hockney put down a clean simple line that’s the only line that will do.

Well, that wouldn’t get me a high grade in a university essay. But it says what I want it to say. It explains to me why some poems simply nail ‘it’ for me. Poems that are memorable for themselves, that hold together, and surprise, and make themselves your friends for life. Like the poems that Gordon Hodgeon let me share with you. Like Jo Bell’s ‘The archaeologist of rivers’ and ‘Eve naming the birds’. Like Fiona  Benson’s Bright travellers. Robin Robertson’s ‘At Roane Head’. All of Christy Ducker’s alphabet poems for Grace Darling in her collection Skipper. And a good many others. But above all, and especially in these last three years, poem after poem by my inspiration, involuntary mentor, and special centenary guest, Kim Moore. (featured here, appropriately enough, on a bandstand with a silver band. It should be a brass band, but you can’t have everything.)


This will come as no surprise to my handful of regular readers, since scarcely a post goes by without a passing reference to Kim, but if you don’t know her, here she is to introduce herself.

‘I’m currently working two days a week as a peripatetic brass teacher. During my two teaching days I work in three different schools and conduct four different junior brass bands. The rest of the week, I’m free to float around the place in a poet-like fashion, giving readings, running workshops, planning residential courses, writing reviews or articles, writing poems, reading poems, blogging about poetry, traveling to readings or traveling back from readings. I work as a freelance tutor for The Wordsworth Trust and an online tutor for The Poetry School.

In 2012 my first pamphlet If We Could Speak Like Wolves won the Poetry Business Pamphlet Competition, judged by Carol Ann Duffy. The pamphlet was shortlisted for the Michael Marks Award, named in the Independent as a Book of the Year and was the runner up in the Lakeland Book of the Year. This year my first collection The Art of Falling was published by Seren and a poem from the book ‘In That Year’ was shortlisted for the Forward Prize for Best Poem.

I’ve been lucky enough to perform at readings and festivals in Holland, Ireland, Croatia and at various locations throughout the UK. This year my poetry has also been translated into Dutch and Croatian. I’m the Reviews Editor for a new online magazine called The Compass, alongside poetry editors Lindsey Holland and Andrew Forster.

Next year, I’m running three residential courses with a brilliant team of co-tutors. I’ll be Poet in Residence at a festival but I’m not allowed to say where yet! I’m hoping to keep carving out time for my writing and to continue working on a sequence that I’m having great fun writing at the minute which is called All the Men I Never Married. In my spare time, I enjoy playing trumpet in a ten-piece soul band called The Soul Survivors and I also love running.’

I love that phrase. In my spare time. If you follow Kim’s poetry blog ( https://kimmoorepoet.wordpress.com/ ) you’ll know that ‘spare time’ is probably about as common in her life as a transit of Venus. One of the inspiring things about her is that she’s one of the most hard-working and committed people I’ve ever met. Poetry matters, with Kim. If she sometimes makes it looks easy, you would do well to remember the golfer who said that not only was he lucky, but the harder he worked, the luckier he got. And also Fred Astaire’s remark that if it looks difficult, you’re not trying hard enough. She’s sent me three poems for the post. I’ll try to say why they are special to me, and also try to keep in your mind what the quotations from Clive James have to do with it.

The first poem of Kim’s I ever heard was still in a handwritten draft in a workshop when she read it. What it had was James’ notion of ‘the moment’ and also the sense that it insisted on memorizing itself for me. I’ve quoted from it before, but here’s the whole poem. Just listen to the way it moves out of the banal here-and-now, where there’s chewing gum stuck to the table, and the guard bashes you with his ticket box, out of it into the wide spacious light of the estuary, and its unchangeable history, and into the curious certainty of abstractions: choices, directions, decisions (like the end of The Whitsun Weddings). And then back to the here and now, which might just be a dream.

Barrow To Sheffield

Even though the train is usually full of people
I don’t like, who play music obnoxiously loud
or talk into their phones and tell the whole carriage
and their mother how they’re afraid of dying
even though they’re only twenty-five,

even though the fluorescent lights
and the dark outside make my face look like
a dinner plate, even though it’s always cold
around my ankles and there’s chewing gum
stuck to the table and the guard is rude

and bashes me with his ticket box,
even though the toilet smells like nothing
will ever be clean again, even though
the voice that announces the stations
says Bancaster instead of Lancaster,

still I love the train, its sheer unstoppability,
its relentless pressing on, and the way the track
stretches its limb across the estuary
as the sheep eat greedily at the salty grass,
and thinking that if the sheep aren’t rounded up

will they stand and let the tide come in, because
that’s what sheep do, they don’t save themselves,
and knowing people have drowned out there
like the father who rang the coast guard,
who put his son on his shoulders as the water rose

past his knees and waist and chest, the coast guard
who tried to find him, but the fog came down,
and though he could hear the road, he didn’t know
which way to turn, but in a train, there are no choices,
just one direction, one decision you must stick to.

This morning the sun came up in Bolton and all
the sky was red and a man in a suit fell asleep
and dribbled on my shoulder till the trolley
came and rattled in my ear and he woke up
and shouted I’ve got to find the sword.


Unstoppable as the train, a poem of only two sentences, one of them six stanzas, thirty lines long. It’s a delight to read aloud. It insists on being read aloud, just do it, and you find, like a piece of music, it tells you exactly where to breathe, check, pick up pace. It never wrong-foots you. It just lines you up to arrive exactly on the moment when ‘This morning the sun came up in Bolton and all / the sky was red’,  exactly as it should be and inevitably as it must. What you have is a technically stunning poem that hides is technique, where every moment is true, and necessary. And I love the quality that I can’t find a name for that doesn’t sound condescending…but it’s a kind of innocence or naivete, where thing are seen in a clear childlike way. Actually I think in retrospect I CAN find a word for it. The word is ‘wonder’. There’s scarcely a word in the poem that announces itself as ‘poetry’ and yet the syntax could only be that of a poem. It fits James’ dictum that ‘declaring itself to be a poem is one of the the main things a poem does.’ I love the way the poem expands out beyond the dark window of the train to encompass the whole estuary, the ways of sheep, the heartbreak and history of the drowning saltflats. And then comes back to a different earth where we waken out of a dream of Tolkien. Wow!

The next poem I asked for is to remind myself how Kim shared her discovery of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and the way she found how myth might help her to come to terms with dark and destructive memories. It’s why I have at least four retellings of Ovid on my Kindle..including Ted Hughes’ adaptation. It’s why my own poetry took a turn that let me write about some of the most difficult things in my life. I owe Kim Moore a lot that she was unconscious of giving me.


How the Stones Fell
after Ovid

We learnt that we were born from stones, that the last
man and woman to survive the flood climbed from their raft
onto the shoulders of a mountain and looked across the water
which had swallowed everything.

For days there had been a sea but no shore, now as the water
curled back its lip and let go of the tops of trees
the man and woman followed, walking down the slope,
their feet touching the edges of the water,

their arms full of the bones of the earth, their hair long
and flowing to their waists. They cast stones behind them
and from the hand of the man a stone fell and grew into
another man and from the hand of the woman

a stone fell and grew into another woman and so we grew,
our eyes like flints and our mouths tasting of the earth.
We were born from stones and we were destined to live
like stones, warming ourselves in the sun,

cracking when the temperature fell, we said there was
something of the sea in us, but in this, like many other things
we lied, it was never water in our hearts, we carried stones
in our pockets, we carried them in our hands.


This one I like for, amongst many things, never even coming near having ‘the spectacular expression that outruns its subject’. Because the language of Kim Moore’s poetry is so often as clear as glass that you see right through to the substance. And then you listen to the music of it all, the internal rhymes and half-rhymes that are like the language of everyday and also of a solemn incantation. It’s a heartbreaker, too, this poem, carrying a weight of grief for the stone in the human heart, that is suddenly felt in the switch from ‘them’ to ‘us’. They cast stones behind them’ and ‘so we grew, / our eyes like flints and our mouths tasting of the earth’. It’s a poem that made me change the way I wrote and the rhythm that I wrote in. Not consciously, or deliberately. I just fell in with its rhythm, and was lost.

Finally, a poem that comes from a sequence in which it feel as though Kim wrote herself free of a dark period in her life. It’s a sequence without a shred of self-pity, but an overwhelming pity for the self she makes herself confront and acknowledge. Have you read Ursula le Guin’s A wizard of earthsea? The hero, Ged, pursues a dark Shadow to the ends of the earth; he thinks he must destroy it. Instead, he learns he must name it with its true name, and its true name is his own name. Shakespeare did it more succinctly in The Tempest: ‘This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine’, says Prospero of Caliban. Until he does, he can never be whole. It’s not the best way of explaining the power of this sequence for me, but it’s the best I can do. Everything I like in Kim Moore’s poetry is in this poem, which, unusually, is crammed with images, like an Old Testament psalm, and which, for me, meets all Clive James’ criteria of ‘well-separatedness’, memorability, craft and substance.

In That Year

And in that year my body was a pillar of smoke
and even his hands could not hold me.

And in that year my mind was an empty table
and he laid his thoughts down like dishes of plenty.

And in that year my heart was the old monument,
the folly, and no use could be found for it.

And in that year my tongue spoke the language
of insects and not even my father knew me.

And in that year I waited for the horses
but they only shifted their feet in the darkness.

And in that year I imagined a vain thing;
I believed that the world would come for me.

And in that year I gave up on all the things
I was promised and left myself to sadness.

And then that year lay down like a path
and I walked it, I walked it, I walk it.


I don’t want to say any more about it. Because it doesn’t need it. Except that it’s been an enormous pleasure to celebrate the 100th cobweb strand with a Christmas Star. Kim Moore…thank you.

And if you haven’t bought it yet, then do so. You have Christmas booktokens and Amazon Vouchers. Why are you waiting. Even better, use the link to Kim Moore’s poetry blog. It has a PayPal button. She’ll be more than happy if you use it.



a christmas story revisited

A rewind of a post from Dec 20th 1914. But with new pictures.

The Great Fogginzo's Cobweb


‘Every year, the toys were brought down from the attic and placed under the tree hung with angels and lights and smelling of the pine woods. Every evening the toys performed, and every day the tree shed more needles on the floor until Christmas was gone. Then the tree was thrown out and the toys were packed off to the attic where they lay jumbled in a box together…..through the long days and nights they listened to the rain on the roof and the wind in the trees, but the sound of the clock striking midnight never reached them; they never had permission to speak at all, and they lay in silence until another year passed and they stood once more beneath the tree………’

And there starts one of the great stories of the 20th century, by one of its great storytellers.


And you know, sure as eggs is eggs…

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John Foggin #quirkychristmas

Thank you for this, Abegail Morley. I’m highly delighted to be in there with such a talented company. Happy Christmas!

Abegail Morley

Cold comfort

You forget parties
spent behind a sofa
in a room so thick with smoke
you couldn’t see the sofa,
when you were one of the ones without a girl

the way you made do
with being thin and wearing black
and James-Dean-squinting through the smoke.
enigmatic dark and tragic
except that it was Orbison, except that it was
Only the Lonely, except that it was
When will I be loved,

but anyway, one Christmas night
behind a sofa and the girl you thought you’d brought
is somewhere else with someone else
in the swirly jazz-club smoke you picture
in your all-in-black and you really
love her because that’s what you do
and that’s what I did, then

which is why when she said
that someone-else had gone
and would I walk her home
then that’s what I did
because that’s what I did, then

and I knew it…

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Carole Bromley #quirkychristmas

Oh for crisp earth cracking underfoot, a bit of frost. But I wish I’d written lines like ‘the days my mother couldn’t face’ and ‘I lift the shoe-box fairy from the dark’. Thanks for this, Carole Bromley, and to Abegail Morley for sharing it. Filled my morning with zest.

Abegail Morley


Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel
There’s darkness now at three,
the logs will never crackle on her hearth,
she’ll not line up the chestnuts on the grate
or spear a crumpet on a fork to toast.

These are the days my mother couldn’t face,
these the trees she’ll never drag indoors,
these the holly berries rimed with frost.
this the crisp earth cracking underfoot.

I lift the shoe-box fairy from the dark
and peel a tangerine. The first snow falls.
I jab my thumbnail in. That spurt of juice.
December and the kitchen fills with zest.
These dark days I love the most.

From The Stonegate Devil, The Poetry Business

Carole Bromley lives in York where she is the Poetry Society’s stanza rep and also runs monthly poetry surgeries. She is published by Smith/Doorstop and her second collection, ‘The Stonegate Devil’ came out in October. Her website is http://www.carolebromleypoetry.co.uk

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Running on empty

Two things on this dreich Sunday afternoon.

One : I have just discovered that WordPress analyses one’s posts in astonishing detail; I have simultaneously discovered that I wish I had not discovered it. I’m not at all sure that I wanted to know that most people read my cobweb posts at 4.00pm on Mondays. I’m not sure why it bothers me, but I worry that every Monday round about teatime I’ll be wondering who will be reading what I wrote the day before…and how many. If any.

Two: Is it Yeats..‘The circus animals’ desertion’ ? ‘I sought a theme and sought it for a week’. It’s a sudden realisation that I’m starting to find Sunday afternoons hard work, starting to worry for days before what it is I’ll be writing about, and why anyone would want to be reading it.

So maybe it’s a good time to think about why I started to write the cobweb posts in the first place. I’m fairly sure I had no clear plan that it would be a weekly business, or, indeed, if it would be anything at all. I do know that once I’d written for four successive Sundays I’d created a routine that I would have felt guilty about breaking.

More than that, I looked forward to each Sunday. I had a notebook full of titles for posts I wanted to write. This more or less coincided with starting to write poetry on a regular basis, and I strongly suspect that this was because there was a log-jam of things I wanted to make sense of. And I know for a fact that I was missing teaching, and, especially the two bits of teaching I liked best. One was thinking up new lesson-plans and course outlines (usually about things I wasn’t entirely sure I knew enough about), and the other was having an audience. I am suspicious of any teacher who claims that having a captive audience is not part of the charm of the job. The other thing with the cobweb, of course, is that there’s no marking. Teaching an audience of volunteers, and no marking. I think that’s it.


You forget that sooner or later you’ll hit a patch when you realise you’re repeating yourself, recycling the same old stuff, and starting to bore yourself. Running on empty, desperate for the service station signs on the infinitely receding road dwindling into the prairie. (yes. I’ve watched too many movies). I think that’s what teachers’/writers’ block is. Block is the wrong word; it implies that you have tons of stuff to say and something’s stopping you. I don’t think that’s it at all. I think it’s not having anything fresh to say. Running on empty. So here’s my tribute to four special poetry bloggers who I follow faithfully, and who each, in his or her own way, has found a formula (or formulae) that keeps them ticking over, endlessly interesting, always inspirational. Whenever I feel like calling it a day, they’ll be there, carrying my rucksack for a bit, offering a sandwich or a ciggie, a bottle of water, a flask of tea, that bit of encouragement that says: come on, it’s not far, it’s just over the hill, it’s just round the next bend. It isn’t, of course, but by the time you get there you know you might as well keep going. So here we go. With stats.


Roy Marshallhttps://roymarshall.wordpress.com/ ]

He has clocked up, I see, 4.5 thousand hits. One of the things that unnerved me about his blog was the blogroll. Last time I counted there were at least 75 poetry blogsites on the blogroll (jeez…it’s a horrible thing, this language of the virtual world. But what’s a girl to do.). It makes me think a) how could there be so many? b) how does he know? c) crikey..has he read them all? No wonder he seems to know so much AND d) if he has, how come he’s so disarmingly modest?

Because the reason I follow Roy’s posts is the unfailing generosity with which he shares his experience of all sorts of things to do with writing poems and getting poems published, and about reading at poetry events…….It occurs to me that the tone is always reflectively analytic and always not-exactly tentative but never dogmatic. It’s a voice you can trust, if you’re feeling your way into this strange business of writing poetry. It’s the voice of someone for whom the experience is still fresh…he knows how you feel. Like this

if all or most of the work you are sending out is being returned to you without offers of publication, you are in the majority. There are a lot of people submitting work and only a small minority can be published. That doesn’t mean that this will always be the case. And there are many possible reasons for this. One possibility (and a difficult one to accept) is that perhaps your work isn’t ready yet. Perhaps your poem needs a tweak or even a re-write. One or two clunky lines or even a word could be enough to put the editor off. There is also the question of originality. Editors read thousands of poems and many are adept at spotting something they have seen before and possibly done better. I imagine the only way to know if this is the case is to read as much poetry as you can.

At the moment, then, this is Roy’s theme. A beginner’s guide to the poetry business by a poet who seems to know that this is what he would have appreciated when he was himself a beginner.

Common sense. No messing. Understanding. But reminding you that if you want to be any good and you want to be heard you need to knuckle down, and work at it. And you know, as you follow his posts, and read back through older ones, that this is exactly what he’s done himself. So thank you, Roy Marshall for keeping my feet on the ground, for the ciggie, for the flask of tea. It’s just round the corner. And if it isn’t, that’s no reason to stop.


Joesphine Corcoran  [ https://josephinecorcoran.wordpress.com/     and     https://andotherpoems.wordpress.com/    ]

A special place in my affections for this indefatigable poetry blogger, who maintains TWO distinctly different blogs. I first came across her via Facebook, when the poet Carole Bromley shared a post alerting me to the possibilities of and other poems. As a writer of a poetry cobweb, I could see the attraction of this (without the attendant work and responsiblity). You invite people to send you poems. Every week you post a couple of poems that people have sent in. You publish the biographical details they send in. You don’t comment on or analyse their poems. Simples. People get published. Everyone’s happy.

So I sent her some poems, and after a short delay she wrote back and said ‘thank you, but these aren’t quite up to scratch’. Of course she was much gentler than this, but even if she had used those words I would have had to admit she was right. She also said: send some more; try again; they weren’t all that bad; just not quite good enough. [Though not in so many words]. So I did, and the next time there was a poem she liked, and she published it. That’s not the reason for that ‘special place in my affections’. The reason is the courage it takes to have high standards, to stick to them, to be prepared to disappoint people. Because there are writers out there with a strong sense of entitlement, people who take exception to being ‘rejected’. It takes courage to run a blog like and other poems. And hard work. But I wouldn’t miss it, because of the surprises it throws up. And nary a dud.

Her other poetry blog is something else. I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s personal, it’s reflective, it’s sometimes painfully honest. It’s sometimes like a journal. It’s sometimes like an essay. It’s sometimes like a holiday postcard. But its strikes a chord. It must do. According to her wordpress stats she has 4.2 thousand followers. I currently have about 350. She’s worked hard for everyone of them. BUT the thing that strikes me is not the numbers but the number of comments she gets and the fact that she answers every single one. Her readers trust her, they share all sort of things, primarily because she’s not afraid to share things with them. I don’t know how she’d describe her formula, if it is a formula. But it’s winner. Joesphine, thank you.


Anthony Wilson  [ http://anthonywilsonpoetry.com/lifesavingpoemsblog/ ]

6.9 thousand followers. 350,00 hits.The blogfather, the daddy of them all, the doyen of poetry bloggers, the ne plus ultra….what do you say about life saving poems that hasn’t been said already? I’m not going to try, but I know why I follow his posts, and what I can learn from them. I have some sort of handle on Anthony’s themes and formulae, and I think he’s a teacher after my own heart. I’m a good deal older than him, but he makes me feel like his contemporary. Let me pick out three things in particular that show me how a blog can be structured, as well as the holy grail of the theme that will carry you for a good long time, save you agonising every Sunday what you’re going to talk about. This is where it started: The post is called BLOG

‘ I was struck by a remark of Seamus Heaney in an interview he gave some years ago now. He was musing on how many poems can affect the life of an individual across that person’s lifetime. Was it ten, he said, twenty, fifty, a hundred, or more? This is the question that has underpinned this pet project of mine since I began it in July 2009.

Since then I have been copying out poems into a plain Moleskine notebook, one at a time, in inky longhand, when the mood took me. Allowing myself no more than one poem per poet, I wanted to see how many poems I could honour with the label ‘lifesaving’. I quickly realised it was a deeply subjective and unscientific exercise. Frequently, the poem that was copied into my book was not especially famous, certainly not representative or even the ‘best’ of that poet’s work.

My criteria were extremely basic.  Was the poem one I could recall having had an immediate experience with from the first moment I read it? In short, did I feel the poem was one I could not do without?

The list below is, therefore, not a perfect anthology-style list of the great and the good. It is a list of poems I happen to feel passionate about, according to my tastes. As Billy Collins says somewhere: ‘Good poems are poems that I like’.

Copying them out into my book has not always been fun, but now that I am finished, I am in possession of a deeply satisfactory feeling of having learnt more about myself and about each poem that I copied.

Over the next weeks and months I am going to be blogging here about the stories behind the choices I made, the influences upon them, and what I learnt in the process. (Before anyone writes in, I have noticed that William Blake snuck in with two choices).

For what it is worth, here are my

Lifesaving poems

And what follows is a list of about 180 poems by 180 poets. That’s more than three years’ worth of blogposts sorted, at one fell swoop. Bloggers’ Nirvana. Shangri La. Provided, of course you know at least 180 poets, and you know their work well enough to choose one from each of which you can say, hand-on-heart: ‘this is lifesaving’. What I love about reading Anthony Wilson is the effortless erudition that is never exclusive or scholarly. It’s what great teachers do…like Bronowsky in ‘The ascent of man‘, or John Berger in ‘Ways of seeing‘ (and not remotely like Kenneth Clarke in ‘Civilisation’). It’s like the introduction to poetry you get if you regularly go to Poetry Business workshops. I’d not heard of half the poets Anthony chose. But I have now. All I want now is another holy grail, no more running on empty.

Of course, Anthony’s Lifesaving poems are not unconnected to another theme of his blog which was essentially a shared journal of his experience of the diagnosis, and subsequent treatment for a particular cancer. I’ve been treated for two kinds of cancer, and I’m currently being treated for a third, so it’s going to resonate. But I doubt I’d have that kind of courage to share the experience. On the other hand, it seems to me that the best poetry blogs are those ones where people declare their own vulnerabilites and doubts as well as their successes and undoubted talents.

Finally, let me pay tribute to two running gags in the script. The Book and The Thing (or Things). Anthony will frequently find himself at a Thing. Which means he is never short of blog copy. And he has written several successful books. A book can take on a life of its own. It can answer back. It can sulk. It can involve you in Pinteresqe dialogue. That’s another thread, then…the narrative of The Book, the occasional drama of Things. But especially the lippy Book. If you’ve not read it then you can now via links in Anthony’s blog to The Parable of the Book. Here’s a flavour. He does great dialogue, does Mr Wilson. The first line is his, the second is The Book’s. They alternate.

 I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘I don’t know, are you?’

‘You know I am.’


‘I thought about you all the time.’

‘I’ve only got your word for it.’

‘You’ve only got my word for anything.’

Poetry by heart 019

Finally, Kim Moore  [ 3.7 thousand followers       https://kimmoorepoet.wordpress.com/ ]

I’ve been following Kim Moore’s Sunday Poem posts for two and a half years. She has published a post every Sunday (but for the very few occasions when we’ve had to wait till Monday ) for four and a half years. I know that this afternoon she got back home after teaching a poetry residential course at Grange over Sands, and will almost certainly publish a brand new post tonight. In any week she will be teaching children how to play brass instruments, in many weeks she will be playing the trumpet in a brilliant band called The Soul Survivors (specialising in the faithful reproduction of Stax, Atlantic and Motown classics); she may be compiling bids for Arts Council and other sorts of funding for poetry projects; she may be planning a poetry festival; she may be getting ready to be Poet-in-Residence at a literature festival like Ilkley; she may be flown to Ireland or the Netherlands or Croatia; she will certainly be literally running, with an eye on another PB; she will be involved in the on-line poetry magazine, ‘The Compass’; she will be eating chocolate croissants, heading for another reading in another town, kipping on someone’s sofa or in a B&B, driving in horrible weather, somehow and somewhere along the way, writing stunning poems, but ALWAYS every week she will write the Sunday Poem.

Kim has her own specific formula, which in many ways is self-sustaining, albeit horribly demanding. Like a dearly-loved child. Every week she will write a guileless and action -packed account of what she’s been up to, so it’s like a journal. And she will post a poem she’s requested from someone she’s met up with, or recently read, and tell us why she likes it. She’s recently changed the formula to starting with the poem and her thoughts about it, and then writing about her week. Either way, it works because what you get to share is the working life and enthusiasms of a gigging, working, inspirational poet.

All four of my inspirational bloggers teach me something, and I’ve tried to suggest what it is. If I haven’t, then mea culpa. I will try harder. But they have all taught me the importance of being open, of taking risks, of sharing doubts and uncertainties, of championing what you think is important. And of doing it every week no matter what. I think the best bloggers are like sharks. If they stop swimming they die. They just need a flask of tea, or a friendly word, or a hand with the rucksack, or a ciggie, or a chocolate croissant. And the consoling lie that the end is just round the corner, or just over the hill.

Listen. I’ve not forgotten all those other poetry bloggers…Robin Houghton, Jo Bell, Maria Taylor, Jayne Stanton, Mark Connors, Julie Mellor. It’s the Desert Island Disc thing. There’s always someone great left out. Don’t be hurt. Please don’t unfriend me on Facebook.

Next week…a very special post with a Very Special Guest. Clean collars and ties. Think on.

Miki Byrne #quirkychristmas

If you like your Dylan Thomas and your Laurie Lee, you’ll surely like this one.

Abegail Morley

Carols on Milk St.

On Milk Street with frozen hands,
ears red-tipped, noses that dripped,
we sang—chest out, full throat.
Songs of good cheer,
of this pure time of year,
hymns the missus asked to hear,
our voices rang.
Then came pennies in our fists
warm mince-pies of melting bliss.
No cold caroller could resist
warm onslaught
of neighbours Christmas wish.
We smiled.
Then, “We wish you a Merry Christmas”.
with breath-clouded faces,
snows soft embraces
smiles on our neighbours kind, giving faces
went singing on our way.
Our pockets a-jingle
with pennies, like heaven.
Carolling on Milk Street,
this Christmas Eve day.

Miki has written three poetry collections and had work included in over 170 poetry magazines and anthologies. She has read on both Radio and TV, and was a finalist for Poet Laureate of Gloucestershire. She is active on the spoken word scene in Cheltenham and is a…

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Jill Munro #quirkychristmas

Abegail Morley

Blue Tits don’t Eat Boiled Carrots

The off-cuts from Christmas lunch
have been munched and pecked
to purgatory but six bright orange
planets lie in the iced grey dish,
unwanted by tiny half-frozen blue
tipped wingers flying unfettered
round the stuffing crumby bird-table.

I roll into myself, leave
this tit tableau, knowing
these discs will remain until
I bring them in, stay luminous
against the frost, outrageous
in the winter garden, they shine
as bright as the yellow half-moons
of his long cracked nails, piercing my skin,
holding on to what he didn’t say, didn’t do,
before he went, amazed he never told me
what to do about the boiled carrots.

Jill Munro’s poems have been published in Orbis, South Magazine, The New Writer, Prole, Ink Sweat and Tears and Poetry News and she has had three poems long-listed for the National Poetry competition. Her first collection, ‘Man from La…

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Natalie Spencer #quirkychristmas

Abegail Morley

The Night before Christmas 1978

The corridor to the morgue is wide and empty, and softly lit
and this bearded old man, burdened with presents
desperately searches for the door marked restaurant.

Then I see her, small and heavy like a tiny battle ship,
her radar hand scanning her cargo
of two hundred and seventy delicate bones.

In a buff envelope tied with green twine is an x-ray
of two spiny aliens, one slotted inside the other
both dependent on a Pelvic anchor.

Her smile is much like my wife’s and I am grateful
she does not know what I do, or how glad I am
to feel her child respond to the touch of my palm.

Natalia Spencer B.A is a Writer from South West England.
Like most Writers she knows, she has family, cats and many books.
The MSF Silver Award for poetry is welcomed addition to her…

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