It's the feels you're looking for: an interview with Matt Goodfellow

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Matt Goodfellow’s powerful yet accessible novel in verse The Final Year, illustrated by Joe Todd-Stanton, won the 2024 CLPE Children's Poetry Award, and the hearts of readers of all ages. Nate is facing down the dreaded Year 6 – SATS, friendship struggles, anger and all – when his little brother falls ill and his world, already chaotic, spins off its axis. He finds lights to guide him, though, including friendships old and new, a perceptive new teacher and reading and writing.

Nate felt so real to me, and we can see from the book’s success just how real he felt to young readers, too. I asked Matt how difficult it was to achieve such an authentic child’s voice.

“Everything I write is inspired by a combination of three things: my life, lives that I've seen, and things that I make up. I taught as a Year 6 teacher in East Manchester, where the book is set, and Nate is a combination of lots of different young people I taught, kids that I've met doing events around the country, and stuff from my life.”

Matt’s editor, Charlotte, also comes from a teaching background, and their hard work getting the accent and dialect right and creating a setting that felt true to life has paid off.

“As a teacher, I didn't see lives like Nate's represented in literature. And we’re saying: this is a story to be told, and these lives are important. Your cultural heritage matters. Your accent matters. We’re trying to get teachers and young people to understand that an expression of self in the voice that you've grown up with is really important. It’s about identity.”

The dire warnings about “knuckling down” and “stepping up” issued to students in The Final Year struck a powerful chord both for my daughter – who has just navigated that year of SATS and stress – and I. Nate benefits from the wisdom and sensitivity of new teacher Mr Joshua, who became a mouthpiece for some of Matt’s feelings about the educational system and poetry in schools.

“There’s an undeniable pressure to do things in a certain way, and it does push creativity out, and it does stop things like poetry creeping in. Schools bump out young people disenfranchised by poetry because of the way teachers are forced to teach it. My son's nineteen, and his dad's a poet, and he still left high school thinking poetry was nothing to do with him. But the first thing he does when he leaves school is put his headphones in and listen to rap and rhyme.

No writers write the way that teachers are made to teach writing in school. So poetry can become this fluid space where things can be done differently – but because a lot of the teachers won’t have had training in teaching poetry, it can become self perpetuating that everybody's frightened of it.”

Nate uses both the public library and the school library as places of refuge, seeking out new reading experiences. But Matt says that wasn’t inspired by his own experience – “I rebelled against reading, mostly because I was an idiot” – but rather his years seeing the book corners and school libraries that dictate what young readers have access to.

“Although there’s a movement within publishing to reflect everybody, there’s still not a lot of lives like Nate’s being seen, so I think it's important that people can go and find those stories.”

I’m so grateful to Matt for putting David Almond on my radar. His children’s classic Skellig threads through the book: comforting and inspiring Nate and giving him a new sense of the possibilities of storytelling. “David writes with a beautiful sense of place about the northeast and there's real life in it, but there's also a magic that he does so uniquely. When I became a teacher, I’d wanted to be a rock star. I didn't have kids yet. I knew nothing about kids’ literature. And in my second year of teaching, I had a year 5 class, and I read Skellig and I thought, this is one of the best books I've ever read. I just didn't know that kids’ writing could be that textured.”

The idea of writing something with the same power for children had taken root, but songwriting was in the rearview mirror, and Matt saw his future in education. Then, author Tom Palmer came into the school, and – as Matt organised more school visits, focussing on poets he admired like Wes McGee, Brian Moses and Jan Dean – another path appeared for him.

David Almond loved The Final Year. And when Matt talked to him about it after publication, he realised that after a gruelling year, much of Mr Joshua’s encouragement to Nate was a way in which Matt was talking to himself. “And David said, “You only find out what they're about after you've written them.” Genius.”

I wondered whether Matt had had a similarly inspiring teacher, but he says, “I went through primary school easily but moving on to high school, when my behaviour changed a bit, nobody really took the time to say, let's unpick this. I started writing songs when I was about thirteen, and the idea that you could write and talk about yourself came from there, not from any teachers.”

He adds, “And I was nowhere near as good a teacher as Mr Joshua is. I wanted him to be at the start of his career because he's not tired. I needed him to really want to be in the classroom, to really care about the kids. He spots that Nate has something to say, and I did try to do that when I was a teacher because there's noisy kids, there's quiet kids and there's kids in between. And quite often, kids can fall through the gaps, and teachers are so busy. It does feel like he's there speaking to the readers who don't have that teacher.

And maybe Mr Joshua is the teacher that I needed when I was a kid, and that's why I wrote him like that.”

The Final Year has been justly praised for Matt’s authentic, sympathetic handling of fear and grief, as Nate’s little brother falls ill. He draws the realities of the way in which children are kept at a remove from crises, the need to blow off steam and the way kids offer each other support in pages so deft and true, I’m sure I wasn’t the only reader reading through tears.

“There’s always been sadness in my life and I knew I wasn’ t the only one. The music I listen to and the stuff that interests me is generally about articulations of sadness, which some people think is weird. But the stuff that happens in the book, happens. And quite often, we don't talk about it. I've had a lot of emails from parents and kids thanking me for writing about it. Young people live lives in which people die and sad things happen, and if we pretend that they're not because it's difficult for us to talk about, it’s very unhelpful.

Some teachers said they wouldn’t read The Final Year to their class because it's too close to the bone. It’s not my job to tell any teacher what to do in their classroom, but those are the young people that I wrote the story for, to let them know that they're not alone. But in general, the reaction to this book has been so brilliant, from kids and teachers. There’s been a lot of response from adults because, hopefully, it's written on a number of different levels. I work really hard to make space for any adult to read the book because it's about life. It’s about grief, and it ultimately, it is about hope.”

I was thrilled to hear that Nate will return in a sequel, The First Year, to be published by Otter-Barry Books in April 2025. Matt says, “I’m never interested in writing the same book twice, so it's a very different sort of set of issues.” Readers will be able to follow Nate’s transition to secondary school and the new challenges he’ll face.

In the wise words of Mr Joshua as he ignites Nate’s passion for writing: “It’s the feels you’re looking for.” Reader, you’ll find them within the pages of The Final Year.

This interview originally appeared in Books for Keeps.

Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy

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Oh, this book. This extraordinary book. It has floored me. It hurt and it healed.

The vertigo and grief of realising, too late, that you have crossed the border into that new world — Liz Berry’s Republic of Motherhood. Without meaning to, you have left home because “all along I had believed I was equal, when all along I was not, because all along I had been treading towards this great crevasse called motherhood, and now that I was at the bottom of it looking up at the world through my brain fog, I could see that to have presumed Empire and patriarchy were dead was naive at best. Not only were they alive and well: they had won… the fear that gripped me… was not a fear that I had experienced before, having never been weak before, nor injured, nor incompetent. I was now too stupified to find my way back to my old life. That girl was gone and all I could do — indeed all I did do — was cry when you weren’t looking.”

Competence. It seems a basic thing, but when it’s stripped away we are left reeling. Soldier, Sailor is so good on the moment when the trapdoor opens and you plummet out of your life, shambling and leaking and weeping and raging. There are many areas of life in which I am not a competent person, including — but not limited to — parking, assembling furniture, maths above Y5 level and absolutely any sporting endeavour other than riding a bike. A friend said that new motherhood felt like being plunged into a deeply physical, 24/7 job for which she was unqualified, untrained and, she often feared, unsuited and I felt this so deeply. This book expressed that panic and frustration so lucidly — oh, the mini-meltdown at the supermarket checkout! I used to be a capable adult, you know. I once accidently shoplifted a pack of reduced-price casserole vegetables because I’d slung them under the buggy and was so, so tired. Sorry about the swede, Sainsburys.

I viscerally reacted to the portrait here of the thousand near misses every day, occasions that I still tremble and sweat about, that flash across my inner eye: the sharp stone steps, the reachable knife, the road darted across, the playground vanishing… There’s one involving dismounting from a train without having fastened the pram straps properly that haunts me now, eight years on, pretty much daily. Look at a mother and you are looking at someone who is going about their life with lurid catastrophe reels looping in their minds hourly. How can the world hurt you? Let me count the ways. How bright those bloody pictures are at 4am. I’m a decade into this and I know that although the content will change, there isn’t an off switch. Soldier, Sailor reminded me how astonishing it is we can put one foot in front of the other, dogged by such fear.

Claire Kilroy is so good, too, on the rage and resentment. It blazes. And explaining, even to those who share your life — but haven’t offered theirs up on this altar, not to the same all-consuming degree — feels like returning from the Western Front, ravaged and ragged, and trying to talk to a provincial gentlewoman who has been knitting for the boys in a tranquil parlour with tea. She brought all this back to me.

But the love.

She is incredible on the love.

Would I have wanted to read it during those lunatic nights? I’m not sure. (I lost the ability to read almost entirely for about a year anyway.) It took me back to those early days: running to get nowhere, a million things to do every second, always teetering on the edge of a scream that shreds you, and nothing to show for it but the miracle of them, which is everything, but where are you? A me I’ve since shed felt seen and scorched. I loved it and I bawled. This is a brilliant, brilliant book.

Soldier, Sailor by Claire Kilroy is out now in paperback.

A Flight of Dragons: Mythological Poems

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When I give talks in schools about Gods and Monsters: Mythological Poems, we always finish with the World Cup of Mythological Monsters. Imagine the sun beating down on the Colisseum’s earthen floor as our challengers emerge from their corners, to gasps from the crowd. How will the Minotaur fare away from his home turf of dark Labrinth? Is the retiring Yeti temperamentally suited to fierce combat? How effective is the Gorgon’s petrifying stare at a distance? It’s great fun and every time it goes a little differently. At one school, Team Grendel is especially vocal. At a library event, the Amarock, a terrifying Wolf from Inuit mythology, proves a fan favourite. But I think I’m going to have to mix it up because… the dragon always wins.

They’re often big, you see. Sometimes huge. (Not always, if you’ve met How To Train Your Dragon’s Nano Dragons, but often.) They have tough leathery scales, and fearsome teeth and claws, although sometimes their eyesight is poor after all that crouching on treasure in the darkness. They have wings, and they can breathe fire. As range weapons go, it’s hard to argue with. (Just ask the charred remains of that Sphinx it dispatched without breaking a sweat in Round Three.)

As a child, I was enchanted and pleasantly terrified by Roger Lancelyn Green’s Puffin Book of Dragons. From Sigurd and Lancelot to Beowulf, I quested with the dragon slayers, while always retaining a little sympathy for their majestic adversaries. What a joy it has been to ride out again in search of dragon poems for my most recent anthologies.

Within the pages of Gods and Monsters, I watched Pie Corbett’s Dragon Whistler, beautifully drawn by the amazing Chris Riddell, summon her scaly legions by night.

I walked deep into The Forest with A F Harrold, and when we brushed the sleeping dragon’s hide with our outstretched hands, we were marked forever. (Sometimes, we notice others with the same secret in their fingertips, and we

‘Say nothing, but nod,

say nothing, but smile,

say nothing, but know

you’re not alone

knowing

what you know.’)

I stood on the wind-whipped cliff to watch Laura Varnam’s Dead Dragon, Deep Dragon plunge like a comet into the ocean. I listened, yawning, to Andrew Lang recalling the lullaby of Orpheus, soothing the ‘King of Gods and men’ to sleep. I longed, like Marianne Moore, to be a dragon myself, ‘of silkworm size or immense’.

Some figures that appeared in Gods and Monsters, a collection of mythological poems, could not perform an encore in Heroes and Villains: Legendary Poems. A legend is a story that has – or was thought to have – a grain of truth at its heart. People from many different cultures all over the world have sincerely believed in dragons, the stories perhaps inspired when fossils were discovered in the earth. Brian Moses wonders whether The Dragons Are Hiding:

‘Yet recently there were rumours again:

The whisper of wing-beats in darkness,

distant thunder from mountains,

a tumult beneath a waterfall, where roaring

could easily be disguised.’

Well, good, I say, and so say all the children who cheer the dragon to victory in the World Cup of Mythological Monsters. They are the most fearsome and the finest of the beasts in which we never quite stop half-believing.

Gods and Monsters: Mythological Poems and Heroes and Villains: Legendary Poems gather classic and contemporary poems for an audience of 8+. Both are illustrated by Chris Riddell.

More information on school events with me here.

This article originally appeared on the Children’s Poetry Summit blog.

What To Read in Paris

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My daughters and I had a fantastic trip to Paris this Spring. On the itinerary: the Ifle Tower [sic], the Mona Lisa and lots and lots of chocolate croissants. Of course my thoughts also turned to reading material. Here are a few of my favourite Parisian page-turners, which I shared in my free bookish newsletter, but I’d love some recommendations for new books set in the city, please?

My beloved Beasts of Paris is out in paperback at last and I made my book club read it so I’m getting a cheeky re-read in! If you like epic historical fiction, beautiful evocations of the City of Lights, strong women, forbidden love stories, big cats, candlelit cafes in snowy streets, characters finding a place in a world that doesn’t understand them, drama and peril… this is for you. It’s wonderful.

It’s decades since I read The Hare with Amber Eyes, Edmund de Waal’s gorgeous biography of his family, but I loved it. Inspired by his great uncle’s collection of netsuke — intricate Japanese carvings — he embarks on a voyage of discovery through his ancestors’ often turbulent stories beginning in 1870s Paris.

Little by Edward Carey is a strange, beautifully written fictionalised history of Madame Tussaud, following her from the eerie workshop of lonely Doctor Curtius to the Monkey House in Revolutionary Paris and even a cupboard at Versailles. Fascinating, often gruesome (the horrifying heft of a head!), frequently moving and always intriguing.

I might have loved Katherine Rundell’s Rooftoppers even more than the kids did. I fell hard for eccentric Charles Maxim, who takes Sophie in after a shipwreck, and the cast of characters with whom she gallops over Paris rooftops. It’s moving, wry, brilliantly plotted and beautifully written, like everything Katherine does (I am a huge fangirl!)

It’s years since I read Hilary Mantel’s A Place of Greater Safety but I spent an entire beach holiday in my twenties in Revolutionary Paris. She brings all her mastery of character and place to this bloody and turbulent era and it took me over. Plus, I learned a lot about a period I only vaguely knew about. Terror, humanity, corruption and drama - this has it all.

OK, The Final Revival of Opal and Nev is largely set in America, but the section in which rock star Opal Jewel — such an iconic character — moves to 1970s Paris is one of my favourites, and I never miss a chance to recommend this banging read. Dawnie Walton brings the city’s culture to vivid life and even features a sparkling fashion show held at Versailles.

The Madwomen’s Ball by Victoria Mas, translated by Frank Wynne, is a slim, atmospheric novel set in the Salpêtrière women’s hospital and the beau monde of 19th century Paris. Patients were subject to public exhibitions of hypnosis, and an annual ball was held during which curious Parisians could encounter the women. These extraordinary historical details inspire this gothic tale of inconveniently strong-willed women, social rebellion and the supernatural.

Rediscovered in a suitcase after Irène Némirovsky’s tragic death in Auschwitz, Suite Française is an astonishing testament to its author’s spirit. In the first half a group of Parisians flee the invading Nazis in terror and chaos, but the novel also offers poignant notes of hope, love and nobility.

French Exit stars spoilt, hilariously acid Frances, her childish, inept son Malcolm and Small Frank, a cat who Frances believes is the reincarnation of her despised husband. It’s a fizzing, absurdist tragicomedy. I loved Frances and Joan cackling in their pyjamas together (goals), the cloying and very funny neediness of Mme Reynard and everything about Small Frank.

Compelling and energetic, but Vernon’s not for the faint-hearted: Virginie Despentes (translated by Frank Wynne) takes us tearing through Paris’ skanky underbelly with a cast of rickety, often unpleasant characters. There’s sex, drugs, violence, a flashlight shone into murky psyches and a look at what happens when party kids start ageing, but there’s pathos here too. Raw and riotous. I have my eye on her brilliantly named new novel, Dear Dickhead, too.

I loved Anna Mazzola’s atmospheric and gripping The Clockwork Girl. The filth and splendour of eighteenth century Paris and reeking, glittering Versailles leapt off the page. I was absolutely gripped by the stories of the women forced to play dangerous games to navigate this treacherous world — if you like this, you’ll also love Lucy Jago’s A Net for Small Fishes — and the gothic touches were brilliantly handled.

Putting Byron on the Buffet: Kids Love Big, Fancy Poems

I edit poetry anthologies for both adults and children. I make no apologies for not shying away from the big beasts of poetry when I curate collections for younger readers. Children aren’t scared of poetry – they are steeped in it from their first nursery rhymes and picture books – and they don’t have all the baggage that so many adults carry when it comes to poetry’s ‘greatest hits’. They haven’t yet absorbed the message that Shakespeare means trickiness and, possibly, men in tights. They don’t have a sense of Byron-Shelley-and-Keats as a boy band of winsome gentlemen with fancy ideas about stuff and fancier ways of saying this stuff. They’re here for wild adventures, gods and monsters and they haven’t heard of – and therefore aren’t scared of – poems written by Anglo Saxon or ancient Greek scribes.

I am deeply grateful for the guiding hand of wise and wonderful editor Gaby Morgan at Macmillan Children’s Books who will always tell me if I’ve fallen for something a little too knotty and sophisticated for young readers. But her confidence in the ability of children to understand and derive great pleasure from what we might think of as very grown-up verses has emboldened me. The anthology – the poetry buffet, with something for everyone – is the perfect subtle and unintimidating way to introduce younger readers to poems that older readers might shy away from, when really the reason that they have become canonical is precisely because they have so much to say to us all.

When I edited Gods and Monsters, a collection of poems about mythology, I knew I would be doing a disservice to young readers if I didn’t give them a taste of Homer’s wine-dark waves, or a sprinkle of Sappho. Within these pages, alongside clever, beautiful and funny work from contemporary poets like Sarah Ziman, Attie Lime, Nikita Gill, Carol Ann Duffy and many more, they’ll encounter Tennyson’s Kraken, Plath’s cavorting faun, Edgar Allan Poe’s sinister underwater city and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s mysterious Pan.

I was especially delighted to share Shakespeare’s Herne the Hunter:

              “There is an old tale goes, that Herne the hunter,

              Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest,

              Doth all the winter time, at still midnight,

              Walk round about an oak, with great ragg’d horns…”

                             From The Merry Wives of Windsor, by William Shakespeare

Shakespeare’s is the first mention of this antler-crowned apparition in Windsor Great Park so we don’t know whether he invented the story or if he was drawing on older legends. Herne is certainly a figure who captures the imagination, though – he gallops across the pages of other beloved children’s books such as Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising and poet Laureate John Masefield’s The Box of Delights. One of the great pleasures of reading widely is to see how stories are reworked for changing times, that electric thrill of recognition when we find an old story plaited into a new. While no subject could demonstrate this as clearly as that of mythology, it was deeply pleasing to bring one of the stranger, more obscure characters out of the shadows. I hope there will be a young reader who will feel an extra jolt of pleasure in the ways stories talk to each other when they meet him again.

Within the pages of Gods and Monsters, they’ll thrill to the roar of words by Mespotamian priestess Enheduanna, and shiver at the strangeness of an encounter related in the medieval Welsh Mabinogi. The variety of verse and the bite-sized chunks they’re served up in will, I hope, remove any qualms about their approachability. Chris Riddell’s glorious illustrations also give children a pathway into these poems, framing them as the thrilling, scary or poignant reading experiences they can be. It is more often adult readers, scarred by long afternoons in GCSE classrooms, who need help getting over anxieties around these superstar poets and famous works – so I hope they’ll pick up these books too.

Ana Sampson is the editor of anthologies including Gods and Monsters: Mythological Poems. You can find her on Instagram or sign up for her free newsletter here.

 This article first appeared on the Children’s Poetry Summit Blog.

 

The Parent Trap: On not studying art history and not growing vegetables

During maternity leave, I was going to study art history and grow my own vegetables.

During his two week paternity leave, my husband was going to decorate the nursery and replace the decking.

In the event, during that year I ate anything I could extract from a box and put straight into my face (thank you quiche) and read one short book, in increments of up to three sentences. The nursery remained undecorated for six months. The decking rotted busily until we moved out.

What I learned during that first year of my daughter’s life was that high expectations – of myself, of experiences, of my child, of my ability to make it into town to visit the aquarium – were not my friends. The ambitions I had for our first family Christmas were Dickensian, featuring carol-singing, bracing walks and relaxed family feasts at which my daughter would beam from her highchair. In these fantasies, I was eating hot food. With two hands. My husband and I spent that first festive season sleeping in shifts, shuffling past each other on the stairs and sustaining ourselves on foraged leftovers (pro tip: cocktail sausage and brie is the sandwich of kings.)

When I was a parent, my house would not be full of music-emitting plastic horrors. My children would play with one toy at a time and then put it away.

The imprint of a Lego brick is still etched into the arch of my left foot. You could look at every photograph of my daughter playing in our old flat without getting the merest hint of what colour the carpet was, such was the tsunami of toys in which she bobbed. In unguarded moments, although my youngest child is seven, I regularly find myself scrolling through the various trippy exclamations the long gone pink plastic walker made (“The flowers spin in the sun!” What does it even mean?)

I couldn’t imagine my children would throw tantrums but, should it happen, I was confident that I could offer reasoned reassurance to head off the crisis.

Things my daughters have melted down about in public include (but are not limited to): the suggestion they might like to wear a coat. The confiscation from under the pillow of a shard of glass referred to as a ‘bed emerald’. A plate being blue. My husband and I not walking in adequately neat single file. Being denied the ‘juice’ (urine sample) she had spotted in my bag. The offer to peel a tangerine. Being told not to lick the supermarket freezers. A dog leaving.

When I had kids, my family would enjoy lively conversation over delicious meals, just like people in films about Italy. These would not be characterised by horrified complaints about the food, by diners springing up to chase the cat, by vicious kicking wars or by the need to give the room a full deep clean in the aftermath.

Recently I realised – to my horror – that a friend had thought the evening meals I posted on Instagram (cauliflower curry, artichoke pasta, fennel bake) had been enjoyed by my children. During the week my children’s diet consists of a cheese sandwich for one and a boiled egg for the other. They have a hot meal at school and I refuse to do nightly battle with the fact that they have strictly divided all foodstuffs between them to ensure that there are no universally liked meals. Even meals they visibly enjoyed only days ago can be greeted with howls of horror. I had to apologise for having inadvertently given the impression that I was winning at dinner.

By posting pictures of meals, just because I am not a particularly proficient cook and had produced something that looked nice, I had unwittingly become that enemy of tranquility: The Comparison. They’re the person against whom you measure your own life – your career progress, the cleanliness of your kitchen, the happiness of your children. We all peer through heavily filtered windows and see these people. They’re jogging on the beach, or giving their children a piggyback without pulling a muscle, or laughing (attractively, mind) while quaffing prosecco with friends. Their offspring consume lentil gratin without a murmur and have never picked their noses and wiped it on the wall. Their relationships are deep and healthy and their school runs serene, before they head off to their high-powered but socially conscious jobs.

The dawning realisation that I had – however accidentally – been The Comparison to someone else was odd. I clarified that my children wedge beige food into themselves in front of the telly most days, just in case anyone else had been fooled. But it was a great reminder that although reality rarely matches up to our aspirations or the way we think others are living, that’s fine. If asked for parenting advice – and I am patently unqualified to offer any – I’d plump for: low expectations are your friends.

That first Christmas? It was magical. Despite the baby sick in my hair and the fog of fatigue. That time I was discovered scraping toddler poo off the library floor with a shopping bag? It’s a hilarious story now, and they were wise not to have invested in carpet. The mealtimes during which at least one person is sulking under the table, and half the table consent to eat only half the meal? How I’ll miss them when the miscreants are grown and gone, and eating whatever they please (cauliflower curry?) at other tables.

When I retire, I’m going to study art history and grow vegetables.

Ana Sampson is the editor of poetry anthologies including Night Feeds and Morning Songs: Honest, Fierce and Beautiful Poems about Motherhood (Trapeze).

A Damned Mob of Scribbling Women

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I have had the enormous pleasure of talking about the hidden histories of women’s writing many times this year, at bookshops, libraries and festivals. As I prepared, I thought again about how female writers of the past had to overcome social disapproval to write, publish or promote their work. Marketing your book was seen as unladylike and even scandalous – a little (delicate shudder) like selling yourself. None of this censure attached to male literary lions hawking their wares, but the arena of art was one in which the women were supposed to stand still and look winsome and inspiring. They were muse, never artist.

Lizzie Siddall, painted as Ophelia by John Everett Millais, is a woman I always turn to to illustrate this point. She wrote and she painted. Despite not having the benefit of the art school education the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood were privileged enough to absorb and then rail against, she was good enough that John Ruskin — pre-eminent art critic of the Victorian age — offered to buy all her artworks so she could support her practice. But although she is famous, today we know her as this: a mute and beautiful muse, strewing her flowers and drowning winsomely. She caught a terrible cold modelling for it, too, when the lamps warming the bath she was posing in went out and she was too polite to interrupt the master at work to tell him that her teeth were chattering.

Women found ways round this. They published anonymously, like Jane Austen who published during her lifetime only as ‘A Lady’. (Virginia Woolf says, in A Room of One’s Own: “I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.”) They published under male pseudonyms like the Brontës and George Eliot. They published under gender neutral initials – I understand J K Rowling was told boys wouldn’t read her if she published as Joanne. They could be ‘published by others’ – so much less unseemly – like Anne Bradstreet who claimed her brother-in-law swiped her book, sailed from Massachusetts back to London with it and printed it in 1650 without her knowledge. (Her thirteen uses of the word ‘fame’ in the first three poems suggest she was perhaps a more active participant in the process that it was acceptable for her to admit, mind.)

A suitably pious and Puritan Victorian imagining of Anne Bradstreet. Would this woman be so bold as to publish a book? Heaven forbid!

Every time I cringe talking about my books on social media, or feel I’m underqualified to speak on the subjects on which I do (which is many times – and I am literally a book publicist) I remind myself that I am the heir to these centuries of pursed-lipped whiskery disapproval. Every awkwardly dismissed compliment, every self-deprecating aside is a symptom of that hangover. It’s plaited into our society and our own fibres at so deep a level that most women have never asked for a payrise. Nobody likes a swanker, but it’s ok to own your achievements.

I have a collection of things men have said about women writers that I include in my talks. “Intense thought spoils a lady’s features”, opined eighteenth century critic William Rose. Don’t furrow your pretty brows girls! Norman Mailer wrote in Advertisements for Myself that “a good novelist can do without everything but the remnant of his balls”, prompting Cynthia Ozick to ask him in 1971: “I’ve been wondering, Mr. Mailer, when you dip your balls in ink, what color ink is it?” Watch her glorious take down here. In 2011, V S Naipaul claimed no women writer was his equal and talked about ‘feminine tosh’ (definitely the title of my imaginary garage band’s first EP.) But in my recent research I found a new favourite. In 1855, Nathaniel Hawthorne, author of The Scarlet Letter, wrote to his publisher that America was now dominated by “a damned mob of scribbling women.” And that’s such a doozy, I think I want merch. Would wear that shirt in a heartbeat.

To read work by a damned mob of scribbling women, including many who were unpublished or unfeted during their lifetimes or quickly forgotten afterwards, pick up a copy of She is Fierce or She Will Soar. I have a talk I love giving on the hidden histories of women writers that includes mention of Murasaki Shikibu, Jane Austen, Margaret Cavendish, Mary Leapor, James Tiptree Jr, Lizzie Siddal, Anne Bradstreet and lots more, so do get in touch if you’re planning an event for which this would work.

Prehistoric Poems for Dinosaur Devotees

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Oh sure, a CGI dinosaur eating someone on the toilet is great, but have you ever read a POEM about a dinosaur? There’s no limit to how scary a poet can make a monster, no rubbery claws or clumsy greenscreen behind the leathery wings. We can only meet these monsters in our imaginations and, liberated from the constraints of prose, poets can paint a particularly vivid picture.

In ‘Dinosaurs Walked Here’, Elli Woollard uses heavy language and rhyme to echo the smashing of huuuuge feet into the earth:

            ‘Dinosaurs walked here once.

            Here, right here, on the site of this street,

            they’d stamp along, and the slabs of their feet

            were as wide as a car, crushing, crashing

            a road through the reeds. Then, striding and splashing,

            they’d thud in the mud of the deep green pool

            and they’d clomp in the swamp under new-forged skies

            where now the cold grey concrete lies.’

When I talk to children about dinosaur poems (more about my school events here), I love to use Cheryl Pearson’s poem ‘Kronosaurus.’ Its skull was as long as two eight-year-olds, so it’s always fun to ask for volunteers to lie head-to-head to demonstrate just how enormous that terrifying jaw really was. The poem asks us to imagine

            Thirty feet of brute strength

and teeth, faster than a shark,

snap snap snapping at your heels

            in dark water.

(I’d definitely skip this particular swim. That’s me on the beach, reading poems with dry feet.)

I asked my seven-year-old – a palaeontologist in training – to choose some favourite dinosaur poems and explain why she loved them. Little explanation was needed as to why she loved Laura Mucha’s ‘Apatosaurus Rap’… wait for that thunderous B O o O o o O o o o O o o o o O o M! You can hear Laura and friends reading the poem here.

Her favourite dinosaur is Tyrannosaurus Rex, so she also post-it noted Paul Cookson’s ‘The King of All the Dinosaurs’ who ‘rants and raves and royally roars’ and ‘stomps and chomps on forest floors’ and ‘Gouges, gorges, gashes, gores…’ – this one is just so much fun to read aloud and, in my opinion, definitely calls for stomping for emphasis.

‘The Night Flight of the Pterodactyl’ by Chrissie Gittins also found favour. She liked the ‘glistening and gleaming’ Pterodactyl as it glides dangerously through the dark sky, moonbeams flashing on teeth and claws. Not a good night to be an unsuspecting sleeping frog in the shadow of those vast wings…

I was thrilled last term when my daughter came home from school bursting with excitement about Mary Anning, who is a hero to her now. Jan Dean’s gorgeous, evocative poem ‘Remembering Mary’ threads us back in time to her discoveries at Lyme Regis:

            The sea’s mysterious –

            iron grey and shunting shingle,

            growling with the roll

            of pebbles pounding in the tide.

            This same long roar that fills us

            as we beachcomb

            this same long rolling roar

            was sounding when Mary walked

            below Black Ven.

            It is the song that shapes the world

            this echoing roar of dinosaurs –

            the song of rocks and sea.

I really enjoyed hunting down dinosaur poems for Wonder: The Natural History Museum Poetry Book and I also love the Emma Press anthology Dragons of the Prime. And I haven’t quite left terrible lizards behind as Gods and Monsters: Mythological Poems, includes plenty of dragons…

This article originally appeared on the Children’s Poetry Summit blog.

Season's Readings: Autumn Reads

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I have hardly blogged at all this year. I love it, but life has been incredibly insane. So apologies if you subscribe to my newsletter as this is adapted from one I wrote a couple of years ago called Season’s Readings for the Tea-Hugging and Jumper Swaddled… (and if you don’t, and you like this sort of thing, it’s free and there’s more every few weeks - the sign-up link is at the bottom.)

We’re always told how disconnected we are from the natural rhythm of the seasons in our increasingly digital world, but I don’t think anyone’s told the bookworms. My own bookish corner of Instagram is populated by jumper-swathed introverts who have been counting the days until autumn, season of mists, artfully photographed hot drinks and riotously coloured leaves, begins. We are ready to hibernate! Give us dark nights with rain lashing the windows as we curl up with a warm cat and a big book! Where are my slippers? (Trick question: they are ALWAYS on my feet, who would go unslippered? My toes curl just thinking about it.) How many jumpers is too many jumpers? Can I bring myself to like those weird photogenic teas?

A few years ago I worked on the publicity for a glorious book that acknowledges our need to read seasonally: Francesca Beauman’s The Literary Almanac. Fran is behind Persephone Books in Bath, so she is especially brilliant on undiscovered mid-twentieth century books by women and her infectious enthusiasm and superb writing meant my reading list had tripled in length by the end. Her October recommendations include The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins (YES), Lincoln in the Bardo and Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Mexican Gothic, the latter two of which are on my wishlist, and inspired me to gather a few of my own favourite reads for the darkening evenings.

Burning Your Boats by Angela Carter

This collection of short stories presents us with familiar fairy tale heroines and their counterpart beasts, but these are fierce and thorny rewrites. Material reality slinks incongruously into forests and ocean-moated castles: a vampiress hospitably dispenses after-dinner coffee, and the emergency garage’s number awaits the Beast’s stranded guest. A perfect read for dark nights.

The Passage by Justin Cronin

If you need a book to utterly consume you, this epic speculative novel will do the job. The world-building is extraordinary and the tension brilliantly built. It features an apocalyptic vampiric virus, so it might bite a little deeper now than it did when I first read it pre-pandemic.

The Devil and the Dark Water by Stuart Turton

What a fiendishly talented man he is, and I use the adjective advisedly. The voyage of the Saardam is apparently haunted by a vicious demon named Old Tom but with such a scurvy crew and so many intriguing secrets aboard all is probably not what it seems. If you like this, Jess Kidd’s The Night Ship has two timelines, with something evil possibly writhing in the hold of the Batavia in the historical one.

The Lighthouse Witches by C. J. Cooke

This couldn’t have been more up my street: generations of women, witch trials, mysterious disappearances, the gothic setting of a Scottish lighthouse. Take my money! Oh, you have. I loved that it was rooted in the real histories of women persecuted as witches in Scotland and it’s tense and creepy with flashes of folk horror.

The Chosen by Elizabeth Lowry

I am the publicist but also a devotee of Elizabeth’s writing! When Thomas Hardy’s wife Emma died in November 1912 he was stupefied with surprise grief and gripped by too-late love. They had lived apart at Max Gate for the preceding twenty years and this elegant, atmospheric novel takes us into Hardy’s shattered heart and gloomy house as he remembers the early days of their marriage.

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

Oh, wow, I just loved this. A beautiful, sprawling fantasy with quests within quests and stories coiling within stories in glimmering lamplight. It gave me the feeling I got reading The Neverending Story aged eleven, and I didn’t think a book could do that for me after all these years. I greatly approve of books about books, books about books about books, cats and booze and this book is stuffed with gorgeous writing on all of these.

On my list to be read for the first time this autumn (limiting myself strictly to volumes already in my house):

I’m halfway through The Fraud by Zadie Smith and predictably utterly hooked. She is such a brilliant, brilliant writer and storyteller and historical fiction is perhaps my favourite genre so this was a completely risk-free hardback investment for me.

More historical fiction in the shape of The Drowned City by K. J. Maitland. Set around a real flood in Bristol in 1606, this thriller in which a prisoner infiltrates the network still at large following the Gunpowder Plot sounds completely amazing.

The Vaster Wilds by Lauren Groff. I couldn’t help myself at Sevenoaks Bookshop recently - it’s signed, and Matrix is a talisman to me. She is a marvel and I can’t wait to dive into this.

The House of Dudley by Joanne Paul for Non-Fiction November: a much-praised deep dive into the Tudor court through the fortunes of the Dudley family. And that cover! Would wear the dress.

Amy Jeffs has written a version of Storyland for children! I’ll be reading this to the kids this autumn and winter and have been very restrained not to devour it myself while we finish our current read together (The October Witches, for more seasonal goodness and a giant pumpkin in a starring role.)

I’d love to hear what’s on your spooky season reading list as the nights draw in…

Poems for Mothers' Day

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One of the most intense and rewarding projects I have ever worked on was Night Feeds and Morning Songs, a collection of poems about motherhood. This was not only because of the emotive subject matter, but also because, immediately after Mother’s Day 2020 and shortly before I began editing the anthology, the nation locked down. We retreated into our houses and for many of us – although we didn’t know it at the time – the longest period of separation from our mums we would ever know was beginning.

It was far from an easy year to be a parent, enduring the sticky chaos of home-schooling or the isolation of the newborn days without a support network, but it was an agonising time to be a grown-up child, too, wracked with fears for our parents. (And, in lighter but occasionally genuinely fraught moments, trying to help them navigate Zoom.)

I edited Night Feeds and Morning Songs, a collection of poems about motherhood, while locked down with my young children and unable to see my own mother. I have to admit that I cried a lot. (Also: shouting, wine, half-hearted attempts at Joe Wicks workouts, wearing the same tracksuit bottoms for weeks, despairing of going to the loo alone ever again, forgetting what a hairbrush was, more crying.) These poems took me from pregnancy to the empty nest and to every mad milestone between, and it felt a particularly poignant time on every level to be thinking about this wild, deep bond, and about how it evolves over the years.

 Now the paperback is about to be published, and — thank goodness — life feels back on an even keel. We can say in person how grateful we are for each other. I am a better mother by far for not being so crushed up against full-time motherhood. Being teacher, family and friend to my daughters (not to mention chef, housemaid, cheerleader, encyclopaedia, referee…) was an impossible task. But this collection is a beautiful thing that came out of a difficult time, and the poems still move me so much. Here are a handful of my favourites.

 

Great-grandmother, by Jean Valentine  

Great-grandmother,

 

be with us

as if in the one same day & night

we all gave birth

in the one same safe-house, warm,

and then we rest together,

sleep, and nurse,

dreamily talk to our babies, warm,

in a safe room             all of us

carried in the close black sky.

 

I love the peace within this poem, and the sense that as mothers we are part of a long line of women who walked this way before us, feeding, soothing and loving.

 

The Evening Star by Sappho  

Hesperus, you bring everything that

                                     the light-tinged dawn has scattered;

you bring the sheep, you bring the goat, you bring

                                    the child back to its mother.

 

Sappho’s poems survive only in scraps and tatters but those fragments are enough to show us why she was so feted in the ancient world that Plato called her ‘the Tenth Muse’. I find these beautiful lines so deeply soothing, with their nursery rhyme cadences and the idea of rounding up the animals and bringing everyone safely home.

 

The Temple of the Wood Lavender by Lady Caroline Blanche Elizabeth Lindsay

A perfum’d sprig of lavender

You gave, dear child, to me;

It grew, you said, by the red rose bed,

And under the jessamine tree.

 

’Twas sweet, ay, sweet from many things;

But (sweeter than all) with scent

Of long past years and laughter and tears

It to me was redolent.

 

Our mothers are the repository of memories for the years we can no longer recall. We don’t remember learning to clap our chubby hands, or grabbing for the candle on our first birthday cake… but she does. It’s hard for a mother not to mourn her children’s infancy – though we might not miss the sleepless nights, we grieve for the squeezable thighs, the tiny froggy legs and the months when we were asked if we ‘merembered’ something. This short poem beautifully expresses a mother’s nostalgia for that strangely one-sided intimacy, built at first from months and years that only one of you remembers, though they colour everything after it with love.

 

Limbs by Mary Walker  

Afraid of the dark, they find their way

to my bed at night; one hot, one cold

and no rest for any of us.

 

Sleepless elbows and knees find my hip,

shin, and the tender bone under my eye,

my body remembering a knot of child

kneading my bladder, stealing my breath,

stamping footprints on my belly.

 

These growing limbs –

needing new shoes, longer pants, another haircut;

these limbs that cling to me like vines to the face of a house –

they are working themselves free.

 

Against the curtain of their still small breaths,

truth dawns – these limbs will outlast me.

Worse, first

they will stop walking themselves

to my bedside at night.

 

Personally, I’m a demon if I’m woken. Having weathered the extreme exhaustion of the baby years, I genuinely don’t feel nostalgic for the months I slept only for the odd hour, dropping like a stone out of consciousness until the next howl. Despite that, this lovely poem ambushed me completely when I discovered it – especially the beautifully paced power of this line: “they are working themselves free.”

 

Mother and Daughter Sonnets XVI by Augusta Webster 

She will not have it that my days wanes low,

Poor of the fire its drooping sun denies,

That on my brow the thin lines write good-byes

Which soon may be read plain for all the know,

Telling that I have done with youth’s brave show;

Alas! and done with youth in heart and eyes,

With wonder and far expectancies,

Save but to say ‘I knew such long ago.’

 

She will not have it. Loverlike to me,

She with her happy gaze finds all that’s best,

She sees this fair and that unfretted still,

And her own sunshine over all the rest:

So she half keeps me as she’d have me be,

And I forget to age, through her sweet will.

 

Victorian poet Augusta Webster expresses so gorgeously here that your mum is always your mum, no matter how many years pass, what they bring or how many miles are between you. I hope the last Mothers’ Day we’ll be apart is behind us.

Night Feeds and Morning Songs, edited by Ana Sampson, is published by Trapeze.

Songs of Scuttling and Slime: Poems about Creepy Crawlies

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Silly though it is, I am not a fan of insects – despite their tasteful ‘mini-beast’ rebrand. I was once so rattled by a sizeable spider that my husband told me that because spiders were ‘territorial’ there couldn’t possibly be another lurking. (As well as being cowardly, I am gullible, and blithely repeated this to people for years before someone pointed out what utter nonsense it was.)

I have children now and I don’t want to bequeath them my fear. I managed not to shriek while capturing a mammoth spider under a pint glass. I took my youngest to meet various horrifying creatures including a giant millipede and managed to only back away two paces as it wound around her fingers, saying through gritted teeth, “Oh, isn’t he handsome?” (It took a herculean effort, though. So many legs!)

I’m never going to be delighted to cuddle a cockroach or tickle a tarantula, but poems and books have helped me be chill around crickets and easy around earwigs. The greatest gift you can give a spider-phobic child is surely a copy of E B White’s Charlotte’s Web and here is one of my favourite poems about creepy crawlies to share.

 

A Snail’s Advice to His Son

After Gervase Phinn

 

Always keep your shell clean, son.

It shows the world you care.

Hold your antennae straight and proud

and pointing in the air.

 

Trail your slime in crisp, clean lines

in parallel to walls,

stick to grass where dogs are banned

(and games involving balls).

 

If you must steal mankind’s veg

wait till they’re not around.

Steer well clear of allotments (‘least

until the sun’s gone done).

 

Although you may not have one, son,

be sure to chance your arm.

Confronted by a gang of slugs,

let your response be calm.

 

Keep your head in times of stress

(inside your shell, if poss).

When I am gone, just carry on.

Smile, despite your loss.

 

Keep that sense of patience,

never let your stride be rushed;

and don’t take life too seriously, son,

for few survive uncrushed.

Jamie McGarry (From The Dead Snail Diaries, The Emma Press)

 

Poetry can help us look at the world in new ways, and here it gives us the point of view of a young snail, lovingly advised by his wise father. Ascribing relatable emotions to a creepy crawly can really help a child (or a grown-up!) to become less afraid of a creature. While reading the poem we are firmly on the snail’s side, seeing through its eyes. And of course, on a more serious note, this is part of the enormous power of poetry: it can build empathy and understanding and help us see different points of view. I can think of few things our world needs more.

Here's a final reminder to the scaredy cats, myself among them, that the less cute denizens of the animal kingdom need our protection too (even if the phrase ‘beetle fat’ gives me the heebie jeebies...)

Hurt No Living Thing

 

Hurt no living thing,

Ladybird nor butterfly,

Nor moth with dusty wing,

Nor cricket chirping cheerily,

Nor grasshopper, so light of leap,

Nor dancing gnat,

Nor beetle fat,

Nor harmless worms that creep.

 

Christina Rossetti

 

These poems appear in Wonder: The Natural History Museum Poetry Book, which is out now in hardback and published in paperback on 30th March 2023.

Poems for Christmas

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For me, the greatest gift of the Christmas season is time to read. The schools and lots of the offices are closed. The weather is often appalling. The nights are long and dark and seem designed expressly for the purpose of snuggling under a blanket on the sofa with the tree lights twinkling, a glass of something tempting within easy reach and a great big pile of delicious-smelling, beautiful new books. Here are some of my poetic festive favourites – all would make great gifts, too.

Carol Ann Duffy’s Frost Fair is completely wonderful, and makes me hanker after a re-read of Woolf’s Orlando. It’s so beautifully illustrated by David De Las Heras, it would make a lovely stocking filler.

Never has the exhilaration of whirling about on ice-skates been better captured than by Wordsworth, in a breathless and beautiful section of ‘The Prelude’ which I included in my second anthology, Tyger Tyger Burning Bright. I speak as a clumsy person, whose few attempts at skating have resulted in the kind of falls that elicit audible gasps from witnesses, some far from family-friendly language and truly spectacular bruising. If Wordsworth can fill me with the desire to sail across frozen lakes under a wide wintry night sky, he can inspire anyone.

‘The Journey of the Magi’ by T S Eliot has an eerie, cold magic to it, perfect for reading and chewing over on a bitter winter’s night.

I love Betjeman’s ‘Christmas’ - hear the man himself read it here, with its evocation of the pull of family even more poignant in the wake of the pandemic years of separation (‘And girls in slacks remember Dad, / And oafish louts remember Mum’) and the seasonal cheer infecting everyone everywhere – from ‘provincial public houses’ to ‘many-steepled London’.

Thomas Hardy’s gorgeous ‘The Fallow Deer at the Empty House’ is a favourite.

And Hardy’s ‘The Oxen’ perfectly captures how some scrap of childhood magic can cling to Christmas Eve and the vision of the nativity no matter what age and how agnostic I am.

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

“Now they are all on their knees,”

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.


We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.


So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

“Come; see the oxen kneel,


“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,”

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

A contemporary poem I love is one for the festive refuseniks: ‘Bah… Humbug’ by Gregory Woods. This poem is a hymn to the allure of a solitary, batteries-not-included celebration with ‘books to the left of you, / gin to the right’. This poem was included in Christmas Crackers, one of Candlestick Press’s lovely pamphlets designed to be sent instead of a greetings card – perfect if you’d like to say something more substantial than ‘Season’s greetings’.

I bought a lovely edition of ‘The Night Before Christmas’ a few years ago with Niroot Puttapipat’s beautiful silhouette illustrations and am frankly delighted that the kids insist on hearing it all year round. Due to our – frequently unseasonal – repeated readings, I am now word perfect. This confers an additional advantage: I can name all the reindeer (and, no, Rudolf doesn’t feature) and am therefore a splendid addition to any Christmas pub quiz team. Moore was a slightly unlikely Christmas poet, being an academic whose other works were heavy tomes on Hebrew. Legend has it that he composed this, his only famous poem, to entertain his children during a sleigh ride through Greenwich Village on Christmas Eve 1822, basing jolly St Nicholas on their coachman. I hope it’s true.

Also for children (though not only for children), I recommend the excellent selection of Christmas Poems edited by Gaby Morgan (who I’m lucky enough to have as editor for my Macmillan anthologies) and illustrated by Axel Scheffler of Gruffalo fame. Chris Riddell’s new We Wish You a Merry Christmas anthology is stuffed with good things. And The Night Before Christmas in Wonderland by Carys Bexington, beautifully illustrated by Kate Hindley, is another favourite for little ones with great verse, glorious pictures and clever homages to both beloved texts.

It’s not poetry, but I have to mention A Child’s Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas, which I try and read every year.

Carol Ann Duffy’s collection of Christmas poems is wonderful. My favourite is Wenceslas with its mildly barbaric, magnificently medieval many bird roast. A book as warming as necking ginger wine in a hot bath, also firmly on my list of holiday plans.

Whatever you do at Christmas and wherever you are, I wish you happy reading. May your stocking be full of books and your cheeseboard always groaning.

Please note that this website contains affiliate links and I may earn a small commission (at no cost to you) when you buy through these links.

On Poems and Trees, and Poems about Trees

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They cut down a tree on our road this week.

My daughters and I were sad, and cross. Although already we couldn’t quite remember the exact shape and character of the tree – the branches had been efficiently disposed of, only the stump remained – we were bereft. It had been a kindly tree, throwing green shade over a bench on which people and dogs and occasionally the street’s reigning cat, Binky, sat to watch the world go by.

My six year old ran up to the stump, to its shocking new bright flat top, and hugged it. And then my nine year old joined her, and they made me do it too (although I might have done it anyway.) We counted its rings, and we missed it. I’m sure we looked deeply eccentric, but I’m also sure that any one of our neighbours, seeing that stark and sliced trunk, would have understood the response. Perhaps some of them might even have joined in.

It is difficult to write about trees without writing poetry. They are a wonderful example of an everyday object that can be transfigured by the kind of close attention you have to pay to something in order to write about it. What I love most about poetry is the new ways of looking at the world it offers us. Children, whose perspectives are fresher and less calcified than ours, instinctively respond to this. And when you ask them to look – to really look – at something, they will surprise and delight you with their responses.

In order to write a poem about a tree, you need to have a very good look at it… and they are magic. You need to watch and think about the movement of the leaves, to listen to the whisper of the boughs and the chattering of the squirrels. It’s important to stroke the bark, lie stretched out beneath it and look up into its canopy, inhale its scent, give it a hug. You may have walked past it a thousand times, but it might still be a tree whose shape you wouldn’t be able to recall if it was suddenly gone.

Children build kingdoms among the trees. Whether we clambered high into the branches or looked for fairies or beetles among the roots, trees were our playgrounds. We hoarded their treasures, gathered from the parks and pavements: glossy conkers, sycamore spinners, cherry stones, acorn cups for tiny feasts, tumbled blossom, sticky buds to uncurl in a milk bottle. They furnished us with swords, pilgrims’ staffs and magic wands. They were milestones and boundaries, and a certain well-loved tree might have been – might still be – the landmark that tells us: “You are home.”

Within my private forest of remembered trees stand a friendly magnolia, regularly scrambled up in childhood, and the horse chestnut – in my mind, always bearing its pale candles – visible from a window I last gazed from decades ago. Further in, a hilltop monkey puzzle stretches its sinuous fingers, an ancient oak spreads, and every Christmas tree I have ever loved (which is all of them, perhaps especially the scrawny ones) shines. I also have trees immortalised by poets and writers in my mental forest: from nursery rhyme nut trees to Shakespeare’s bare ruin’d choirs, from Housman’s lovely cherry to Hopkins’ Binsey Poplars.

We need trees and we need people who will plant them, not cut them down. It’s why Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris included Willow, Acorn and Conker in the beautiful spell book The Lost Words, incantations for words excised from the children’s dictionary due to underuse. To lie, once in a while, under a tree and look up through its leaves is a pure and primeval kind of medicine. It is an incredible gift to be able to give and, even for those of us whose days in the classroom are far behind us, a lesson we could all do with learning.

 

Climbing

 

          High up in the apple tree climbing I go,

          With the sky above me, the earth below.

          Each branch is the step of a wonderful stair

          Which leads to the town I see shining up there.

 

          Climbing, climbing, higher and higher,

          The branches blow and I see a spire,

          The gleam of a turret, the glint of a dome,

          All sparkling and bright, like white sea foam.

 

          On and on, from bough to bough,

          The leaves are thick, but I push my way through;

          Before, I have always had to stop,

          But to-day I am sure I shall reach the top.

 

          Today to the end of the marvellous stair,

          Where those glittering pinnacles flash in the air!

          Climbing, climbing, higher I go,

          With the sky close above me, the earth far below.

 

Amy Lowell - 1874-1925

I loved editing The Book of Tree Poems for publication in Summer 2023.

More of my favourite gorgeous poems about trees can be found in Wonder: The Natural History Museum Poetry Book, a collection aimed at readers aged 8+.

This blog originally appeared on the Children’s Poetry Summit website.

Poems about Friendship

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The most viewed page on my website (this website, hello!) is a blog about the best poetry about a broken heart. This makes me a little sad — so many shattered hearts out there! — but also underlined something I bang on about almost incessantly: the fact that poetry is useful, and nourishing, and for everyone. Poetry is good for you! Someone has felt this way before, and they wrote all about it so I could feel less lonely, which was good of them. It started me thinking about the other circumstances in which we might reach for a poem and I thought of friendship.

Obviously we all nurture our friendships in different ways. It might be a bucket of lager and a football match, or a caustic WhatsApp group devoted to the boss you love to hate. It might be middle-of-the-night messages over your baby’s head during a nightfeed, or sending them a book you’ve loved in the post as a surprise. (Are my friends reading this? The answer is option 4! OPTION 4!)

We tend not to assemble our most loathed family members in stately homes or riverside pubs to declare how much we love our friends over a period of uncomfortably-dressed hours. There isn’t a special day each year on which they’re duty bound to present us with a card inscribed with their sentiments and, ideally, give us chocolate (although I’m sure there’s a corporation trying to engender this tradition right now.) But sometimes just posting a picture of them grinning like a lunatic with a heart emoji just isn’t enough. So here are some things that poets have written about friendship that I love, taken from my very first newsletter, which was written during lockdown. (You can sign up for future newsletters here if you’d like more of this kind of thing in your inbox every now and then.)

Newsletter July 2020: Poems I’d Send My Friends If My Friends Liked Poems. I miss my mates, and I know I’m not alone. It’s a giggle seeing them on Zoom, alternately blurting and freezing, but it’s not the same. I’m craving a boozy, gluttonous, increasingly shrill and inappropriate dinner out, somewhere someone else does the cooking and wipes up afterwards, or a morning-after with all of us wincing in pyjamas and taking it in turns to lie down. My best friends don’t like poetry, to be honest – takes all sorts, doesn’t it? – but in a parallel universe in which they did (and I’m in the market for parallel universes of all kinds right now) I’d send them these.

Lacing Boots by Helen Burke

One of my favourites in my first anthology of poems by women, She is Fierce. I’ve never read a poem that captured the breakneck exhilaration of running wild with your best friend at lunch break so brilliantly. Helen’s poems are full of unruliness and fun and I heartily recommend her collected poems Today The Birds Will Sing.

Fiere by Jackie Kay

This lively yet moving poem celebrates a life-long friendship. My favourite phrase is:

“we’ve had a whirl and a blast, girl”

And I’m ready to start a campaign to get greetings cards produced that carry that message. There are several women I’d like to send one to. Here’s to whirling and blasting again soon.

We Shall Not Escape Hell by Marina Tsvetayeva

This is a beautiful, searing poem about the girls who didn’t do what was expected of them, and don’t care, and will party together in Hell with all the energy and passion with which they lived. Frankly, I’m already packing.

We shall not escape Hell, my passionate
sisters, we shall drink black resins––
we who sang our praises to the Lord
with every one of our sinews, even the finest,

we did not lean over cradles or
spinning wheels at night, and now we are
carried off by an unsteady boat
under the skirts of a sleeveless cloak,

we dressed every morning in
fine Chinese silk, and we would
sing our paradisal songs at
the fire of the robbers’camp,

slovenly needlewomen, (all
our sewing came apart), dancers,
players upon pipes: we have been
the queens of the whole world!

first scarcely covered by rags,
then with constellations in our hair, in
gaol and at feasts we have
bartered away heaven,

in starry nights, in the apple
orchards of Paradise
––Gentle girls, my beloved sisters,
we shall certainly find ourselves in Hell!

To D.R. by Laura Grey

Laura Gray was the stage name of Joan Lavender Baillie Guthrie, a young suffragette whose suicide – by drug overdose – scandalised British society in 1914. Lavender, an actress, was arrested for window-breaking during the campaign to win votes for women. She was jailed in Holloway Prison with other suffragettes including Emily Wilding Davison, and force-fed after a hunger strike. While there, she wrote a poem ‘To D.R.’ (thought to be fellow campaigner Dorothea Rock).

Lavender was released after four months but her health never recovered. She began to rely on tranquilisers and eventually – tragically – she committed suicide. Her poem is a gorgeous and poignant hymn to her inspirational friend and sister in the struggle for women’s suffrage:

Beyond the bars I see her move,

A mystery of blue and green,

As though across the prison yard

The spirit of the spring had been.

And as she lifts her hands to press

The happy sunshine of her hair,

From the grey ground the pigeons rise,

And rustle upwards in the air,

As though her two hands held a key

To set the imprisoned spirits free.

Monica by Hera Lindsay Bird

And a poem about… uh… Friends, the 90s television show. Which loosely fits here and is also the only poem I have WhatsApped to my poetry-disliking friends. This absolute masterpiece requires a salty language alert but it’s a banger. Like so many of Hera Lindsay Bird’s poems it’s funny and clever and caustic and cool and then it smacks you with a dose of emotional truth you weren’t expecting.

Baby Group by Polly Clark

There are some friends that fall into and out of our lives. These are people we might lean on — sometimes heavily — for a season then never see again, but these intense friendships forged in offices (hi Stef, data inputting with me through the long summer of 1997!) and baby groups (hi Rebecca, thanks for fleeing pilates with me!) can form some of our fondest memories. I included this poem in my anthology of poems about motherhood, Night Feeds and Morning Songs, along with an article about the friends who have lifted me up, The Spirit of Sisterhood.

My Catfish Friend by Richard Brautigan

And here’s a strange, sweet poem about imagining being a catfish that just gets me every time even though I couldn’t explain quite why. Poets’ minds, eh? Aren’t they just the absolute business.

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

Editing a poetry anthology - how it's done

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I have compiled eleven poetry anthologies including She is Fierce, She Will Soar, Wonder: The Natural History Museum Poetry Book and Night Feeds and Morning Songs. Here are some snapshots of what’s involved.

It starts with reading. I have a lot of poetry books! For weeks I will have my nose in one at all times and never travel without one, adding to my store of treasures on trains and planes, in waiting rooms and, as often as possible, outside. My editors will often share poems with me and sometimes they are in touch with poets and commission new work for a book, which is always incredibly exciting.

To ensure I don’t completely bankrupt myself and that there’s still room in the house for people and furniture and not just poetry books, I also plunder my local library – they order books in for me once I’ve exhausted their poetry shelves – and obviously I love the National Poetry Library in the Royal Festival Hall (you can borrow ebooks from them online, too).

I also hunt down poems online, which is easiest when I’m looking for poems on a specific theme. One of my favourite jobs as a confirmed cat lady was editing The Book of Cat Poems. Social media is a fantastic ecosystem for sharing poetry and I’ve discovered some of my favourite poets this way.

I make much use of Post-It Notes. I imagine there are few people alive who have used more Post-It Notes than me.

II need to be able to touch, see and shuffle the poems to whittle down the selection. I use an app called Tiny Scanner to create PDFs of the poems I want to include. These are really important as they’re submitted to the publisher as reference images, so they can check no typos have been made when the poems are typed up. Errors creep into all books, unfortunately, and in poetry changing one word or, sometimes, even moving or missing out a punctuation mark can have a huge impact on the poem’s rhythm and even its meaning. I feel a huge responsibility to anthologise accurately.

Once I’ve made my cuts, I have a nearly final selection. It’s rarely final final at this stage, because there will always be poems that have to be dropped because they’re too expensive to use, or because we’ve been unable to trace the copyright holder. In the UK, work is usually out of copyright seventy years after the writer’s death, so in 2022 a writer would have needed to die before 1952 for their work to be in the public domain. Sometimes we’re tracking down agents or even family members to ask for permission, which can mean a lot of detective work. And I will often find something wonderful at the last minute, when the book’s just about to go to press, and beg my editor to sneak it in!

I’ll then divide the poems into the chapters in which they’ll appear in the book. This was straightforward when I edited Wonder: The Natural History Poetry Book – inspired by the museum’s galleries, I had sections on Space, Mammals and Dinosaurs. I wanted reading the anthology to be like the experience of wandering the museum, with new treasures around each corner. It can be more difficult when the poems are arranged thematically, though, as poets are often talking about more than one thing at once. In She Will Soar, chapters included ‘Feeling Free’ and ‘Courage, Hope and Resilience’ and there were often a couple of sections a poem could appear in.

Once the chapters are final, I think really carefully about the order in which the poems should appear – even though I think people generally dip in and out of anthologies, and perhaps I’m the only person who’ll ever read them cover to cover! Some poems belong together, and shed light on each other. It always feels really special when I find poets writing centuries and continents apart who seem almost to be in dialogue with each other, sharing their thoughts about bravery, or loneliness, or the wind, and I can put their work side by side. I also like poems that contrast in tone or style to follow each other, to keep things interesting and varied for the reader. Anthologies are like a poetry buffet, and my hope is that everyone will find something that feeds them on offer.

Once the poems and the chapters are in an order I’m happy with, I begin work on the text for the book. Sometimes this is just a general introduction, talking about the book’s theme, and brief chapter openers. In She Is Fierce and She Will Soar, I felt it was important to tell the stories of the poets. Many of the writers from previous centuries had been forgotten or overlooked, and some of them had to vault enormous barriers to write and publish including racism, lack of education, disapproving fathers, abusive husbands, mental and physical ill health and a scornful male-dominated literary establishment. I researched and wrote their biographies, which was fascinating and awe-inspiring. In Night Feeds and Morning Songs, I begged to include some short essays about my own experiences of motherhood, and still feel insanely honoured to see my own words beside these poems that mean so much to me.

I had a real treat while compiling Wonder: The Natural History Museum Poetry Book, as I had the opportunity to do some picture research in their online archives for images to reproduce in the book. Did you know that Edward Lear, Victorian poet of nonsense best known for ‘The Owl and The Pussy-Cat’, was a talented artist who even gave Queen Victoria drawing lessons and produced a collection of beautiful paintings of parrots? You do now!

The anthology is now nearly ready! I send my final manuscript to my editor for the text to be set. It’s always exciting to see the book laid out and I’m amazed every time how much difference the font and design makes. I’ll receive proofs for checking and I always do this on a print out rather than on screen. I look at every word, double checking each punctuation mark, capital letter and indentation. (I have to confess I’ve never learned the clever squiggly shorthand editors use, so I make notes on the proofs and send pictures of them.)

I do feel guilty about the amount of paper involved in the production of my anthologies, especially since I can’t print double-sided when I’m shuffling the order of the poems, so it’s all reused by my children before being recycled. They have created their own books to stock a library in their bedroom – I even bought them a library set with tickets and a stamp – and you’ll notice that the Closed sign is also poetic…

The Production team work their magic, and the book is printed. I usually get my author copies a couple of weeks before publication and it never gets any less exciting to see a new collection. I feel incredibly lucky to work with passionate and knowledgeable editors and have such talented illustrators and designers making the books look beautiful.

My publicist will be have been working hard (as a publicist myself with my other hat on, I know just how hard!) on the campaign to promote the book from months in advance, pitching for reviews and features, interviews and events. So there’s still plenty to do once the book is finished! I write articles and blog posts, share content on social media and in my newsletter, give interviews and do events in person and online for bookshops, libraries, literary festivals and schools. I really love this part, when I get to talk directly to readers about these poems I love and send the collection out to meet its readers.

She Will Soar: Why Women Write about Escape and Freedom

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My second anthology of poems by women, She Will Soar, takes as its themes wanderlust, freedom and escape – themes which suddenly took on a strange relevance as I edited the book during lockdown. I have always believed in books and poetry as magic carpets that can take you anywhere, to places past, present and future, and realms both possible and impossible. Looking at the history of women’s writing, I felt women had particular cause to long to be lifted from their restrictive or humdrum lives by the power of literature.

Women faced certain bars to writing and publishing throughout history, and women who were not white, middle or upper class, cisgender, heterosexual or helpfully connected had even more stacked against them. Leisure, learning and liberty are key ingredients for any artist, and all have been in shorter supply for women than men throughout history. Even aristocratic women were usually afforded a rudimentary education compared to their brothers, and none at all in the highfalutin subjects considered ‘proper’ literary subjects: the Classics, theology or blood-drenched battle histories. More recently, the Pulitzer Prize winning poet Sharon Olds was rejected from an American literary magazine for writing about her children: “If you wish to write about this sort of subject, may we suggest the Ladies’ Home Journal”, they acidly suggested.

The role of women was to play muse, not poet. Any who dared pick up a pen themselves faced ridicule, and eighteenth century mothers fretted that their bookish daughters would repel suitors. Women faced condemnation because, in straying into the male arena of literature, it was assumed that they were neglecting their key duties as housewives and mothers. Anne Bradstreet, the ‘first poet’ of America, had to pretend that her naughty brother-in-law published her work without her knowledge, and he was at pains to include a preface insisting that Anne went without sleep to write rather than slacking in her domestic duties. I found a lot of beautiful nocturnal poems written by women from times past – and couldn’t help but wonder whether this was the only sliver of time they had to themselves, when their large families were finally asleep. It was even more shocking for women to promote their own work… so thrusting! So unseemly!

Anne Bradstreet imagined in a nineteenth century engraving

The job description of the wild and free artist popularised by the Romantics, tramping off to rugged and solitary places, was inaccessible to their female contemporaries. It was difficult to pursue such a path when your corsets conspired against you, you needed a chaperone to cross the road, and nobody had yet invented hiking boots. In the Victorian era, many women, particularly of the middle and upper classes, were almost cloistered in the home. I feel this constraint shows in the melancholy and often morbid notes of much women’s poetry from the period.

Women did write, and women did publish. Through the centuries they resorted to all sorts of strategies, and took advantage where they found it. Hannah More, born in 1745, funded her literary career with an annual pension from the man who jilted her after a long engagement. Her independence – and freedom from continuous years of childbearing and rearing – enabled her to become a noted philanthropist and lady of letters.

Hannah More

Some published anonymously, others under male or gender neutral pseudonyms. But often, even if they enjoyed great acclaim during their lifetimes, they were forgotten or fell from fashion afterwards. We know that Sappho was hailed as the Tenth Muse of the ancient world, but we have only scraps of her writing now. (It has been suggested that a pope ordered her ‘scandalous’ poetry burnt, but scholars suggest that, in fact, it just wasn’t considered worthy of preservation: a familiar fate for women’s work.)

Aemilia Lanyer, who wrote a daring epic poem that imagined the crucifixion from the point of view of Pontius Pilate’s wife in 1611, was all but forgotten by scholars until she was put forward as a potential model for the ‘Dark Lady’ of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It seems that a woman is only of interest when fixed in the lustful gaze of a man.

Aemelia Lanyer

No wonder women writers longed to spread their wings. And, in verse, they did. From the first African American poet, Phillis Wheatley, to civil rights activists and stars of the Harlem Renaissance such as Georgia Douglas Johnson and Anne Spencer, they wrote uplifting and inspirational poetry. From women as different as the reclusive Emily Dickinson and the inimitable Amy Lowell, who tirelessly promoted the cause of poetry, come poems that shout and shimmy with the delights of freedom. Suffragettes including Emily Wilding Davison write passionately about throwing open the door to a new world for women. It’s a pleasure and privilege to collect their words and bring them – I hope – to some new readers.

Anne Spencer

It is also a thrill to present the works of these writers alongside work they might surely have enjoyed from some of the most exciting poets writing today. We all know that women’s freedoms are still restricted - in some places dramatically, and in others insidiously. Girls and women in today’s world are still fighting for equal access to education, careers and independence. Here, my husband and I live in the same country, but I live under a different regime: one in which I was taught while still a child that an assailant might seize my ponytail as I walked and that, if that happened, I should shout, “Fire!” to raise the alarm because people don’t come to women’s aid. Women who don’t enjoy the many privileges I have been lucky enough to enjoy face greater barriers in every sphere. So words of both fury and the joy of freedom are still important to us. Poets including Salena Godden, Hollie McNish, Safia Elhillo, Jen Campbell, Kathleen Jamie, Sheena Patel, Caroline Bird, Carol Ann Duffy and Nikita Gill have written blazing and brilliant verses that deserve to be shouted to the sky and written in words six feet high, and it was the best job in the world to gather their poems and those of so many other amazing talents for this collection. I hope their work soars into readers’ hearts.

She Will Soar: Bright, Brave Poems of Freedom by Women is published by Macmillan and available to buy in paperback now from your local bookshop or online.

In Praise of Dogs: The Book of Dog Poems

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I have made no secret where my allegiance lies: I’m a cat lady, through and through. But poets have done their best to turn my head! When I edited The Book of Dog Poems, I wrote the introduction below. Dog people, come tell me, am I speaking your language?

“The better I get to know men, the more I find myself loving dogs,” Charles de Gaulle is purported to have said. If you have shared your life with a dog, you’ll understand. It’s hard to imagine even the most committed lover or the most adoring family member shouting with dizzy joy and excitement every time you come home from the shops. Yet your dog will never let your arrival pass without wild celebration, or roll its eyes when you suggest spending time together. To live with a dog is to have not just a friend, but a dedicated and enthusiastic cheerleader in your corner.

The verses in The Book of Dog Poems celebrate dogs of all ages – from the frisking puppy to the grizzled and venerable hound. They imagine a dog’s eye view of the world – the tasty puddles, the stories written in scent, the pity felt – as Chesterton’s dog Quoodle says – for the noselessness of poor man, who can’t smell the birds’ breath.

The almost infinite variety of dogs, too, is found within these pages, from the chic and cherished ‘petits chiens de Paris’ immortalised by Helen Burke to the rangy wolfish loner roaming the town’s wild outskirts, maddened by the moon. Their expressions are both keenly observed and lovingly relayed, including the curious attention of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s ‘Dog’, head cocked quizzically like ‘a living questionmark’.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning and D H Lawrence are among the writers who are – often somewhat rudely – awoken by their pets. Lawrence’s incorrigible Bibbles tears in ‘like a little black whirlwind’. Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley’s poem ‘We Meet At Morn, My Dog and I’ beautifully describes an early morning scenario many dog owners will recognise: the tail drumming on the bedroom door, the half-shout, and the desperate scuffle before his pet flings itself into the room. Owner and dog greet each other – one yawning and the other in an ecstasy of excitement, swearing ‘fresh love and fealty’ for the day ahead.

Writers have here captured the mad rapture of a dog galloping, racing ‘across morning-wet grass, high-fiving the day’ as in Lisa Oliver’s ‘Flight’. W H Auden once said, “In times of joy, all of us wished we possessed a tail we could wag”. One of the reasons our dogs inspire such happiness is their deep and physical expressions of delight. Their naked enthusiasm is a balm in a cynical and sardonic age, in which we sometimes feel we have shed simple joy with childhood. The ecstasy they radiate is infectious. Harold Monro’s wonderful ‘Dog’ lists a litany of easy pleasures: the thrill of a walk, then heading home to the further joy of food to be bolted, drowsing to the chat of your people and sinking, untroubled, into the ‘bed-delicious hours of night’. Dogs remind us – as in Mark Doty’s ‘Golden Retrievals’ – to live with both feet in the present, to taste and savour the day without fretting about yesterday or tomorrow, to cherish the here and now.

The pleasure of exercising the dog has its place in these pages, too. There are roads to ramble and woods to wander, puddles and ponds to taste and a world of exciting smells to track in the countryside, and fire hydrants and flea markets to tempt the sophisticated urban canine.

Not all these dogs are well trained. There is plenty of mischief in these mutts. Dorothy Parker, Rupert Brooke, Jo Shapcott and Dylan Thomas celebrate the naughty dogs, the dirty dogs, the snappers and the scrappers, the destroyers of shoes and newly made beds and nippers of calves. But here, too, are working dogs like the trusty huskies, strong and solid and ready to run.

Dogs remind us that to be with those we love is the most holy of pleasures. The agony of being apart is expressed, beautifully, in several of these poems, as is the utterly joyous nature of the subsequent reunion, for both parties. The loyalty of the pet who awaits long, lonely years like Pope’s loyal Argus is matched by that of the suburban pup to whom the working day seems a desolate century, and both are transfigured with wagging happiness to be reunited with their people.

We close this collection with farewells. Poets have, for hundreds and hundreds of years, been moved to remember their canine companions with some of the most moving verse ever written. The death of such a staunch friend and constant companion is no small sorrow, the poets tell us. It’s right to mourn them as they deserve.

I hope there will be a cocked head, an excited squeak, a trailing tongue or a bright eye here you recognise. Our dogs can’t know how many passionate pages they have unwittingly inspired, but as long as there are walks and woods and puddles and petting and, afterwards, warm feet to sprawl on while you read about them, it will have been a good dog day.

 The Book of Dog Poems is illustrated throughout with Sarah Maycock’s beautiful pictures.

Things I Think I've Done Outside Because of Books

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Each year, at the start of March, a snatch of poetry runs through my head:

March, black ram,

Comes in like a lion,

Goes out like a lamb.

It appeared in a book which gathered stories, rhymes and snippets of seasonal lore about winter that I pored over annually as a child. I can’t find any reference to this version of the proverb now, so I suppose the ram of Aries was added purely to give the sentiment a rhyme and rhythm. It demonstrates the sticking power of poetry, though: the music of those lines caught in my mind forever.

I had a bookish, indoors childhood, despite my parents’ best efforts to exhort me out into the fresh air. I admit that the majority of the feelings I amassed about the natural world came from books and poems. It’s no substitute for the real thing, which utterly delights me now - sorry Mum and Dad! - as I chivvy my own reluctant children – sorry, kids! – into the cold to exclaim over catkins, but it did help me build a store of natural knowledge.

It turns out I (and now, my daughters) can identify a dog violet, thanks to Flower Fairies of the Spring. My sense of seasonal aesthetics is embarrassingly obviously influenced by Brambly Hedge. April cannot dawn without Browning’s ‘Home-Thoughts from Abroad’ coming to mind. I will always be unsettled by frog spawn, thanks to Heaney’s ‘Death of a Naturalist’. And every year, when my children complain about bright summer bedtimes, I find myself quoting Robert Louis Stevenson:

In winter I get up at night 
And dress by yellow candle-light.  
In summer, quite the other way, 
I have to go to bed by day.  

I have to go to bed and see         
The birds still hopping on the tree,  
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet  
Still going past me in the street.  

And does it not seem hard to you,  
When all the sky is clear and blue,  
And I should like so much to play,  
To have to go to bed by day?

Again: sorry, kids.

Later in the year, Rachel Field’s autumnal ‘sagging orchards’ in ‘Something Told the Wild Geese’ come to mind.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered,—‘Snow.’
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned,—‘Frost.’
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,—
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.

The geese will be chased by Nikki Giovanni’s ‘Winter’: ‘once a snowflake fell / on my brow’ and Robert Frost’s traveller, stopped among in snowy trees with ‘miles to go before I sleep’. Have I really not been in that snow-smothered wood? I see it so clearly.

Wordsworth, in ‘The Prelude’, captured the exhilaration of whirling about on ice-skates. It feels convincing even to me as a clumsy person, whose few attempts at skating (on suburban rinks resounding with Radio 1) resulted in falls eliciting audible gasps from onlookers.

It rarely snowed where I grew up. I was never ambushed by a rabble of farting frogs. I couldn’t see pedestrian’s feet from my bedroom. But reading has helped me make imaginative leaps: in the treasure house of my mind, I’ve thrilled to a chaffinch in the April orchard, even though I wouldn’t recognise one in real life if it pecked me on the head wearing a tiny ‘CHAFFINCH’ t-shirt. In my imagination, I’ve sailed across frozen lakes under a wintry sky and not just done the world’s sweariest Bambi impression, resulting in spectacular bruising. These experiences were not ‘real’, but they live in me nonetheless, and I’d be so much the poorer without them.

The success of Allie Esiri’s seasonal anthologies – A Poem for Every Spring Day, and so on, and the beautiful anthologies edited by Fiona Walters – I Am the Seed That Grew the Tree and Tiger Tiger Burning Bright – show that I’m not alone in valuing poetry as a way in to nature for young readers. Gathering material for Wonder: The Natural History Museum Poetry Book, I hoped the poems could inspire young champions for our planet and its wildlife, just as the museum’s collections aim to do.

In a world where we’re ever more disconnected from natural rhythms, I do believe books and poetry can help to plug us back in. And so what if most of my memories of the natural world are stitched together from things I’ve read? I can head out into the world now (dragging my complaining children… sorry, kids!) and look for all that magic this spring. I can gather it and file it with the rest, the real illuminating the imaginary and, together, building into a view of nature that weaves the experiences of so many different writers together… but is ultimately mine and mine alone, built of spring buds and birdsong — and books.

A version of this blog appeared on the Children’s Poetry Summit in March 2022.

Ten Quick Reads

I love a big beast of a book. But also, I am childishly pleased by finishing a book quickly. I’m as guilty as anyone of feeling pressured into mildly competitive reading by the huge teetering stacks of books some readers seem to get through in a month (and I like to watch really quite a lot of television.) So I thought I’d gather some of my favourite shorter books for the shortest month. All these titles pack a punch. Some are really very short, others just very quick (French Exit, Not Working), all brilliant.

Mothering Sunday by Graham Swift

I loved this. A vivid dive into the life and love affair of a 1920s maid that then unexpectedly delivered a lively meditation on fiction and memory. Thought-provoking on the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we tell about ourselves and the essential unknowability of other's’ stories. It was filmed last year, though I haven’t seen it yet.

Friday Black by Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah

This is a brilliant and searing collection of short stories in which exceptional, taut writing characterises darkly imaginative fantasy scenarios that tell us bitter truths about our realities. Justly likened to Black Mirror, Nana’s stories hold a glass up to racism, consumer culture and modern life in utterly original ways. Once read, they are never forgotten.

Not Working by Lisa Owens

Sharp millennial funnies in bite sized chunks that my scattered attention span could cope with and enjoy even in the most extreme days of the pandemic - quite the compliment. It’s written in a fragmentary style that mirrors the narrator Claire’s unstructured time, which makes it easy to pick up and dip into, and the humour kept me reading. It’s far from insubstantial though, with lots of acute observations about work, relationships and expectations packed among the lighter moments.

A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf

Having researched so many women writers who worked despite everything stacked against them to compile She is Fierce and She Will Soar, this resonated. Leisure, learning and liberty are the key ingredients for any artists, and they’ve always been in shorter supply for women than men (and scarcer still for women who weren’t from a privileged background.)

Woolf says that when ‘one reads of a witch being ducked, of a women possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor… Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.’

Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson

I inhaled this. Red at the Bone is absolutely beautifully written. She has such a talent for bringing her characters to life, managing to tell a multi-generational story in brief vignettes. I loved the structure of interlocking points of view from so many different characters, which is similar to that in Histories by Sam Guglani, which I also love. The characters are nuanced and completely realised despite dancing after each other in only a few pages each.

Zorrie by Laird Hunt

Orphaned Zorrie is cast into the perilous economy and sublime landscapes of Depression-era rural Indiana. Drifting west, she survives on odd jobs, sleeping in barns and under the stars, before finding work at a radium processing plant. At the end of each day, the factory girls glow.

But Indiana calls Zorrie back, and there she makes a life and a home rooted in its earth. Zorrie’s is a life convulsed by the turbulent 20th Century and this tender novel offers an intimate portrait of a tenacious and unbowed woman. It snuck up on me and gently stole my heart.

Exquisite Cadavers by Meena Kandasamy

Exquisite Cadavers is a fascinating literary response to reductive readings of Meena’s book When I Hit You that assumed that novel to be entirely autobiographical. This is something that happens to women writers far more than men, and to women writers of colour in particular: everything they write is assumed to be drawing on personal experience, denying their status as artists. “No one treats us as writers, only as diarists who survived,” Meena writes. Here, alongside the story of Karim and Maya’s fictional marriage, all the sources, inspirations, subtexts and allusions are glossed in the margins.

It’s such an interesting reading experience, playing with form to give a riveting insight into Meena’s creative process. Confrontational, frequently poetic, not always easy to read and extremely thought-provoking.

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

The charismatic and cultured Miss Brodie is in her prime, as she constantly reminds her girls, but her passions will change the lives of the honoured and loyal Brodie set in ways none of them could have predicted. There’s a film with Dame Maggie Smith I remember loving and it’s always Maggie I see while reading this.

French Exit by Patrick deWitt

This piercing little gem of a book stars spoilt, hilariously acid Frances, her childish, inept son Malcolm and Small Frank, a cat who Frances believes is the reincarnation of her despised husband. It’s a fizzing, absurdist tragicomedy set mostly in Paris with brilliantly sketched characters who convince despite the extremes they are stretched to. I loved Frances and Joan cackling in their pyjamas together, the cloying neediness of Mme Reynard and everything about Small Frank. Completely enjoyable.

To See Clearly: Why Ruskin Matters by Suzanne Fagence Cooper

Just over two centuries ago John Ruskin - foremost cultural critic of the Victorian age - was born. This slim little volume summarises his many published volumes and shows how much of his writing can still speak to us today, on issues as diverse as mental health, climate change, mindful travel, responsible consumerism, access to the arts for all and respectful conservation. I’m working on Suzanne’s upcoming book about Jane and William Morris, How We Might Live, which also shows how deeply Victorian thinkers have influenced our world.