Transmissions: Bristol (Part 2)


Transmissions is a series in which I offer notes on the creative work of small press publishers of poetry. I’ve decided to start in Bristol, with the editors of Hesterglock Press, Paul Hawkins and Sarer Scotthorne. In this post, I offer some thoughts on Scotthorne’s, The Blood House (Bristol: Hesterglock Press, 2015). Notes on Hawkin’s collection, Contumacy, can be found here.


Bodies to Live in: Notes on Sarer Scotthorne’s Blood House
Task 1. Picture a collection of poems as a house; each page a different room. Picture a collection of poems as a body; each page a separate organ.

the house screams
(from ‘David’s Game’)

Task 2. Place your memories inside larger histories of nature and war. The picture of the body is pressed into the picture of the house. The light leaks in, colours merge, and a single picture meets your eye.

The blackness
of his heart
sickened me
(from ‘Poison: Scene 2. Hunger’)

Task 3. Inside this picture read the poems of The Blood House, their visceral correspondences of architecture, bones, circulation, memory, and the death cackle of a fade.

I have been breached
by the living,
who become the dead.
(from ‘Any Persons Arms’)

In opening this way I hope to capture something of the viscerality of Scotthorne’s lyric structures, where the most confessional of poems exceed what could willingly be disclosed, and where the confessions seem aware of what they can’t express. Indeed, across the collection’s opening the speaker points to either the lack or the limits of speech:

‘I wanted to scream and shout/…I remained silent’ (from ‘The Way Seagulls Fly’)

‘There are no words’ (from ‘Any Persons Arms’)

‘What could I say?’ (from ‘Daddy’s Dance’).

Rather than words, what comes out of the mouth is liquid: ‘it sprays from my mouth’ (in ‘Any Persons Arms’), ‘I kneeled and kissed his temple/…Blood sprayed out,/ covering/ his yellow bed/ of flowers’ (in ‘Poison: Scene 1. Alone’).

Blood is a sign of disturbance of the interior and exterior limits of the body. Like all liquids it assumes the form of the container into which it is poured. While the poem as a container for language is an established metaphor, rather than investigating form’s capacity to shape and contain, these poems are like life giving wounds. The poems are open channels for unvoiced feelings — grief, anger, love — to seep into language, its rhythms, words and laws.

If feelings are experienced as somehow prior to language, then it’s significant that it’s not until the end of ‘Repeating Patterns’, the ninth poem of a twenty-six poem collection, that the ‘I’ records its own speech. When it does the words are directed inwards, ‘I say to myself’, the speaker remarks, uttering the sounds ‘chk chk chk’ from an ambiguous subject position: the body first becomes the wallpaper and then it fights against this transformation, ‘I try to come down from the wall’ the speaker says, attempting to escape the fate of the protagonist in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story The Yellow Wallpaper, vestigially present in the line ‘he traces the lines with his yellow fingers’.

Even though the speaker often refrains from recording their own speech, Scotthorne’s poems have things to say about bodies. The bodies of The Blood House move to their own laws or are violently lawless. There are the crazy, loose bodied bones of a seagull that ‘flee their centre, distorting themselves’ in the opening poem, and then there are a series of poems which constitute the collection’s heart that explore the relationship between a daughter and her dead father, some of which make use of the third person: ‘she should never have eaten his rotten heart./ She should never have killed him’ (lines from ‘Blood Head’).

This idea that one body consumes or becomes another in violence is developed in ‘Soldier’s Dinner’ where the half-day rations of a US soldier in Afghanistan (2013) provide source text for a poem which exchanges the haunting but real power of a father for that of the military:

I moulded my sweat to your national eye,
a fifty-calibre song
spitting your dark trench radar
(lines 11-14)

Rations are the minimal amount of food necessary to sustain a soldier’s body in their work of killing that is often performed in the name of securing a national body. In this poem it is the lubrication of ‘sweat’, rather than blood, that reveals and implicates the flesh in a set of mutually dependent relations: rations sustain the soldier, the soldier sustains the nation, and both sustain the speaker. In this national, militaristic and consuming body the lyric becomes ‘a fifty-calibre song’, singing the violence of its living desires and of its own desire to live.

I particularly value the many other poems in The Blood House that also test out the possibilities and politics of mutual dependency. Here is the last stanza from the poem ‘Sunday Morning Words’:

Inhaled by you, I no longer exist,
my empty nightshirt lies on the bed
and as you absorb me, you become
thinner and thinner.

The ‘you’ in this poem is not a kind host. In the preceding stanza it manipulates, controls and fixes the speaker: ‘And then your cold machinery presses into me,/ you move my arms into position and clamp me tight.’ The ‘you’ here is an enemy, you are the enemy, and the body in its presence does not seep with liquid but is inhaled as gas. After inhalation, the ‘I’ now as a gas inside the ‘you’, reduces the shared body to thinness.

I’m  excited and perplexed by the power relations this poetry creates, as well as the agency it locates. The poems are doing important work. I also feel that even the most painful of poems in The Blood House are acts of generosity. They create new and difficult bodies that we are invited to live in. Whether we can or not is another matter entirely.


Subscribe to the newsletter

Subscribe to the newsletter to receive monthly updates from, reviews of poetry books, and links to what’s exciting me in the world of poetry.

Email Format 


Transmissions: Bristol (Part 1)  


Transmissions is a new series in which I offer notes on the creative work of small press publishers of poetry. I’ve decided to start in Bristol, with the editors of Hesterglock Press, Paul Hawkins and Sarer Scotthorne. In this post, I offer some thoughts on Hawkins’, Contumacy (Liverpool: Erbacce Press, 2014). A review of Sarer’s collection, The Blood House, follows next week.


Listen Up: Notes on Hawkins’ Contumacy
For a collection of poems whose title is Contumacy — meaning the stubborn refusal to obey authority — the poems are unabashed about issuing their own instructions. These instructions are not, however, as straightforward as they might seem:


envisage an isa
a fluffed-up pension

Though this short poem ends the collection, the patterns it makes are circular: the acronym ‘isa’, which concludes the first line is rhymed with the last line ‘nicer’. This patterning also occurs in the first line, where ‘isa’ is concealed in the middle of the first word ‘envisage’. The poem, which specifically instructs us not to ‘envisage’, to speculate, or perhaps even to read on (we are, after all, at the end of the collection) enacts this prohibition through a form that twice bends back upon itself.

The poem critiques the desire to translate the accumulation of money via financial schemes and products into the imagined security of a pleasant future, a desire it figures pornographically. The phrase ‘fluffed-up’, recalls the work of the fluffer (the person whose job it is to give male porn stars blowjobs in order to get them hard enough to perform). In the poem the ‘pension’ — which insufficiently serves as cover for the phrase ‘penis on’ — stimulates our desire while our bodies are used in the service of capital, metaphorically fucked into old age. There is no happy ending, no matter what we might want to envisage.

By instructing us ‘not’ to enter into such a dynamic of speculation the poem perhaps naively (or is it my reading that is naive?) sees the possibility of avoiding this fate as a question of activating an autonomous ‘will’. This word is conspicuously absent from the fourth line of the poem where one might expect to find it. However, the title of the collection and the workings of the poem’s form make me distrust the authority of the voice that offers such an appealing and superficially easy solution to the social and economic malaise that it maps. This feeling of insufficiency has much to do with how form is working across the collection as a whole.

Mark Burnhope’s puff on the book’s cover promises that Contumacy exhibits just ‘the right amount of formal diversity’. But it appears that rather than being deployed in the service of diversity, Hawkins uses form to search for a way out of the social deprivations that his poems so acutely, and often earnestly, observe. As no method of formal experimentation — collage, cut-up, détournement, the recording of overheard speech or the enactment of oulipian procedures — is fully up to that task, a variety of approaches are necessarily employed. In other words, the feeling of insufficiency that I register in ‘DO NOT’ is not a failure that belongs to this poem alone. Instead, rather than being a failure at all, the struggle and failure to find ways to live ethically both with and in the world is something that Hawkins’ poems intentionally and consciously explore.

Of all the formal techniques on display in Contumacy, particularly expressive of the relationship between struggle and failure is ‘Tip #235’ which, like ‘DO NOT’, explores the relationship between accumulation and instruction:

Tip #235

1. search the house or flat you live in and collect all
items of clothing including footwear

2. select one set of clothes for the climate you live in

3. dress yourself in these clothes

4. bag-up remaining clothes and leave in a dry
communal area in your local neighbourhood

5. continue with your life

The pun of the title, the rubbish dump and the recycling centre, situates the poem as a mediator between the individual and the community. The actions of shedding clothes, of seeing clothes as commodities, and of establishing an alternative method of exchange which is both considerate of other people and the environment — the clothes should be left in a ‘dry communal area’ — are juxtaposed by the temporary nature of the act, which the poem also admits to in its final instruction: ’continue with your life’.

The relation between a stubborn and permanent existence and a fleeting, temporary presence in a community is the central concern of the poem ‘Contumacy’ from which the collection takes its title. The notes to this poem explain it is an ‘Oulipo constrained interpretation of the old school squatters Legal Warning Section 6 from the Advisory Service for Squatters’. Using aleatoric procedures on this material produces lines that both demonstrate and explore the relationship between property, language and sound:

THAT we live in this householder, it is our homonym
and we intend to stay here

THAT at all timpani there is at least one persuasion in this homynym.

THAT any epic into this homynym with our…
prerequisite is a criss-cross offspring

This poem moves words on in an arbitrary and unrelenting procedure, and with every noun that is exchanged the sense of the text as a legal document legible in official settings is reduced. The ‘timpani’ and homonyms of this poem have their counterpoint in the change of law (in 2012) that made squatting in residential property a criminal matter. At the most basic level these law changes have made it easier for police to move squatters on, gentrifying and privatising communities with recourse to an arbitrary, legal and procedural violence. Hawkins’ poems are at their strongest when the experimental strategies of modernism, which are surfed throughout the collection, intersect with the documents and language of real political struggle.

In conclusion, I’d like to say a few things about the collection as a whole. Firstly, the recording of sound and rhythm is a recurrent concern: through an open window in the poem ‘Awake in Southall’, the city ‘comes alive’ in ‘a whale-cry’, while in ‘The Secret’, a character called Troy, whose hips ‘grind to the beat’, gets amusingly and desperately aroused as he really starts to dig the groove of a ‘Stepsom 913 – OA’ photocopier (‘the Big Boy of photocopying’). Secondly, there’s a food motif running throughout the collection. There are ‘screaming chickpeas’ in the poem ‘Fruit Bowl’, there is the ‘taste of anchovy’ in the cut-up poem ‘More Metro News’, there are ‘tamarind gas tiles’ in the poem ‘Under Colonel Rule’, while ‘Press Release’ begins with the lines,  ‘Cameron’s shopping trolley/ horse skin Cameron’. This interest in sound and in the consumption of food come together in the poem ‘Memory Grill’, which begins, ‘The noise I hear when bacon fries/ is the hard pop and scratch of vinyl’.

If sound is one of the ways in which the world seeps into these poems, then food is the commodity that most repeatedly enters the body, and the poems in Contumacy want to explore the body under capitalism. If these notes have said more about the world than the poems themselves, this speaks to what I like most about Hawkins’ work: the poems consistently point away from themselves and take you back to the world; they let you listen in, then they make you listen out, then they tell you listen up.


Subscribe to the newsletter

Subscribe to the newsletter to receive monthly updates from, reviews of poetry books, and links to what’s exciting me in the world of poetry.

Email Format 


On Performing Sean Bonney’s Poetry

When you meet a Tory on the street, cut his throat
It will bring out the best in you.
It is as simple as music or drunken speech.
There will be flashes of obsolete light.
You will notice the weather only when it starts to die.

Sean Bonney, Happiness, Poems After Rimbaud (London: Unkant Publishing), 2011, p. 37

I read these lines to an audience that had gathered at the Flapper in Birmingham to see the bands 40 Watt Sun, Rumour Cubes and Sun Wolf. I had been invited on tour with Rumour Cubes as my poetry features on some of their songs: 1871, Letters to Palestine (rewritten on the tour) Research and Destroy (poetry written just before the tour) and The Gove Curve.

It was our first gig and I was due on stage for the second song of the set. As I came onto the stage ready to introduce and perform The Gove Curve, Adam Stark (guitarist) said he needed more time to restring his guitar. Shortly after restringing he dropped his guitar, broke another string and needed more time. During all this there was silence.

I was closest to the mic so I decided to fill that silence with Bonney’s poem.  As I finished the first line I heard a sharp collective gasp. I continued to read. At its end there was no applause, no sound. Terry Murphy (viola) asked me nervously if I had memorised another verse. I hadn’t. After another 30 seconds Annie Rew Shaw (guest pianist for Rumour Cubes and solo artist) started playing a melody and we performed a version of Letters To Palestine.

I was  shaken by the whole experience. I remember asking Joe (bassist) for a hug. Having heard Sean read this poem many times, having performed the poem myself when introducing the post-punk band Left Leg, and after being really fired up for the whole performance I just wasn’t ready for their silence. At the end of other songs I performed with Rumour Cubes that night I felt that applause was muted, and that there was a palpable sense of hate, or at least disapproval, emanating from the crowd. These feelings were compounded by my concerns that I had ruined Rumour Cubes’ first gig of the tour. I’m writing about this now because I think this performance taught me a few things about Bonney’s poem.

Five lessons from Birmingham:

  1. No Tories in the street were harmed in the making of the poem. Any Tories in the audience were also left unharmed. Whatever judgement there is to be made about the rhetorics of violence used in the poem, the person performing it to a hostile crowd is the one left in a vulnerable position.
  2. The poem is as much about measurement as violence. The degree of hostility expressed by the audience towards the poem and its speaker is the distance between the audience and the possibility of their revolution.
  3. In the performance ‘the weather’ is the room and the people in it. As the final word of the poem dies away, you are left in a room with the people you’ve spoken to. You know something about them that you didn’t before. The violence in the poem is in them. Note the ambiguity of the word ‘it’ in the last line. It’s uncertain whether ‘it’ refers to the ‘weather’, the ‘light’ or the ‘Tory’.
  4. When I performed the poem I accidentally exchanged the first word of the poem ‘when’ for the word ‘if’, thereby softening the poem by making its violent imperatives conditional on crossing paths with a Tory. Beginning with the word ‘when’,  the poem is saying its violence is inevitable: its just a matter of time. What possible discerning feature would allow you to identify the Tory on the street so that you can cut their throat anyway? Reading Bonney’s poem then judging their reaction might be a good place to start.
  5. The word ‘throat’ is important to the meaning of the poem. Cutting the throat is an attack on language as much as it is an attack on the body. By identifying the throat as the site to be attacked  the interrelationship between the body, its politics and its language is also identified. When the audience gasped and fell into silence at the first line of the poem they physically acknowledged this to be true.

The poem singles out ‘a Tory’ for throat cutting, but this isolated violence  has to been seen in the context of the violence committed by the state. People taking their own life after being informed of cuts to their benefits (BBC), while the Government issues ‘more than 3,000 export licences for military and intelligence equipment worth a total of £12.3bn to countries which  are on its own official list for human rights abuses’ (The Independent), are just two examples. How can this be tolerated when a poem which simply invokes violence cannot? I’ve always taken the poem to be highly moral even in its deviation from conventional definitions of morality.


Letters To Palestine


Postscript Two

I’ve been meaning to write
To you again
Need to spell out a few things
I regret these letters
Their false starts
Cut out my tongue
It starts
I’m sorry I wrote you
This letter
I deplore its forged nostalgia
Its staged retreat
Its black logic
Its entire lack of yelping dogs
Last year when the roofs
Were knocked in Gaza
Inside the letter
Moved hands of mowed up grass
Tonight my prisoner kissed
The ground of their cell
Tonight in Aida Camp
That glowing stone
Its starlings and its shrikes
In the presence of friends
In their bodies
In their seams of loving scars
You have two minutes to leave your life
Get out of your house
So I give you tonight
And every single other night
To say, Free Palestine
Against the occupying army
Against their petty checkpoints
Their poems of racist laws
Say, Free Palestine
Against their wall
That field of profit
Their webs of ordered silk
Their humiliations, prisons
Their slow control of faucet’s
Poisoned water
As in 70% of your body
And then with what remains
Of your flesh say
Free Palestine
Against the tourist, the thief
In a hail of stones
In a certain hail of peace
In endurance
In boycott
In Oslo
Say, Free Palestine
And these are your only words
Free Palestine
At Arizona’s border
Inside David Cameron’s hemlock soul
In Balfour’s bleeding ear
In the ventricular halls of England’s colonial heart
Say Free Palestine
It ends in music
Yes, it ends in frozen coins of blissful glass
Say Free Palestine
It starts in your mouth
It ends in the streets
Say Free Free Palestine
Say its been good writing to you
Say it clear as hell
And then say it again
Free Free Palestine
Go on I know these words are in you.


I wrote this poem for a performance with Rumour Cubes at Bar Bloc Glasgow (11 March, 2015). It responds to the first version of ‘Letters To Palestine’, which was recorded with the band three years ago. In the new version ‘Letters To Palestine’ was followed by ‘Postscript Two’, which was performed over a pulse of clanging sound.

As well as performing the new version of the song in Glasgow, the song was also performed in Newcastle and London. No recording of the full version exists. ‘Letters To Palestine’ is part of the much longer Living In project.

Sea Fever & The iyatraQuartet

On Sunday 1st of March I performed Sea Fever with the iyatraQuartet, at New Unity, Newington Green, London.

The first performance was at the Open Arts Cafe (27 March, 2014).

I’ve since produced this online edition of the text.

The recording below is taken from the second section of the poem.

The iyatraQuartet is an ensemble comprised of clarinet, violin, cello and percussion. Members are George Sleightholme, Alice Barron, Rich Phillips and Will Roberts.

I first worked with Alice for the launch of my long-form poem Elegy. Alice performed Other Noises, a piece written for solo soprano by composer Edward Nesbit, but performed on violin by Alice.

In the Herbarium


Violet Sweet

Behind one violet there is another
See, what is sweet about that –
Or yellow,

Every star emits
Yellow lilac light

Thick violet walls
Raspberry love –

Sweet sandhills draw upwards,

Tooth white stars

Brown silhouetted stole,
Soundhills needle

That I am not
Writing about you at all.

Currents raging.
Violet: sweet as a ghost.


It feels like it was only yesterday, but the launch of the Herbarium poetry anthology was almost four years ago. Edited by James Wilkes, the anthology was launched at the Urban Physic Garden with readings from 36 poets in July 20ll. The anthology, viewable here, celebrates and explores the contemporary resonances of medicinal plants and herbs for the Urban Physic Garden.

Only Openings


‘clouds, mist find solace in the canyons of the Santa Catalina Mountains’

from ‘The Place Where Clouds Are Formed’, in Where Clouds Are Formed, by Ofellia Zepeda (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2008),  p.5.

‘You want I’ll be irreproachably/ tender no man but a cloud/ in trousers’

from ‘A Cloud In Trousers’, in Electric Iron, by Vladimir Myakovsky, trans. Jack Hirschman and Victor Erlich (Maya: Berkley, 1971), np.


‘Deers / on the main road: display solutions beyond STAR FURNISHINGS and all wildness ROCKED in/ Styrene LADIES of Honour with some ground…’

punk faun, by Redell Olsen, (Oakland: Subpress, 2012), p.11.

‘By his own scythe, the mower mown’

‘Damon the Mower’, in ‘The Selected Poetry of Marvell’, by Andrew Marvell, (New York, Signet Classics, 1967), p.80.

‘Lightly you lope, pale deer, lifting / A story from pages of snow’

‘Of Mule and Deer’, in This Isa Nice Neighborhood, by Farid Matuk (Chicago: Letter Machine Editions, 2010), p.1.


‘we are both swans in the same pond/ wrapping our long black necks around each other/ until it hurts.’

‘Magazine Stand’, in Fjords vol. 1, by Zachary Schomburg (Boston MA: Black Ocean, 2012),  p.12. Continue reading Only Openings

Where The Wild Flowers Are


Viper’s Bugloss

White pigs and horses on wet grass lay dead
When sun-lips pink in vivid blue descends
On mathematicians and the red stained bee
A cancer bloods this poem: Washington.

Dusk bugs with flailing arms invade despair
Suck bitten tails that arch to meet a tongue
That senses nothing but the voice’s shell
Which logic forms as flowers in a pun.

The arid roadsides of Ramallah watched
As we removed the poets from the shops
To plant black ovoid seeds in eyeless pots
For every optic nerve dissects from sight.

Long scales defect to pitch-bend through the weed
While pigs and horses cell death on night grass.


A note on the poem: I wrote this poem in June 2012 for A Wild Flower Anthology. The anthology, edited and concieved by Clare Whistler, was published to celebrate the ‘Where The Wild Flowers Are‘ event, commissioned by the City of London Festival.

I was one of sixteen poets and composers invited to take part in the project. Each poet wrote a poem about a wild flower of their choice, while each composer wrote a solo miniature for a single instrument, which was then performed alongside a dramatic reading of the poem in one of three city churches: St Mary-at-Hill, St Olave Hart St and St Stephen Walbrook.

For Viper’s Bugloss composer Jason Anderson wrote a solo miniature (performed on clarinet by Emily Heathcote) which was accompanied by a dramatic reading of ‘Viper’s Bugloss’ by Alice Roots.

Vanguard Poetry


 Want to find out if a van could be turned into a venue for poetry?

I did.

Want to see how it was done? Read this.


This was a ‘proof of concept’ reading, and there are bigger plans in the pipe line, so if you think you could help us develop the project in anyway, please get in touch on Twitter @swilley17


The Daily Filth


Spring In London

Come in from a warmth my small gazelle drill
Scaffolding green of caltrop pierce-hoof
For it is now midday and I’m in need of pigeons
Canted-builder, undead-mesh, brackened-eyes

Closets and kisses fold you up something proper
No today is not the day for something proper
Extinguish curls —

And when I was a poacher the room was pink
In summer O’ microwaves where the birds burst
And the shields turn in face to slit faces the pretty
Polices, and Luke

I garnered up the violence for you, I placed it in this bird
Will you hold it? Yet still, while you face it, will you come
In from my mouth, for it is now past midday, and I’m in need
Of poems —

Fuck off to find a fallow field mouse gangrene and empty
For he is out in the lower gut of my tiny Luke bird,
Shitting out green —

And I heard you ill the city – so are you my slow gazelle,
Or worse – are you my drill-field. And am I the closet terrorist
When even your kisses fear me —

Where even the birds sought my door to die?


Summer in Brighton

When you swell into the pier-slats a chlorine April otter,
Gulled between the baton, the granite & the sun floss-ochre,
Those were the days when I lost my tongue to Brighton —

For it is far past midnight and I’m in need of drowning,
Plaster drips its jowls onto the white-mesh
Brambles  —

Or on into a room is cracked and greener
Than a rose, the sea, a smash-welt flattener, an otter slumps
Its heavy chin onto the porcelain rashes,
For when I was a painter the bricks blew up

The Winter, O’ money find a tongue among the thrashes,
And when you find it, just cut it, greener up into the passes,
Can you paint it?

When you hear it, please flush it, for I am all an otter
And make not a lot of money —

And I heard you move the people,
So are you my flock of hammers? Or am I all this traitor
When even those purses fleece me?

Please now will you just tell me, why these boots keep on filling
Up with all this blood?


A note on the poems: Back in April 2009 I took part in National Poetry Filth, an online project organised by poet Sophie Robinson to celebrate National Poetry Month. The challenge was to write a poem everyday for a month, posting the poem to a group blog. I didn’t manage a poem a day, but these were two of my better efforts.