Here’s the invite for the Launch. All welcome. Circulate as widely as you like:


We asked Karen Sherwood of Sheffield’s excellent Cupola Gallery, to judge the entries for the Millstone Grit poetry-into-art competition, and she’s now made her decision. In the end, we’re exhibiting 12 images in Bank Street next week (starting Weds 12th and finishing on the 22nd) and we’ve awarded two third prizes, because Karen couldn’t separate them. Pictures and poems will be on display, and visitors can engage in the interesting exercise of trying to decide what aspect of which poems sparked which particular images.

And we’re on the downhill slope (i.e. approaching panic!) about the book launch. Our itchy fingers want to be pressing the book into people’s hands, but we’re holding ourselves back till the official launch on, since you ask, Weds 19th Oct at Sheffield Institute of Arts, Old Post Office, Fitzalan Square, Sheffield, 7.30 till 9.00ish, all welcome. Reading from the book by around 15 poets (still to be confirmed). A free event, but we’d like you to buy the book, of course and with luck there’ll be enough wine to go round.

(Here’s the post I’ve just made on the Millstone Grit blog).

We now have the Millstone Grit book in our hot little hands, and we’re very pleased with it. It is, of course, the first book and the first print work from the Antiphon press, which is exciting enough (to us!) in itself. But it’s actually a rather attractive book, both in look and content, so we’re rather proud of ourselves.


Meanwhile, we’ve be working on the images submitted for the exhibition to be held before the launch in October. There have certainly been some interesting and unusual responses to the poems, and picking around a dozen that Rosemary, Carolyn and myself agree will make an exhibition which reflects the range of the book, as well as being visually exciting in their own right, has not been that easy. We’re close to a decision, but then will be passing our preferences to Karen Sherwood, who runs the highly reputed Cupola Gallery in Sheffield to judge our three prizewinners.


Together with Rosemary Badcoe and Carolyn Waudby, and under the aegis of Antiphon, I’ve been working on Millstone Grit, an anthology of poems from poets at Sheffield Hallam University: students, staff and alumni. It’s taken some effort, but I think we’ve achieved a really good collection, sampling work produced by our fellow poets (and us, of course – we weren’t going to miss the opportunity to publish some of our own work).

Now the book is almost ready to print, we’ve shifted attention to the Millstone Grit art competition and exhibition. We’re inviting artists to respond to poems in the anthology with a digital image. The best will be exhibited at Bank Street Arts in October, to coincide with the launch of the anthology: and the three very best will each receive a small cash prize.

If you’re an artist, or know artists who might be interested, check out the details at


Burbage Edge


I’ve noticed that many blog posts begin with apologies for not posting for a while. This raises the question of who(m) a blogger thinks their communicating with. For most, I guess, it’s an imaginary audience, plus the blogger themselves, the blog acting as a sort of journal-cum-rumination-cum-selfrationalisation-cum-defence against dementia-cum-confessional-cum-hobby. So why the apology?

I’ve now retired as an academic. That doesn’t preclude the possibility of someone asking me to do something trading on my 40 years of research and teaching (no-one who’s close to me believes I’d turn down such a task if offered it) but I doubt I’ll ever enter another classroom nor publish another paper. We’ll see.

But one thing that does excite me – and always has, I guess – is being in a one-to-one tutoring situation with a keen learner. I’ve always responded well to those who are keen to learn (they can be quite rare!) especially as my own life has essentially been one long student-hood. Typically this happens is a tutorial or mentoring situation (the two are different, but might feel the same to the mentee, I suppose). Anyone actively seeking a mentor necessarily has a desire to learn, to improve, to develop in a way they’re not themselves quite able to perceive.

I’ve been a little surprised to find I’m quite good at this, and especially good at it with other writers. In the university context, I’ve helped colleagues develop professionally and achieve promotion (sometimes to my personal regret, as I’ve lost good staff and colleagues that way.) With writers, I’ve helped, I believe, five poets get published, and other writers have said things like “yours is the best feedback I’ve ever had” (from a published writer who had also achieved an MA Writing) even if my notes or conversation has not directly affected their chances of success. Similar things have come from working with prose writers – though my credentials here are less solid than in poetry, of course.

Several people have suggested I should set myself up as a professional mentor for writers. Certainly I’ve relevant experience, expertise and reasonable credentials and I haven’t yet spent time with a writer who hasn’t felt it’s been worthwhile for them (too many negatives in that sentence, but I guess it’s clear enough). I’ve excellent critical abilities (on everyone’s work except my own, it seems), decent teaching/support skills, reasonable communication and interpersonal skills (though I know some in my family who’d disagree with that!), lots of publications of different kinds, editorial and review experience – and so on.

But, if I did set myself up professionally, it’d probably feel exploitative. If a writer wants a mentor, then they believe they can be more successful, or more capable, than they currently are. But I’m a very minor poet and my own successes are pretty small (there are lots of them, but that’s not the same thing – that could be a measure of persistence as much as talent). Given my own level of achievement, isn’t there an implication that I could only help people achieve what I’ve managed – and no more (else why don’t I do it?) And those who need mentoring are, pretty much by definition, hopeful but less experienced, capable up to a point, but perhaps not capable enough, so wouldn’t I merely be helping them to be mediocre?

I’ve taught community writing workshops, for example, where the key desires of everyone sitting round the table are (a) to be told their work is wonderful (b) to get the approval of someone they trust/admire/believe in and (c) to be published. Not necessarily in that order. A mentor, then, for many writers could merely be gratifying those desires, without actually developing the writer in any real sense – and perhaps even, in extremis, fostering writerly ambitions in someone who has little hope of real development or success.

It’d be a risk, then, both for the mentee and the mentor. My question is: are there ways to protect against this, for both parties?

One idea I had was to suggest to one writer that I’d take no fee, merely a percentage of any royalty. She wouldn’t have that and, in fact, paid me a fee well in excess of what I felt I deserved (although, to be fair, I had provided a detailed critique of each of about 80 poems) and probably more than she’ll earn in royalties for the book that resulted. This puts all the financial risk on the mentor, but not the emotional or psychological risk.

Another might be to have an initial low-key, low cost exploratory period. I’m a strong believer in the notion that the mentee must choose a mentor who suits them – it’s a bit like counselling, in some ways, which can be “objective” and “non-directive” at one extreme, but is often most useful when there’s a decent personal relationship established at some level between the two parties. This means, therefore, that the mentee has to be given a decent chance to figure out if the mentor is a decent bet.

Another is that the mentor should insist on only working with people whose work she or he sees potential in. I have been in the position of mentoring someone whose work, in my view, really was never going to reach the quality they wanted to reach. I think I could put my finger on why, but I wasn’t able to figure out how to remedy it (if you like, you could call it a fundamental lack of key talents – but can they not be acquired?) I was able to help this person publish a little, where they’d not previously succeeded, so they’d moved some steps up the ladder they wanted to reach the top of, but I felt I would be misleading them if I suggested they’d actually be able to achieve their key ambitions.

Yet, if you tell someone that (and no matter how careful or provisional you are in saying it) there can be only two possible outcomes. Perhaps they believe you, and so their ambitions are wrecked. If I ever truly believed that I wasn’t ever going to succeed as a writer (I say such negative things as temporary self-doubt, but usually get through it) I’d be almost as heart-broken as if I’d lost the love of my life. Truly.

Or perhaps they don’t believe you. In which case, they’re either deluded, doomed to a career of failure, misery and rejection; or you are, in which case, what price your vaunted critical talents now? (And, either way, the relationship between mentor and mentee is irrevocably broken).

I think there’ll be more on this topic in a later post. But your guess is as good as mine about when that might be…


Although only the second issue of this magazine, it’s already looking like one to watch. I’ve been lucky enough to have a poem included this time round, rubbing shoulders with such excellent poets as Mario Petrucci, Fiona Sampson and Matthew Sweeney. Click on my name on the poetry page to find my poem, The Garden Run. The poems are here.

THW also contains some excellent reviews. I’m particularly pleased to see a great review by Martin Malone of my good friend Wendy Klein’s Mood Indigo, a lovely book which I had a small influence upon in editing.


Like many bloggers, my enthusiasm seems to have waned. Which is odd, really, as blogging is really self-publicity, self-expression, which almost everyone seems to want to indulge in. It’s rarely an attempt at real communication, trying to reach a real audience with something meaningful, and much more often a diaristic record, as if every voice must be heard, even if it has nothing to say.

I discovered I had nothing to say, so for over a year, haven’t said it – and I suspect this return to blogdom will be sporadic, at best. I intend now to use the site to continue to record my writing activities – and successes, if and when they occur – but I think its main purpose is, like most journals, to enable me to talk to myself. If there happen to be eavesdroppers in the Interweb who hear/read some of my musings, I’ll be pleased, of course, but I can’t really pretend that I’m writing for them.

I’m now retired as an academic, and I’m hoping to give more energy to writing, which has been significantly lacking since March 2014, when Out of Breath came out. So I’ve begun a small campaign of getting published again. It always interests me which poems succeed (and which do not, of course), particularly where they come from and where they end up. Of the poems I’ve succeeded with so far this year, “Almost a climb” was written when I was studying my MA, “Lady of the Mercians” (2009) and “Return to Kabul, 1990” as part of my work on Women and Warfare as Resident Poet at Bank Street Arts (2010), “Overgrown” came from a Poetry Business workshop, “The Garden Run” and “Gennel” from my sequence prompted by my brother’s death (2014), “The Gorgon Tree” a failed entry in an ekphrastic competition (2008, I think),  “Ring of Echoes” from a sequence prompted by a conversation with a visual artist, “A sedge of herons” from my “A Field Trip to Andromeda” sequence, “Byland Yew” from a sketch made at Byland Abbey, when I was too exhausted to walk the ruins with my companions, “Throstle” from a walk along Burbage Moor (west of Sheffield), “GPS” and “Ordinary love” from imaginative reflections on excursions with my wife (both these poems are linked to real events, but don’t report them with any veracity).

The most recent poem of mine to appear, “Fallen Flowers”, is a slightly odd affair. Prompted by  my habitual walk down from Psalter Lane, where I worked, homeward, down Bannerdale Road, which is lined with cherry trees, launching their blossoms into the May winds, I was struck, as sometimes I am, by the terror of the beautiful. These glories pass. It doesn’t matter how deep your love, how intense your passion, it will fade, disappear, die. I’m struck in the gut sometimes by this realisation – yes, I overthink things, but this is a fear in my heart and blood. The poem moves in strange, associative way, wanting to find the innocence and security of childhood again, to protect against this dismay. It can’t reconcile the rush of the power of the beautiful with the horror of uncertainty it always implies.