The new Write Out Loud Poem of the Week is ‘Great White Heron’ by Chris Hubbard. The poem is about a heron seen in the Loire valley in France, but is also about eagles circling above. In his responses to our questions Chris nominated “the natural world” as his best source of inspiration “in all its majesty and intricacy”. Chris is an Englishman who now lives in Perth, Australia. It is the second time that he has had a Poem of the Week.

 

Is poetry an important part of your life and can you remember when and why it became so?

Poetry is certainly an important part of my life, and has been for something like twenty-three years (1994). I was starting a bachelor degree in social sciences in that year, and included a unit on creative writing almost on a whim. I was hooked on poetry from that point on. I found I enjoyed it for the creative freedom it gave me, and as a foil for the heavy lifting of my degree major units. I just found poetry exhilarating in a way that my other creative activities (oil painting and sketch portraiture) did not approach. There was also the slightly daunting aspect of exposing one's inner life to the big bad world; "flying without a safety net", if you like.

 

If you could only have one poet’s work to read (desert island book) which one would you choose and why?

My desert island book would have to be Dante's Divine Comedy, especially in Clive James' new translation, which I have dipped into recently and enjoyed. There are few truly transformative works of literature, and this is one of those few.

 

How do you think your poetry style has changed since you started writing?

I do think my poetry style has become more eclectic over the years, as well as being more self-assured, which is to be expected I suppose, if only as a result of the amount of practice I have given myself!

 

Do you perform your work and if so, what advice would you give to other young poets like yourself just starting out? If not would you like to in the future?

I have performed my poetry a grand total of once. This was my other POTW work ‘Lost’ at the Northbridge Cafe here in Perth. I was really nervous at the time - unusual for an ex-university lecturer, I suppose, but that's a measure of the effort I put into each poem I write. By the way, I'm no spring chicken at the ripe old age of 64. More of the same is in my "to do" list, although my travel itineraries have so far put a big crimp in this aspiration. I will be doing ‘Great White Heron’ for certain at the same venue.

My advice to young poets starting out is just to give it a go. Many people are scared rigid by the prospect of talking to groups of people on a stage and behind a microphone, but I can guarantee that the process is relatively painless, and also ego-boosting to boot. I remember reading a quotation from William Carlos Williams, essentially urging aspiring poets to ignore the rigidity of formal or accepted ”poetical” forms and to set their art free.

 

What inspires you most when gathering material for new poetry?

My inspiration comes from many sources, of course, but I would nominate the natural world in all its majesty and intricacy as top of the tree (pun intended!). Needless to say, I will always put off what I'm doing when a David Attenborough documentary is coming on.

 

 

GREAT WHITE HERON

by Chris Hubbard

 

A great white heron struts through

tangled water meadows

in search of boneless morsels:

 

eyes fixed, silent in stealth,

its dagger-beak sudden

doom for fry and fingerlings;

 

now stops, stretches shuddering,

lifts alabaster wings asplay,

and springs in air,

 

stick-legs dangling, describes

a leaping spiral, its neck retracted

in an 'S' of disdain;

 

indifferent to hungry

short-toed eagles,

gliding above, silently.

 

Below, on the damp reed-bed's

prospect, made jagged by sedges

and smoothed by quiet waters,

 

the big white bird alights as

day falters; becomes

by degrees a shadow puppet,

 

intricately displayed as

a rich screen silhouette

by the brief and falling sun;

 

the wide Vienne at Chinon,

for a moment a dimmed backdrop

to une ombre chinoise.

 

On its darkling concrete banks

human predators stir, quietly

fingering dagger-blades,

 

seem to hunt their prey

for an evening feed,

shrinking from last light

 

as eagle-eyed gendarmes

pick out a crouching figure

on a grassy levee:

 

torch lights, shouted orders;

another boneless morsel

in the bag.