This weeks Poem of the Week is 'Book End' by Jonathan Humble, a quietly powerful, timeless piece of poetry that focuses on the slow disintegration of a life outside the public library. With its strong use of metaphor and melancholy the poem reminds us that we are all mortal, a collection of memories like chapters of a book. A piece that, like all the best poetry, offers a different experience each time it is read.

 

Below, Jonathan answers our Q&A.

 

Congratulations on winning Poem of the Week for a third time. Can you tell us something about the background to this poem?

The effect of decline in mental ability due to illness and/or age is something I’ve become increasingly aware of as I’ve got older. Dementia in different forms has affected a number of relatives and acquaintances recently and it is a particularly cruel affliction for those involved, especially anyone who witnesses loved ones in this situation. I have discovered that dementia support groups do a wonderful job improving the quality of life of those with the range of neurological disorders linked with the condition. Anything that I could do to highlight problems associated with the issue felt like a useful and worthwhile thing.

 

Your blog reveals that you will soon be retiring as a teacher.  Do you hope/ expect that it will give you more time for poetry? Might you still like to be involved in some way in encouraging children to enjoy poetry?

At the end of this term, I am reducing my teaching commitment to two days a week. Next September, the time I’ll have to myself, I hope to be able to use to develop my own poetry. Part of this plan was also to try to get out into a wider range of schools with the idea of delivering poetry workshops and encouraging children to work on their own poems, free of the ridiculous constraints imposed upon creativity by the current focus/overkill in the primary curriculum on grammar (as dictated by Gove in 2014). If this doesn’t happen, I still harbour the slight hope that the Tripe Marketing Board (publishers of my light poetry collection “My Camel’s Name Is Brian”) will use part of their vast financial resources to send me on a world tour as a goodwill ambassador.  

 

You are based in Cumbria, which many would regard as a particularly inspirational place to write about. Do you write about it much? Are you a poet of place?

I have written a number of poems inspired by the landscape and wildlife of Cumbria. I feel massively privileged to have lived here for over thirty years. The local poetry scene is vibrant, with many opportunities for aspiring poets to get involved: The Kendal Poetry Festival and The Mountain Literary Festival have become highlights of my year and, because of my involvement in the Handstand Press Anthology of Cumbrian Poetry, I will be involved in the forthcoming Norman Nicholson Festival in Millom in June.

Having said that, before I came here, I lived in an industrial area of Yorkshire and still feel moved occasionally to produce stuff linked with my childhood in Goole. Goole and Kendal are poles apart, but I feel equally tied emotionally to both, so perhaps I am a poet of places.

 

Are there any new, younger poets that have caught your eye/ear in the last year or two?

Kim Moore works with a brilliant group of young poets who meet in Kendal (fortnightly, I think). My daughter was involved in these workshops and performed her poetry alongside others in the group at events where wonderful poets such as Helen Mort, Ian McMillan, Clare Shaw, Ian Duhig, Liz Berry and Wayne Holloway-Smith were headlining. I believe that under Kim’s guidance and the opportunity of rubbing shoulders with poets of brilliance, the Dove Cottage Young Poets (Hannah Hodgson, Florence Jones, Squiddy Latham, Matthew Sowerby, Em Humble and others) will include names that become well-known in poetry circles as the years progress.

 

 

Book End

by Jonathan Humble

 

Lost in an oversized raincoat, she sits outside the library;

an old book, out of print in a dog eared dust cover.

 

Through thick prescription glass, puddles ripple

with memories leaking in the autumn rain,

 

spreading as oil dripping from a rusty sump;

time worn colours swirling away in a wet breeze.

 

Jaw set, head tilted, she tries to stem the flow,

but the past slips and she drifts beyond the familiar.

 

Untethered thoughts escape, leaving the emptiness

of shelves where once a life’s collection had been,

 

and while damp pages are ripped from random chapters,

a life story is pulped on a Tuesday afternoon.