Spotlight On Ian Duhig

Ian Duhig was our guest lecturer in October.

Ian has won the National Poetry Competition - twice. His forthcoming book,
The Blind Roadmaker, will be published by Picador in February 2016.

Two of Ian's poems were published in the Autumn 2015 edition of Poetry London  and an interview with him can be read in The Compass Magazine.

Wallflowers at Beverley
i.m. Mike Donaghy 

More instruments ring these walls than raised a roof
for God throughout all medieval Christendom;
stone arcades spring like dancers from the Minster floor,
keyed to their lord's calling-on song 'Da Mihi Manum'.

The Irish call the parchment drum this angel quiets
a bodhrán, though she lacks the ordinary beater:
Mike held his like a pen above the skin in wait,
counting on his own heart to inspire each tattoo.

But he might change to flute for quieter audiences,
bored without dancers' feet to ground his syncopation;
when he charmed them with Ruaidhrí Dall's 'Give Me Your Hand',
they applauded and rose to the dash of his playing —

so Mike's book Wallflowers notes offbeat theories:
that we're all God's three-dimensional handwriting
or how a pin's head really can stage angels' ceilidhs —
another made dance the mother of all languages;

then it gives all 'This Living Hand', Keats' last poem,
which dampens my skin like the touch of a felt mute.
I'll sit out this stone angel till she leaves her drum,
raises and plays something quick on an Irish flute.

© Ian Duhig

Spotlight on Bob Horne

Each month at Kulturá we feature one of our Open Mic poets on the blog.
September's Spotlight fell on Bob Horne.

 'Bob Horne has an MA in Poetry from Huddersfield University. He has been writing poems seriously for a couple of years and has a collection, Knowing My Place, coming out in 2016. He helps to organise Puzzle Hall Poets in Sowerby Bridge and regularly attends sessions of the Albert Poets in Huddersfield and Gaia Holmes's Igniting the Spark workshops at Dean Clough in Halifax. He has also started a small publishing concern, Calder Valley Poetry. Its first pamphlet is currently in preparation.

Bob has played in a rugby team which beat Wasps, hooked a West Indian fast bowler for six, and finished ahead of an Olympic gold medallist in a World Championship race.'

White-Tailed Eagle 

I cross the trackless Parph.
Behind me indifferent Atlantic waves
break along the length of Sandwood Bay,
with its red-haired mermaid,
its bearded sailor still knocking at night
on the windows of the broken bothy.
Beneath the dunes, shepherds say,
wrecks of longship and galleon
have been smothered for centuries.

Massive tussocks make for hard going.
I rest on my stick, face north
towards the oldest rocks there are
then nothing but cold seas
to the Pole and beyond.

Like a sheet of white shadow
close enough to disconcert
it climbs from the cottongrass,
iolaire sùil na grèine -
eagle of the sunlit eye -
smoulders for a moment,
still as a Stone Age carving,
until it rises, in its own time,
above this wilderness, the bay, the ocean,
leaves me at best
a fleck of a far-off star
whose gleam may never reach
this earth.

 © Bob Horne

Spotlight on Keith Hutson

Each month at Kulturá we feature one of our Open Mic poets on the blog.
August's Spotlight fell on Keith Hutson.















Keith has written for Coronation Street and many well-known comedians. Since starting to submit his poetry a couple of years ago, he's been in several journals including The Rialto, The North, Butcher's Dog, Pennine Platform, and has work forthcoming in Stand, The Interpreter's House and Magma. This year he won a Poetry Business Yorkshire Prize, judged by Billy Collins. Keith used to co-edit the online journal Hinterland, and he runs a creative writing class at the Square Chapel in Halifax, where he also hosts the monthly WordPlay spoken word and music event. He delivers poetry and performance workshops for Children And The Arts (Prince's Trust). He coaches boxing too.

The Observer’s Book of Ships 

Wet again in Devon. Plastic macs
drip shallows on the café floor.
Everyone’s fed up, but facts are facts:
there’s no return, till after four,

to Mrs Frigate’s guesthouse. Someone
tells him not to slurp his milkshake –
can’t be done. Dad and Uncle aren’t on
speaking terms. Mum and Auntie fake

a smile, beaming at the pepper pot,
the rain hats on their laps, his egg
and chips. He’d like to raise a laugh, but
that’s not easy with your leg red

from a recent slap. The damp and heat
steam from his betters’ flattened hair,
casting family as an aging fleet
decked out in Co-op leisure wear.

There’s treasure in his pocket, untouched
till another pot of tea heaves
to. He shifts and fidgets just enough
to sneak it out and thumb the leaves

below the tablecloth. Nobody knows
he’s spent his spends, the lot, on one
compendium of tonnage, tankers, bows
and port sides, plimsoll lines and trim.

Hold hard me hearty until hammock-ho!
– safe waters for a boy’s delight
in flags and funnels, brig and ballast. Stow
that cargo! Keep it covered. Sail at night.

© Keith Hutson

Spotlight on Andrew Smith

Each month at Kulturá we feature one of our Open Mic poets on the blog.
July's Spotlight fell on Andrew Smith.


















Andrew is resident of Queensbury on the Halifax/Bradford border. A diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome at the age of 41 has not stopped him from pursuing a love of writing poetry, monologues and short stories. He is a regular performer on the Calderdale poetry circuit and combines his love of writing with a love of fell running.

I Run

Because the sun shines high in a clear blue sky

Because leaves rustle in the cooling breeze
Awaken sleepy birds from their daydream

Because dew raising through the morning mist
Moistens my dry lips and I can breathe again

Because the cat meows making the dog bark
And the mouse runs under the skirting board

Because the children play in parks and fields
Unaware that I am even there or even exist

Because the gravestones stand to attention in formation
All proudly displaying names, dates and family history

Because the artist does not care as he paints with madness
The blue sky black and the stream running into the sky

Because cars stop and start, go left, go right
Backwards and forwards in a multicolour ribbon of metal

Because they are there, everywhere I go, every single day
Every single night, wherever I go they are there

Because girls stand on street corners smoking and drinking
While boys ride motorbikes down back alleys

Because four walls encase me leaving me lifeless,
Soulless, motionless, breathing in stale air drenched with sweat
Through walls thick with yesterday’s newspaper headlines

Because every hour of every day it is there and I am here
Listening intently as it calls me constantly, never ending
Like a wolf howling in the night for me to come and kiss it
And feel its breath enter my body and touch my soul.

© Andrew Smith

Spotlight On Eileen Earnshaw

Each month at Kulturá we feature one of our Open Mic poets on the blog.
June's Spotlight fell on Eileen Earnshaw.

Eileen Earnshaw photograph by Pyramid Arts

Eileen is a Rochdale writer and poet who facilitates the Weaving Words Creative Writing Group at Rochdale Central Library and appears frequently at poetry and spoken word events across Lancashire and Yorkshire.  She is a leading member of Rochdale Co-operative Members Group and spearheaded the Reading The Century series of poetry projects and events to mark the Gallipoli Centenary.

Saddleworth Moor

The devil rides over Saddleworth Moor.
Rocks melt with the pain of his passing,
turn brackish, mud sucks, claggs, clings to trouser legs.
Trees are stunted, moss and lichen blackened.
Heather, lifeless lies in putrid swathes,
an infected haematoma.
Oblivious, the curlew calls,
sheep huddle close, draw warmth from each other,
lifting their heads, crying.

The devil rides over Saddleworth Moor,
thunder roars, pounces, valley to ridge
to bruised black clouds that strike
with electric intensity, pissing their contents
on sodden ground. Moor grime slides,
schemes its way into hearts, minds.
Sinews stiffen, muscles slacken, resolution dies.
There are no dreams on Saddleworth,
just desires that crash, burn in unseen chasms.

Visions, a childish form lost beneath the earth,
a wind that screams its agony
against evil, the cruelty of men.
The devil rides over Saddleworth Moor.
He has left his mark, diminished us.

© Eileen Earnshaw November 2014.

Spotlight on Rob Baylis

Each month at Kulturá we will feature one of our Open Mic poets on the blog. May's spotlight falls on Rob Baylis.

Rob Baylis

Rob has been a spasmodic poet since secondary school but has never tried to get his work published. He also had a song-writing period and won the first Cambridge Band contest in 1985 (see his 1 minute appearance on Whistle Test).

In recent years, Rob’s poetic spasms have increased to an almost constant flow on subjects ranging through nature, the landscape, the plight of food animals, climate change and his personal life. This is despite no formal background in literature or creative writing. His master’s degree is in environmental policy and he is a Chartered Environmentalist with a day job in public sector facilities management.

As one of the main organisers of the 2015 Alternatiba Todmorden Festival of climate alternatives, Rob conceived and undertook most of the organisation of the successful Poetic Alternatiba Todmorden event with five featured poets and popular open mic sessions.

Rob performs his poetry regularly at open mics in the Calder Valley. At May's Kulturá Rob read a number of poems including Ramsons.

Connect with Rob on Twitter: @leafn4give

Ramsons

When Wild Rose Dene weeps winter’s greasy sleep,
The waxing ramsons sketch their lips with jade
Star-white flowers burst like fireworks in the shade,
Their garlic breath teasing beneath the trees.

This springtime scent jigs rings around my feet:
A birthday gift to me, its lifetime slave,
To dry my dampened mood and make me brave
Enough for hurling stones at mind disease.

In June, the waning ramsons quit my food.
They could be back next year, but maybe not;
No more destined than a floating balloon.

This fool has searched outside to be amused,
But ramsons in my thoughts should never rot
Until I too have dropped, and been removed.

© Rob Baylis