Interview by Zoë Brigley
I think I write poetry by ear too, writing and rewriting lines repeatedly until they sound ‘right’ when I read them aloud
Mother and Child
Josef Herman, oil on canvas, c. 1945–50
Unhappy days for you, now, are few – yet this dull lunchtime seems to hang. On your iPad, you show me another email phishing scam, but this dispiritedness seems deeper. Rooted. Broad. The waiter places two bowls of soup between us without a word. A moment lingers, nimbus-heavy. Then, you set down the butter knife; through tears tell me how your therapist bored holes, summoned unwelcome aftershock. The thoughts dredged up this morning too unpalatable to simply swallow down. Roles reversed, I guess at what will offer comfort, stretch out a single hand. After lunch, we call to see the Miners. Joe Bach’s giants dusted off and out of storage. A favourite of our Saturday visits long ago, their dark expanse still steals a breath. The gallery is quiet, the towering miners forever mute. And in a dim corner, lit by lamplight, a mother and child clutch each other to their chests.
Could you tell us a bit more about the inspiration for this poem: Josef Herman’s painting?
When I was very young my mother would take me to the Glynn Vivian Art Gallery in Swansea, and my favourite artwork to see (alongside a papier-mâché automaton that reminded me of my grandfather) was Josef Herman’s ‘Miners’ (1951). Josef Herman was born in Warsaw in 1911 but was part of a generation of Jewish artists who left Poland to escape persecution during the Second World War and never returned. He lived in many other places in Europe but settled for a significant amount of time in the south Wales mining community of Ystradgynlais, which explains why so many of his paintings from that period feature coal miners. The people of Ystradgynlais embraced him, and this is also where he obtained his enduring nickname ‘Joe Bach’ (Little Joe). Herman’s six crouching miners from 1951 are huge, taking up six panels, and when I was young they were kept upstairs in a quiet corridor-like gallery. Unfortunately they’re no longer on permanent display at the Glynn Viv, but occasionally they do reappear as part of temporary exhibitions. As I say in the poem, the painting’s dark expanse still steals a breath from me when I see it – when I was young this reaction was purely based on the size of those gigantic miners resting in the darkness, but as an adult I’m sure there’s the ache of nostalgia at play too. However, despite the Miners’ personal significance to me and the fact that they are mentioned in the poem, it actually takes its title from another painting by Josef Herman: ‘Mother and Child’ (c. 1945–50).
I was intrigued by your use of 8 line stanzas. How do you decide as a writer which stanza length to use?
With a handful of exceptions, most of my poems come out as free verse. I’ve made attempts to write in stricter forms in the past but they just end up making my head hurt a bit. When I was growing up I played a few musical instruments but could only read a little music and mostly played by ear. I managed to keep the fact I couldn’t read music a secret from my family and teachers for a while, but then things began to fall apart when I started taking exams with sight-reading tests and began playing in orchestras. Eventually it caught up with me and at the end of school I was very relieved to be able to leave music behind. Soon after that I began writing poetry and I think I write poetry by ear too, writing and rewriting lines repeatedly until they sound ‘right’ when I read them aloud. Trying to write a sestina, for example, gives me that same feeling of brain fog that trying to read music used to. It could just be laziness – but the ‘writing by ear’ explanation sounds like a better excuse! Despite this, when I’m writing a free verse poem I always consider that famous Ezra Pound quote about no verse being ‘libre’ for the poet who wants to do a good job. The way I interpret that quote is that even a free verse poem must create and adhere to its own rules. Making sure my stanzas contain the same amount of lines is one of the ways that I try to avoid verbosity, keeping the poem as sharp as it can be. It isn’t always about stanzas though – in a different poem I might instead make sure each line is of a similar length, or that full stops appear at regular intervals. But whatever rules I decide to impose upon a poem, for me it really comes down to how it sounds when read aloud – which I suppose is my attempt to control (or guess) how it will be read by a reader. At home I tend to write with the door closed, so I can repeatedly read the poem aloud and make sure the rhythm feels right as it emerges.
I would like to hear a bit about the mother and child dynamic and how its symbolism is explored here.
Pre-pandemic I worked in an office in Swansea and would regularly meet my mother in a café opposite the Glynn Vivian on my lunch hour. If there was enough time after eating we’d call over to the gallery to have a look around, and this poem was born out of one of those occasions. I’m lucky to have a really strong relationship with my mother where we don’t shy away from speaking about difficult things we’re going through. A few years ago my mother was experiencing a tough period in her life and things bubbled over when I met her one lunch hour. I think it’s really healthy and important to be able to discuss the state of your mental health with someone you love, but still sometimes it can’t help but feel a little odd to have that parent-child relationship of your younger years ‘reversed’ when it comes to consoling a parent, or offering them potential solutions or advice. The dynamic between a parent and their adult child is such an interesting one to consider – in many ways you’re now equals, but you also can’t escape the fact that one has raised the other. After we finished lunch that day we went to the Glynn Viv and found there was a temporary exhibition of Josef Herman’s work, including the beloved ‘Miners’ of my childhood. To amplify the atmosphere of Herman’s paintings the gallery room itself was darkened, with only small lamps lighting each piece. In the corner of the room was a painting I’d never seen before, a portrait of a mother and infant child. Initially it looks as if the mother is the one protecting or comforting the child, clutching them to her chest, but upon closer inspection the child is clutching back. I saw it as a depiction of mutual dependence, the circular love that can exist between parents and children. Seeing that painting was the beginning of this poem – without it I would never have considered putting this intimate moment between my mother and I on paper, but the meaningful coincidence felt too strong to ignore. Of course I was conscious of sharing someone else’s story and them possibly not wanting me to, so before the poem was published I sent it to my mother to check she was OK with it being out in the world. She’s in an infinitely better place now and saw the poem as a happy reminder of how significantly her life has changed in just a few short years. That addendum isn’t obvious when you read the poem on its own, but for those who do I hope it still serves as a reminder that there will always be someone out there who is willing to listen, even if they aren’t exactly sure what to say back.