The hand of stars

We’re very proud to share a film made by one of our poets, Hazel Hammond, who is recovering from aphasia, following a stroke in 2019. (Aphasia is an impairment of language, which affects both active and passive language, as well as the ability to read and write, after an injury.)

Hazel says she’s no longer a poet as she struggles to find the words, but having worked with poets who use British Sign Language, we believe that poetry has a wider definition than many people think. We’re really looking forward to seeing Hazel progress along on this different poetry path, using her wonderful art.

The Watching Place

Beetor cross

This is Beetor Cross on Dartmoor. It’s on the B3212 that crosses the moor from Moretonhampstead to Yelverton. It’s also known as The Watching Place, and there are several stories in circulation as to why this might be the case.

The first is that it was the haunt of a highwayman called John Fall, whose speciality was leaping out at his victims and taking them by surprise. Then there’s the theory that it marked the point beyond which French and American officers on parole from Dartmoor prison during the Napoleonic wars and living in Moretonhampstead were not permitted to proceed. Or that in mediaeval times it was the site of the gallows, where relatives or friends of the condemned person would watch and wait for permission from the Lord of the Manor to cut down the corpse.

My favourite story is that the name dates back to an outbreak of plague in 1626, which was spread by soldiers and sailors travelling between Barnstaple and Plymouth via the Mariner’s Way. Some of the inhabitants of a settlement called Puddaven, near Beetor Cross, were afflicted, and as they were no longer able to care for themselves, every evening neighbours placed provisions for them on a flattish stone at some distance from the house. They would then retreat to wait and watch. If the food was removed, fresh supplies would be left the following day. On the fifth day no one came and the food stayed where it was, so the neighbours understood that the last survivor had died. So, having approached the house, with no response to their shouts, the neighbours set fire to the thatch and burnt it down in the hope that this would stop the plague spreading further. From this time, it is said, the area became known as the Watching Place.

Something about this old story, the solidarity shown by neighbours during a time of great fear and uncertainty, lifted it above its rivals and prompted me to start writing a story of my own. As part of my research, I read all the folklore I could connected with the moor, and found several other stories associated with outbreaks of plague.

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Notably, there was the story told about Merrivale by the celebrated chronicler of Dartmoor, William Crossing, who recalls that the area of Bronze Age relics on Longash Common was once known as Plague Market, the tradition being that during outbreaks of plague at Tavistock, food would be left there by moor folk for townspeople to collect.


And another that attaches itself to sites all over the country, but on Dartmoor to the ruins below Hound Tor: that the mediaeval village was abandoned during the Black Death. I visited and was moved not just by the deaths of the villagers but by the detail of their lives also, such as the fact they built their houses into the side of a hill, with livestock housed in the shippon at the lower end, and a gully cut to drain the slurry, and the step leading up into the cramped communal sleeping chamber.

And I read and wrote, and wrote and read, and after seven years there was a coming-of-age novel, and after a few more years, during which it sat on my laptop while I wrote poetry, and won a prize to have a collection published, it finally emerged into a largely oblivious world under my publishers’ Tamar Books imprint.


I picked up a copy the other day and read the back. Swine flu … avian flu … SARS … We are frequently warned of imminent, drug-resistant pandemics. But what is it really like to wait for the end of the world? Then I opened it and flicked through. Social distancing. Self-isolation. It’s all in there, centuries before these practices were formally identified and their names coined.

There’s even a scene involving frenetic hand washing, though no emphasis on that as a way of avoiding infection, because my characters, stuck in 1349, wouldn’t have known that. And besides it’s fleas they should mostly have been avoiding.


Every day on Twitter there are countless stories of selflessness, bravery and idiocy surrounding Covid-19, and I’m reminded again and again that while pandemics come and go, and technology and medical treatments improve, people are essentially the same as they’ve always been. We’re all in the Watching Place now, and I feel a renewed closeness to characters that were such a big part of my life for so long.

If you’d like to read an extract of ‘Dart’, please click on this link.

Cover illustration and map by Dru Marland


This blog was first published on The Red Dress of Poetry.




Making something of the situation

Poets are natural hoarders. They understand the importance of memories to the process of writing, and stockpile them for when a future poem might demand the inclusion of, say, a complicit glance, an unexpected gift, or the fall of sunlight through a woodland glade thirty years earlier.

The restrictions placed upon outdoor activity by COVID-19 means that everyone will now be ransacking their reserves, falling back on memories of loved ones, favourite walks and landscapes, past holidays in distant places, to get through these lean times.

And once we’ve exhausted the highlights, it will be the mundane that sustains us. The memory of a bottle of glue in a Christmas stocking, the luxury of using it for sticking pictures in your scrapbook. Carefully stabbing open the slit on the red rubber top with the sharp point of a pair of scissors. Turning it upside down and dabbing it hard on a bit of paper to get the glue flowing. And when it was all used up, the disappointment of going back to the gloop of your mother’s homemade flour and water paste – its squidginess between the stuck down picture and the page, the inevitable damp wrinkles, the speed with which it congealed in its jam jar.

We all have the wherewithal to get through this time. It starts between our ears. It turns into words on a page, a drawing filling a blank piece of paper, the rise and fall of notes on suddenly cleaner, quieter air. Don’t say you can’t make something of this situation. You can.

A Perfect Circle

A Perfect Circle is from Deborah’s fourth poetry collection, The Shadow Factory. More poems from this collection can be read here on the Indigo Dreams website.

This blog was first published on The Red Dress of Poetry.


Poets, Poetry and Politics: Some thoughts on the writing of political poetry


‘Politicians deal with issues; poets deal with epiphanies.’ John Agard

 What can we do – in these times of political, social and environmental crisis on both a national and an international scale – to address the urgent issues before us? ‘It is the duty of all poets, everywhere and at all times, to be dissident members of the permanent opposition,’ says Cork Poet, Theo Dorgan, and indeed, there are many poets who feel they have no choice but to embrace the political in their poetry, to take a side in the conflicts between the powerful and the powerless, the oppressor and the oppressed, and to raise a voice in and against a culture of silence.

Some poets see no division between poetry and politics. Power is generally reactionary and dehumanising and the poet, seeking to be fully human and writing for the just cause, is always on the other side. Chinua Achebe, who wrote extensively about the Nigerian Biafran war, pointed out that language itself is riddled with politics, prejudices and privilege: ‘Language is not neutral. It’s very much a political tool. It’s charged with prejudices. So, a poet who says “I’m not in politics” is not being realistic’. And for the Malawian poet, Jack Mapanje, there is no separating poetry and politics except from a position of privilege: ‘I consider the division often made between politics and poetry to be thin and contrived … Separating them is a luxury. Literature is about life.’

However, politics holds many temptations and traps for the unwary poet. Indeed, some find the relationship between poets, poetry and politics problematic or even dangerous. They might claim that political poetry is boring, or a contradiction in terms; that it’s propaganda, not poetry; that poets shouldn’t write what they don’t feel as their own; or that it attracts poets who lack self-awareness, whose motives are suspect.

The first objection is certainly familiar to anyone who goes to poetry and spoken word nights. One problem is that all too often poets start by stating the obvious and fail to deviate from that position. We’ve all seen the poet who gets up on the stage, adopts a declamatory tone and stance, says how much he or she hates a particular political figure, for example, often to a laugh of recognition, and then continues, for another three minutes, to say the same thing over and over again. He or she isn’t really engaging with poetry at all. No insightful or unusual connections are made and nothing new is being created in the mind of the audience members, who are merely listening to an iteration of their own conviction. Yet the American poet James Tate said ‘What we want from poetry is to be moved, to be moved from where we now stand. We don’t just want to have our ideas or emotions confirmed.’

This pitfall isn’t just confined to poems about politicians. The American poet, professor and critic Mark Halliday wrote: ‘I would never tell students “Don’t write about a political issue, or a disaster in the world, or evil.” But I would say let’s be aware that everyone in this room is against torture, everyone in this room is against the molestation of children – so to write expressing that moral view is going to be very boring.’

The American poets, W S Merwin and Robert Wrigley, both take issue with the danger of straying into the realm of dogma. Merwin was firmly of the opinion that the poet’s political conviction would not lead to the writing of poetry. ‘You start from the wrong place with political poetry,’ he said, ‘because you start by knowing too much, and so what you’re likely to write is propaganda.’  His fellow American poet and educator, Robert Wrigley, went into more detail: ‘My sense of poems, be they anti-war or pro-diversity, is that the poem’s motive is not something I can often know in advance, if it’s going to be any good. The poem needs to find its own way, it needs to take me along toward where it wants to go.’

With regard to poets not writing about what they don’t feel as their own, we would do well to heed Seamus Heaney, who was determined not to be used by any side during the Troubles, but to write the real as he understood it. In doing so, he kept safe not only his own integrity but the heart and the meaning of poetry: ‘There is no use coming to poets, either in Soviet Russia or northern Ireland, and expecting or ordering them to deliver a certain product to fit a certain agenda, for although they must feel answerable to the world they inhabit, poets, if they are to do their proper work, must also feel free.’ And if you think there’s not much difference between writing a good or a poor political poem than there is between writing any other good or poor poem, Michael Longley has this for you: ‘A bad poem is bad enough, but a bad poem about something as big as the [Ulster] Troubles is an impertinence and an offence.’

As for the final objection to political poetry, Judith Kitchen cautioned against the dangers of confusing cause with self. ‘It’s all too typical for contemporary poets to write as if they assume that the social importance of what they advocate – justice for women, the environment, the poor, etc. – gives importance to the self-identity of the poet, as if suffering can be borrowed.’ And Jayanta Mahapatra warned of the peril for the poet of the loss of humility: ‘A great danger we encounter, as poets away from direct participation in the affairs of the community, is that we take ourselves easily as the guardians of moral purity. I can always proclaim: Politics is dirty and the government is corrupt, but I as a poet am clean; my aims are beyond reproach. This… leads to a sort of vanity in the poet, an arrogance.’

So, is it possible to write political poetry that’s more than propaganda, more than the banging of a tired old drum? That’s not just a gobby, shallow, second cousin to another kind of cliché? The poet, David Constantine, says it is: ‘Poetry has in it, in its rhythms, its variousness, its contradictoriness, indeed in its beauty, an intrinsic power of revolt’ but then adds, ‘which the poet forfeits if he reduces the poem to the expression of a cause.’ A poet, then, reducing a poem to the expression of a cause has forgotten who she is and all she knows, forgotten her art and her craft, forgotten the power of poetry, what poetry can do, its possibilities.

We can agree that a good poem sits well on the page, and that its form is appropriate to its content. When you read it out loud, you’ll want to read it again because it sounds so good and it’s a pleasure to read. And it affects you emotionally, and at the same time it makes you think. And it gets physical with you. It’s well-crafted but subtly so, it doesn’t stink of craft, the different elements don’t detract from the whole but sing in unison, seductively. And it’s not an exercise in making a poem that works but is a bit dull really. There’ll be lines you’ll want to share and talk about with your friends, images that bring your imagination to life, you’ll take pleasure in its rhythms, you’ll want to copy it out, you’ll want to learn it by heart. It will fascinate you. It will feel like the mothership calling you home. It will make you want to go home, quickly, to write.

With a political poem the biggest problem, arguably, is the militant tendency of knowing before you begin what you think, and what you feel, and how (or why) that doesn’t change by the time you believe the poem’s written. As Nick Laird said: ‘You can’t write a political poem if it’s just about politics.’ So the main challenge for poets writing political poetry would seem to be to write about more than politics. This might include writing poems in which the politics is located not so much in the surface content but in the deeper meaning of the poem and the effect it has on the reader and audience.

The South African poet Gabeba Baderoon once told me that during Apartheid, poets in South African were united in writing poetry rooted in the political struggle for liberation. After the fall of Apartheid an argument developed about the future direction of poetry in the country. Some felt that the ending of Apartheid  was just one stage in the struggle and that the straight down the line approach to poetry for liberation should be maintained; others, meanwhile, argued for a broadening of the definition of ‘politics’ and ‘struggle’ and the role of poetry, to include, in particular, the personal.

Gabeba Baderoon was in the latter camp and went to work with Palestinian women, collecting and writing with them poems about their love lives. She said that before someone can define another as an enemy, and before they can kill, rape, torture and rob, etc, they must first dehumanise the other, turn people into things. But if they know someone’s love stories, it’s not possible to deny their humanity; they have to acknowledge that the harm they are doing they are doing to people, to human beings.

I recently heard Frome-based poet Shauna Robertson read a poem titled: Baking, & Aleppo that inventively and skilfully intercuts lines from an article in The Guardian about the war in Syria with a BBC website recipe for gingerbread men. It’s a striking and original poem. It sounded to me, as she read it, like someone cooking and following a recipe whilst listening to the news report on the radio. The interplay of the news and the recipe works effectively on a number of different levels; not least, it continually surprises the reader/audience and breaks up the familiar expectation that would be experienced were you listening to only the war report. This cuts through our (unconscious) defences and restores to the report its capacity to shock. It also captures the sadness and impotence we feel, safe in our kitchens, about wars so many miles away.


Baking, & Aleppo

Shauna Robertson


Shops were shuttered. Twisted tanks

and toppled buses blocked intersections.

The few people left on the city’s empty streets

sift together the flour, bicarbonate of soda.


These were the first days of August 2012.

Cinnamon and two teaspoons of ground ginger

scurried past with their heads down

and pour into the bowl of a food processor.


A heat haze shimmered over the road ahead,

add the butter, shrouding first an abandoned

army barracks then ransacked, smouldering factories

and blend until the mix looks like breadcrumbs.


The Syrian flags had been machine-gunned.

Copper bullet casings stir in the sugar.

Families had fled the area just hours before,

like confetti on rubbish-strewn pavements.

We drove past a hospital that rebel groups

were busy commandeering, lightly beat the egg.

The crackle of rifle fire, the thump of artillery

mix in the golden syrup and add to the food processor.


Troops and rebels gouged holes in the walls

of narrow-packed homes to use as rat-runs.

Pulse until the mixture clumps together.

Dressed in dishdashas with ammunition belts


strapped across their chests, a small number

of Islamic fighters had come to tip out the dough.

Knead briefly, wrap in cling-film and leave to chill.

As the ranks of the jihadists grew, line two baking trays


with greaseproof paper. Preheat the oven to 180C.

The rebels slowly thinned on a lightly floured surface.

Scud missiles rained down on the city, roll the dough out flat

and using cutters, press out the gingerbread men shapes.


As we stepped through the remains, cooking pots – some

full of food – sat on stove tops and laundry hung on rails.

The intimate worlds of communities once going about their days

and place on the baking tray, leaving a gap between them.


Husbands, fathers, sons and cousins bake until lightly golden-brown.

Islamic State was now in charge. Move to a wire rack to cool.

The front of the eye hospital was painted black. On a small ledge,

a dead infant girl. Add icing, edible glitter. Hundreds and thousands.



Note: Baking, & Aleppo is a collaged, found poem using text borrowed from two sources: A news article, Ground down by savagery – the agony of Aleppo, by Martin Chulov, The Guardian, 12 October 2016; and a recipe: Gingerbread men, BBC Food. Both are freely available in the public domain at and respectively

Political poetry quotes: Curtis, T. (ed) (1997) AS THE POET SAID… Poetry Pickings and Choosings from Dennis O’Driscoll’s Poetry Ireland Review Column. Poetry Ireland, Ltd. Dublin

This article, by Colin Brown and Deborah Harvey, was first published in issue 8 of the poetry magazine Raceme, autumn/winter 2019

Illustrations © Dru Marland

mine at last



The Shadow Factory


The arrival and ritual opening of a box of newly published books is always an exciting moment. And this time we were especially pleased to see that the printers had padded the cargo with paper rather than bubble wrap.

The Shadow Factory is our Deb’s fourth poetry collection from Indigo Dreams Publishing, and its evocative title is straight out of her childhood in 1960s Bristol. ‘As a young girl I was fascinated by the rollsign of the 98 bus that gave its destination as The Shadow Factory,’ she explains, ‘but as the stop we had to get off at came before the terminus, I never got to see it, and an intimation of certain disappointment prevented me from asking what was made there. As a result, The Shadow Factory became a warehouse of wishes and unrealised dreams, a metaphor for life and death, and eventually this collection of poems that explore childhood, memory and the twilight of those household gods we call parents.’

Other poets have had complimentary things to say about our new addition.

Pascale Petit, who awarded the poem Oystercatchers 1st prize in the 2018 Plough Prize Short Poem competition says: Every word is weighted. Although nothing is explicit, something important is being enacted, and the epigraph by Camus adds an anchor, so that we guess his are the words being taken to the sea and released from the heart. I kept coming back to this and getting more from it.’

And in her sensitive review, poetry film maker and novelist Lucy English says ‘The desire to find a place which is ‘not a leisurely stroll from the ice cream van,’ is a strong theme in this collection. [Harvey] comments on the natural world as if this, and not human life is the greater force … Landscape, animals and birds have an intrinsic beauty which she describes with care.’

To read a selection of the poems from The Shadow Factory, please click here.