The River Hull ... and poetry
I'm new to Hull, and sought life along the River Hull yesterday. Two anglers sat by a bridge listening to Talk Sport on the radio in between them, but I saw no signs of fish. Seagulls flocked in a bright white twist over an attached reservoir, and a single moorhen splashed into the rushes. Birds sang in the backyards of houses, but that was it for my nature study.
As a kid I used to keep a nature diary - 'hares boxing in field' etc, always something of note. I've not spotted a hare in a British field for decades.
As a kid I used to keep a nature diary - 'hares boxing in field' etc, always something of note. I've not spotted a hare in a British field for decades.
Poets from Hull, and my university colleagues to boot, shared a Philip Larkin Centre reading this week: Cliff Forshaw from his new collection Wake, and David Wheatley interspersing selections from his newly edited Samuel Beckett: Selected Poems and new works of his own. They have different reading styles: Cliff more oracular and performative, line-breaks clear in his recitation, a fusion of some grand old tradition of delivery and the new; David more subdued, faster, jocular. Both poets spread their interests wide, but both do gather Hull and the region into their work, in ways that give me hope that if I just walk a little further along that river, the natural world will startle me afresh.
(Poet photos by Inna Wagner)