À PROPOS DE CET ÉPISODE
In a corner of a farmyard, a rusty harrow, a worn-out plough, and a stone roller have vanished under nettles for years. Most poets would mourn that. Edward Thomas doesn't. In eight quiet lines, written during the war that would kill him within months, he simply confesses a preference: "This corner of the farmyard I like most." No metaphor, no lesson, no grief. Just liking, stated plainly.
Thomas came to poetry late, at thirty-six, after Robert Frost urged him to set his own prose out in lines. He wrote nearly 140 poems in two years before enlisting, and was killed at Arras in April 1917..
Alden then takes us to Simonsbath, deep on Exmoor, where in 1818 a wealthy ironmaster named John Knight tried to turn an entire wild moor into farmland — a twenty-nine-mile wall, roads, farmsteads, a failed mine. Two centuries on, the moor is quietly undoing all of it, unhurried and without malice.
The discussion asks why so much craft advice insists a poem must earn its subject through history, cost, or meaning — and what it would mean to write, instead, about something you simply like, for no reason you can name.
This is the final Somerset episode before the podcast moves to North Yorkshire next week.
Email a guest poem suggestion to aldencarrow78@gmail.com to enter the draw for a signed copy of Somerset In Verse — Exmoor To Levels In Poetry, sent by hand. Also available on Amazon.
New episodes every Wednesday at 6am.
Thomas came to poetry late, at thirty-six, after Robert Frost urged him to set his own prose out in lines. He wrote nearly 140 poems in two years before enlisting, and was killed at Arras in April 1917..
Alden then takes us to Simonsbath, deep on Exmoor, where in 1818 a wealthy ironmaster named John Knight tried to turn an entire wild moor into farmland — a twenty-nine-mile wall, roads, farmsteads, a failed mine. Two centuries on, the moor is quietly undoing all of it, unhurried and without malice.
The discussion asks why so much craft advice insists a poem must earn its subject through history, cost, or meaning — and what it would mean to write, instead, about something you simply like, for no reason you can name.
This is the final Somerset episode before the podcast moves to North Yorkshire next week.
Email a guest poem suggestion to aldencarrow78@gmail.com to enter the draw for a signed copy of Somerset In Verse — Exmoor To Levels In Poetry, sent by hand. Also available on Amazon.
New episodes every Wednesday at 6am.
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RECHERCHER LES ÉPISODES PASSÉS
Rechercher les épisodes précédents de Alden Carrow's Poetry Podcast.
AUTRES ÉPISODES DANS CE PODCAST
What turns a ledger into a home? This week, we explore the space between a posting and a place—between empire's measurement and the small, unmeasured things that root us to somewhere for good.
We begin with Rudyard Kipling's Roman Centurion's Song—a centurion recalled to Rome after forty years in …
What do a Victorian priest praising a spotted cow and a wind-scoured Somerset hilltop have in common? Everything doesn't have to match to hold together.
We begin in Wales, 1877, with Gerard Manley Hopkins's Pied Beauty—ten and a half lines praising the dappled, the "counter, original, spare, stran…
What do you do with the most mythologised hill in England, when your own poem refuses to mention the myth at all?
We begin with the legend at full volume: Tennyson's Avalon, from The Passing of Arthur—an island where "falls not hail, or rain, or any snow," promised to a dying king who admits, in t…
What happens when a storm stops being a threat and becomes a release? This week, we climb.
We begin on a Yorkshire moor in 1836, with eighteen-year-old Emily Brontë—a poet who walked the moors alone for hours, in weather that sent everyone else indoors, and came back each time not diminished but r…
What do you do with the ten thousand years underneath your feet, while half a million pairs of shoes wear the path above it smooth?
We begin in 1858 with Christina Rossetti's Up-Hill—a poem built as pure dialogue, one voice growing more anxious with every question, the other never once changing it…
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