Monday, 14 December 2015


Whinney Hill, taken from Millington Wood.

I'm constantly intrigued by how poems form out of a single word or phrase. This one came from the phrase 'England itself is sacred' in a book I was reading.

England itself is sacred.

Worship in the cathedral of the woods
for England itself is sacred
to those who bow their heads
before the altars of the hills
and make their solemn pilgrimages
to timeless places that exude
the divine and the profane.

Listen to the notes of wind on stones
for England itself is music.
The sound of falling leaves
builds to a crescendo that plays
where hares and foxes dance,
and the timpani of breaking waves
is heard above the still, sad solo
of nature’s faint, lamenting voice.

Read the arcane texts written on the land
for England itself is a manuscript,
a palimpsest
where each successive generation
inscribes its own life’s story
across the face of all the others,
leaving faint, intriguing clues
of what has gone before.

Follow in forgotten footsteps
for England itself is a pathway
taking us to places
where we long or fear to go,
saturated with the tread
of those who went before
and, failing to return,
have reached their journey’s end.

Thursday, 5 November 2015

BEYOND THE PALE. Rewilding Psychogeography.

As a change from poetry, but related to it, here's an article I wrote about that wide-ranging and imprecise activity, psychogeography.

Beyond the Pale.
Rewilding Psychogeography.

Beside an old church in the pretty village of Rudston, in the heart of the Yorkshire Wolds, a vast needle of stone, said to be the tallest single megalithic standing stone in Britain, bursts out from the earth and pierces the broad sky.

For me, this monument, which I have always referred to simply as The Stone, has strangely powerful resonances. Those people who have a more than averagely finely attuned sense of place know particular spots like this which, for reasons either conscious or subconscious, have a deeper psychical and psychological association than their surroundings. It is these that psychogeography is concerned with: discovering those points where each individual – and from that, each different community – engages with intimate aspects of our environment and records the impacts that occur. For the Situationist, Guy Debord, one of the creators of the modern concept of psychogeography, these relationships happen primarily in an urban setting, lately reaching out to the edges of the city with books such as London Orbital  by ’the godfather of psychogeography’, Iain Sinclair, and Paul Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts’ Edgelands. Will Self moved the bar up a few notches when he walked from London to New York and recorded the experience in his Psychogeography. But for me, as a writer who gains most of his inspiration whilst out walking in the countryside, I have always found those profound, acausal connections that seem to hit you in the pit of the stomach, happen beyond the pale of big urban settlements. Looking into the history and developments of psychogeography, however, there are clues that its roots do, in fact, stretch beyond the city limits. Merlin Coverley, in his book, Psychogeography, hints at this when he says, “…as soon as one looks beyond the narrow context that gave rise to it, it becomes apparent that psychogeography is retrospectively supported (or undermined) by earlier traditions and precursors that have been neglected or wilfully obscured.”, adding, “…this sense of an eternal landscape underpinning our own has been termed genius loci or ‘sense of place’, a kind of historical consciousness that exposes the psychic connectivity of landscape…”.

In 1955, Debord, whilst paradoxically admitting to the vagueness of the whole concept of psychogeography, defined it as, ”…the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behaviour of individuals…”. It is coincidental that in the year he made this statement, Professor W G Hoskins published his seminal work, The Making of the English Landscape, the first definitive explanation of how our surroundings have developed across the centuries. It reinformed the way we engage with the landscape, both physically and emotionally, inspiring Oliver Rackham’s The History of the Countryside and later Francis Pryor’s The Making of the British Landscape.

I begin with The Stone as a pivotal point not just because of the impact it has on me, but because of its long historical and topographical significance in the landscape where it stands. It is the quintessential landmark, in that it marks an area of land that was of particular importance to those who erected it. It marks a place where man’s own views and burgeoning psychological constructs met and harmonised with raw nature in a very particular way; it marks a time when he began to see and develop the surrounding landscape as a place that was sacred – a place that he adapted to record time itself, not in days, months or years, but in generations, using the resting places of ancestors as way markers for successors. These philosophical themes of time, history and society, which Debord himself tackles in his Society of the Spectacle, and Michel de Certeau, in his 1988 The practice of everyday life, calls "a symbolic order of the unconscious", became an integral and essential part of everyday life and, when viewed with the appropriate receptivity, still resonate across the ages.

To a casual observer, The Stone stands in the churchyard. This is, of course, a misinterpretation because it was erected here three thousand years or more before the church, whose presence ensures that its continuity as a sacred place remains unbroken across time and religious interpretation. On the tops of the rising Wolds that surround it, barrows that hold the bodies of different generations look down upon it and these in turn can also be viewed from it and from the four or five ceremonial cursuses that spread like spokes from the axis of The Stone. The true significance of this place - its real psychogeography - for the people who erected it does not, however, come from land but from water. We are told by those who know such things (such as Mike Williams in his Prehistoric Belief and David Lewis Williams and David Pearce in Inside the Neolithic Mind) that water had a special sacredness for our prehistoric ancestors, and The Stone marks the corner where an itinerant and mysterious stream, known as The Gypsey Race, turns abruptly from flowing due south, to continue its course directly eastwards, towards the sunrise and the mighty North Sea.  This intermittent and irregular watercourse is believed to owe its coming and going to underground reservoirs and it bursts into flood seemingly regardless of recent rainfall. This gives it a magical property which is demonstrated by the number of significant prehistoric sites along its course, of which The Stone is the most prominent. The name Gypsey is derived not from its itinerant nature, but from the old English 'Gypsia', meaning to suddenly spring into life.

So The Stone represents a psychogeographic midpoint between the prehistoric wilderness and the modern world. Go beyond The Stone and you cross a threshold and begin to venture outside the pale of civilisation and ever backwards into the depths of the wilderness itself; not just a physical wilderness, but a subconscious one that only the visionary and the dreamer seek to penetrate. Peter Ackroyd, in his lecture entitled The Englishness of English Literature, suggests that there is a persistent visionary thread of English consciousness and that it is “….possible that within our sensibility and our language there are patterns of continuity and resemblance which have persisted from the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries and perhaps even beyond that.”  Far beyond that, I would suggest. In fact, it stretches back millennia and right into the heart of the landscape even before it was settled. In his New Science, the 18th century Italian theorist, Giambattista Vico, said: “This was the order of human institutions: first the forests after that the huts, then the villages, next the cities, and finally the academies.” And, at the time when we were moving from forests to huts, when our human impact on the landscape was becoming visible and permanent and, instead of being subjugated by the natural world, man was seeking to impose his control upon it, a relationship with our surroundings was developing that was, millennia later, to be reinterpreted by those who had escaped the relentless grip of the academies and the tyranny of logic as psychogeography.


Although its origins go back even before writing itself – back to the prehistoric images, carefully inscribed on the walls of dark caves - the tenets of landscape psychogeography are embedded in a rich legacy of our literature, from Beowulf and Piers Plowman  to the works of P D James and Bill Bryson - not just the ‘nature’ writers such as that perennial wanderer and commentator, Richard Jeffries; the prodigious perambulator, George Borrow; the supertramp poet, W H Davies; and early ecologist, John Stewart Collis, but also the likes of Thomas Hardy, the Romantic Poets, the Bront√ęs, Rudyard Kipling, A E Housman, Laurie Lee, Seamus Heaney, Ted Hughes -  look on practically any eclectic bookshelf and you’re likely to find evidence of some kind of psychogeographic influence.

It’s through the works of these and a myriad of others that we can understand how people have always engaged psychologically with the landscape and the wildness of the natural world. Henry Thoreau didn’t just go back to nature to live in the Walden woods, he provided a detailed account of his action, thoughts and feelings. Wordsworth did more than tramp across the mountains and fells, he allowed them to sink into his own psyche and re-emerge in the words and phrases that make his poetry so inspiring. Ancient landscapes and their psychic associations to the modern world are inseparably entwined in the prose and poems of Edward Thomas and lying just below the surface of the land and the subconscious in the novels of John Cowper Powys. When his beloved countryside is parcelled up by enclosures and he is denied access to it, John Clare goes mad.

Hoskins starts the first chapter of The Making of the English Landscape by praising William Wordsworth’s Guide through the District of the Lakes, “...for poets make the best topographers…”, thus immediately creating a link between landscape and literature. Hoskins’ book was, in turn, revered by writers such as W H Auden.

Poets probably make the best psychogeographers as well. Wordsworth is a classic example of how the psychological influence of his surroundings was profound and fundamental to his thinking and writing. From his childhood he keenly felt the influence of nature. In The Prelude he writes:
 “…………..for I would walk alone,
          Under the quiet stars, and at that time
          Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound
          To breathe an elevated mood, by form
          Or image unprofaned; and I would stand,
          If the night blackened with a coming storm,
          Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are
          The ghostly language of the ancient earth,
          Or make their dim abode in distant winds.”

This is reiterated, later in life, in Lines Written Above Tintern Abbey:

      “………………….For I have learned
      To look on nature, not as in the hour
      Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes   
      The still, sad music of humanity,
      Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
      To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
      A presence that disturbs me with the joy
      Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
      Of something far more deeply interfused,
      Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
      And the round ocean and the living air,
      And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
      A motion and a spirit, that impels   
      All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
      And rolls through all things.”

The nature writer and poet, Edward Thomas, before he was cut down in the trenches of World War l, found not just the broad landscape but its minutiae enthralling and an antidote to his bouts of chronic depression. In his piece, An Old Wood, published in the collection, One Green Field, he describes the onset of evening:

 “….the rich blue evening comes on and severs me irrevocably from all but the light in the old wood and the ghostly white cow-parsley flowers suspended on uneven stalks. And there, amongst the trees and their shadows, not understood, speaking a forgotten tongue, old dreads and formless awes and fascinations discover themselves and address the comfortable soul, troubling it, recalling to it unremembered years not so long past…”

In Haymaking, echoing Wendell Berry’s claim that, “Nothing exists for its own sake, but for a harmony greater than itself, which includes it.” he brings together the essence of a rural landscape with its timeless combination of the works of man and nature in the quiet way at which he was so adept, transferring the picture in his mind onto the page:

“…………………………………….All was old,
This morning time, with a great age untold,
Older than Clare and Cobbett, Moreland and Crome,
Than, at the field’s far edge, the farmer’s home,
A white house crouched at the foot of a great tree.
Under the heavens that know not what years be
The men, the beasts, the trees, the implements
Uttered even what they will at times far hence –
All of us gone out of the reach of change –
Immortal in a picture of an old grange.”

The environmentalist/writer, Richard Mabey, also used the healing properties of the countryside when depression laid him low. In Nature Cure he explains that:

“Turning down that road less travelled, I can’t any longer duck the questions which have been so unsettling me for the past few months – and in a more general form, I suppose, for much of my life. Where do I belong? What’s my role? How, in social, emotional, ecological terms, do I find a way of fitting?”

The answer is not quite as he expects:

“The idea was to submit to nature, to hope that it would ‘take you out of yourself’…..What healed me, I think, was almost the exact opposite process, a sense of being taken not out of myself but back in, of nature entering me, firing up the wild bits of my imagination.”

Today, as it always has, the psychogeography of the British landscape still exerts a profound influence. Although it has few areas of actual wilderness that are untouched by humans, there are still many wild places in Britain. Ever since the first of our ancestors cut down a tree to build a hut, our destinies have been intertwined. Sometime nature predominates, sometimes man, but ideally there should be a balance. In the preface to his The History of the Countryside, Oliver Rackham says:

“The ordinary landscape of Britain has been made both by the natural world and by human activities, interacting with each other over many centuries. …..In the last century [by this he means the 19th] people (that is, writers) often thought of the country as the world of Nature in contrast to the town. The opposite exaggeration now prevails: that the rural landscape, no less than Trafalgar Square, is merely the result of human design and ambition……In reality the countryside records human default as well as design, and much of it has a life of its own independent of human activity……With many features, such as ponds and hedges, it is still not possible to say where Nature stops and human activity begins.”

Jonathan Bate, when discussing the theories of T W Adorno in his excellent book, The Song of the Earth, sees it in a different way:

“Nature only appears to be not man-made…..Air, trees, rocks, grass, water and so forth exist, but they only become ‘Nature’ when they are mediated by human consciousness, when the subject makes them its objects of attention.”

Martin Heidegger looks at it from yet another perspective:

“What seems natural to us is probably just something familiar in a long tradition that has forgotten the unfamiliar source from which it arose. And yet this unfamiliar source once struck man as strange and caused him to think and to wonder.” 

For novelist John Cowper Powys, it was “…the fatal force of Inanimate Objects over human destiny…” and he illustrates this to great effect when, in A Glastonbury Romance, he spends seven pages describing the effect that Stonehenge and its environs have on the main proponent, John Crow.

All this could as easily be termed phenomenology as psychgeography – as Christopher Tilley does in A Phenomenology of Landscape - but it shows that our psychological relationship with the countryside is as personal and immediate as it is with towns and cities. For urban psychogeographers like Debord it was a movement, practiced by groups who had the same – or at least similar – values and ambitions, often overtly political: Situationists, Lettrists, Surrealists, Unitary Urbanists. Rural pyschogeography is usually more of a solitary pastime. Post Debord – and especially in more recent years – psychogeography, although not necessarily under that name, has been undergoing an exponential and ineluctable spread back into the countryside, with visionary individuals like Richard Mabey; my much-missed friend, Roger Deakin; Robert Macfarlane; Jonathan Bate; George Monbiot and many others at the forefront. These, whether they like the mantle or not, are the new rural psychogeographers and they are encouraging more and more people to reconnect with their landscape in a meaningful way. It is these writers, and those unnamed individuals who engage daily with the countryside in a thoughtful way, who are testament to the words of Heidegger, echoing across the ages:

 “The song still remains which names the land over which it sings.” 


Guy Debord, Introduction to a Critique of Urban Geography, Les Livres Nue, 1955.

Merlin Coverley, Psychogeography, Pocket Essentials, 2010.

W G Hoskins, The Making of the English Landscape, Hodder & Stoughton, 1955.

Guy Debord, The Society of the Spectacle, Black & Red, 1984.

Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, Translator: Steven Rendall, University of California Press, Berkeley 1984.

Peter Ackroyd, The Englishness of English Literature: The Collection. Ed. Thomas Wright. London: Vintage, 2001.

Giambattista Vico, New Science, Penguin, 1999.

William Wordsworth, A Guide through the District of the Lakes, Francis Lincoln, 2004.

William Wordsworth, Complete Works, Delphi Series, 2012.

Edward Thomas, One Green Field, English Journeys, 2009.

Wendell Berry, Standing by Words, North Point, 1983.

Edward Thomas, Collected Poems of Edward Thomas, Faber & Faber, 2011.

Richard Mabey, Nature Cure, Vintage, 2008.

Oliver Rackham, The History of the Countryside, W & N, 2000.

Jonathan Bate, The Song of the Earth, Picador, 2001.

Martin Heidegger, Being and Time, Translators: John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson, Blackwell, 1978.

John Cowper Powys, Wood and Stone, Village Press, 1974.

John Cowper Powys, A Glastonbury Romance, Macdonald, 1966.

Christopher Tilley, A Phenomenology of Landscape, Berg, 1994.

Martin Heidegger, Off the Beaten Track, Editor and translator: Julian Young, Cambridge University Press, 2002.

Sunday, 26 July 2015


Something a little different from my usual stuff. It’s been said that if you can remember the 1960s you weren’t there and this is a hazy, collective impression from four and a half decades ago that’s a moment in time from 3 years living in a seedy basement flat in Notting Hill, which was an unplanned hospice for a transient flow of musicians, artists, writers, freaks, bohemians, pedlars of mind-expanding substances and ideas, and weary pilgrims on the hippie trail from California to Kathmandu, most of whom are now more phantoms than memories.

Reflections: Notting Hill, 1969.

Years away in those wild days and time was not an issue
when an eternity of hopefulness stretched onwards
and memories were not yet cruel captors.
Then we had no past to speak of and the future was of dubious concern.
In the high, wild days of that brief halcyon,
we were freer than we knew or ever would be all our lives;
our hearts blissfully unencumbered
and our minds
were seldom mindful of the later rotten preconceptions,
preferring, then, to trust our new-born liberties
to Leary-induced reflections
on the holy scriptures preached by Hendrix, Kerouac and Baudelaire.
Always drunk – that’s it!
Drunk on our own exuberance, impertinence and arrogant imaginings,
drinking in the seedy, sweating nights of Notting Hill and Ladbroke Grove,
where couplings were short and inconclusive,
in artless striving between unremembered thighs,
but lovely, too, in light of retrospective mornings
as cracks of heavy sun broke through the basement railings
into rooms of tossed, disordered minds
where scents of Lebanon hung warm and sweet to our naked senses
and patchouli-infused clothing lay strewn across the floor.

Lost nights began in faded hostelries on cracking leatherette banquettes,
our Cuban heels protruding out of Lord John flares,
as heavy, dimpled glasses left wet rings on time-rubbed Cuban wood
and our laughing, hair-framed faces leered, distorted, from the tarnished brass
and, fragmented as our thoughts and conversations,
reflected in between etched letterings of India Pale Ales.
The words were loose and easy as we drank, and rolled like handmade cigarettes,
expressively between the fingers and the mouth.
How’s Jonah doing?
He’s been screwed since that last trip on acid scored in Finchley Road.
He’s done too much, his mind’s completely blown.
Another round here?
Might as well. The Elgin will be packed by now.
And get some skins for later. I’ve none left.
The green ones, man, and score ten No.6. I’ll pay.
Have you read The Dharma Bums? It’s pretty cool.
I found a Penguin copy in the bin, John must have chucked it there.
Probably because the last few pages are torn out.
So now I’m curious to know what happened after Desolation Peak.
Anyway, I’m reading Malcolm Lowry now. He got wasted even more than us.

And around the smoke-saturated room,
faces scored with age stared into solitary drinks,
pulling on nicotine-stained tabs, sucked, like life, until the bitter end.
Was this a cloudy crystal ball that showed us as we would become:
impotent, dim-memoried and grim,
without the consolation of a firm, round breast under a sleeping hand?
A glimpse, in fact, of the end of everything we’d gain through life,
sitting on the other side of destiny and seeing our incipient selves
across a bar in Notting Hill?

It's gentrified now and flats cost in excess of £1 million, but in the 60s Clanricarde Gardens was a run-down cul-de-sac inhabited by an eclectic mix of eccentrics, part of the wonderful urban village that was Notting Hill.

Friday, 3 July 2015


This disturbing but compelling image - one of a series by French photographer, Cal Redback - reminded me of a poem  I wrote some time ago as part of a much longer poem entitled The Path - A Pilgrimage'

The pathway ends

The pathway ends;
the wilderness prevails.
Unmanaged, un-shoe-trodden,
(a dangerous domain).
Super-human influence created this
and, where feral codes persist,
nothing lives by our laws.
Here there exists no mediation
as to whether something is
or it is not.
Interpretation is instinctive;
natural anarchy prevails.
The weasel doesn’t know how not to kill;
fox and hare have made
their own compact,
although the hare has also formed
a side allegiance with the moon;
briars create coverts,
offering sharp shelter
to shrew and chaffinch,
but the owl still hunts.
Here the badger digs his earth,
not knowing spade or plough,
and the ever/never-changing stream
runs where it has agreement
with the land.

In this world, things are not measured
by their usefulness to man;
every inch composes its own text;
a symbiotic syntax
on ever-changing pages
of the arcane book of life.
Each noise is a response
to one that went before;
every creature merges
into one that will come after.
The opening fern becomes a dragonfly;
the clear-voiced blackbird,
when it’s silent,
is an extension of the branch.
The world is an illusion;
nothing here is ever as it seems.

You may venture here if you will;
there is no-one to stop you, after all;
but a thousand eyes
will watch your every step
and half a thousand brains
will wonder why you came.
So tread carefully,
for now you are beyond the pale
and there are no pathways here,
(except the tracks of fox and deer),
and when you come, and when you go,
do so with a humbleness of soul.

Friday, 13 March 2015


Hare and Moon woodcut by Andrew Waddington:

March is the time of the hare, an animal I love. The starting point of this poem is an anonymous enigmatic Middle English poem entitled 'Les noms de un leuvre en engleis' or 'The names of the Hare in English', which is reproduced and translated into modern English in the excellent book, 'The Leaping Hare', by George Ewart Evans and David Thomson.

I dare to name the hare

They dub him traitor,
Old Turpin,
those who want to kill the hare
and lay down their hunting weapons
to try the use of deadly words.

Furze-cat, they say,
the one who doesn’t go straight home,
the animal that dwells in the corn,
the animal that all men scorn.
Some would even go so far
(who, for their own reason,
wish to slay the hare with curses)
as to insist that his chief name is

I love the hare
more than any other creature.
I’ve seen him rule the shadows
between the ditch and hedge
as well as basking in the gory glow
of the Hunter’s Moon
when, in gruesome, lycanthropic nights of Autumn,
he dances in defiance of the fox -
or when, in the hare-brained dawns of March,
he spars with leaping shadows of himself
through low-slung mists,
and tears across the sparkling, frozen dew.

He is the freedom we all envy
and in our dreams would long to emulate.
Which of us, if there were gods in heaven
to answer our most secret prayers,
would not ask to be a hare?
And so the bitter, jealous souls
who, unlike him,
can never stand on open ground
and tap into the force
that spreads across the land,
christen him
the animal that no one dares to name.

For all these reasons
– and for many others I never could explain -
I dare to name the hare,
and call him:

Spirit of the Earth.