In this episode, I talk to the poet David Harmer about Dylan Thomas’s ‘Poem in October’ and his own sequence ‘White Peak Histories.’
In our conversation, David discusses his connections with Thomas. He explains why ‘Poem in October’ (and ‘late Thomas’) appeals to him in particular. He talks about the shape and feel of the poem, its aural qualities, its preoccupation with birds and the seasons. David follows Thomas from the shore and climbs high up, ending his journey looking out over the water. He goes on to reflect on what ‘the border’ could mean in the context of this poem. David then goes on to explore the background to his poetry sequence ‘White Peak Histories’. He thinks about the lines he can draw between his own work and Thomas’s effusive language, Thomas’s verbal ‘swagger’. He delves into the geography of the White Peak and how this feeds into its histories in terms of both leisure and labour.
David Harmer lives in Doncaster and is best known as a children’s writer with publications from McMillans Children’s Books, Frances Lincoln and recently, Small Donkey Press. A lot of his work for the Grown Ups is published in magazines. He also performs with Ray Globe as The Glummer Twins, often at the Edinburgh Fringe.
Here’s a little window into David’s writing for children (his book It’s Behind You) from the Pan McMillan Site. And here’s the details of David’s most recent book from Small Donkey Press.
We mention the poetry magazine Tears in the Fence during our conversation. You can find out more about this poetry journal here.
We also mention W S Graham’s poem ‘The Thermal Stair’ (for the painter Peter Lanyon) which you can listen to – and read – on the Poetry Archive.
Owen Sheers discusses Dylan Thomas with Matthew Paris on the BBC Radio 4 programme Great Lives here.
You can read Dylan Thomas’s ‘Poem in October’ at this website.
You can follow me on X – @cwjoneschris or on Bluesky – @cwjoneschris.bsky.social for more updates on future episodes.
White Peak Histories
Rhienster Rock
Once Raenstor Crag, the haunt of ravens
hræfn; harbingers of wisdom, of slaughter,
guardians of the Duke’s old coach road
that twists beneath this sudden rise of limestone
where the Bradford narrows near Hollow Farm
a slow drift, thick with sedge and celandine.
The ravens are long-gone, no hoarse
ghost cries over burial bones or carrion chatter,
no close councils and conspiracies.
Shifted into tricksters and thieves,
they left their reef-knoll condemned as vermin,
an abrupt unkindness bringing despair.
Two shot in Youlgrave churchyard
fetched eight pennies, four birds a shilling,
held by their legs, their smashed skulls open.
Trackways
Half-lost, eroded like rumours
whispered beneath the skin of maps
the tracks of travellers,
pack-horse carters, cattle drovers,
cloth merchants, drifts of malt-horses
lie abandoned under new-sprung roads,
uprooted farms and tarmac.
But here at Robin Hood’s Stride, the mock-beggar’s hall
high above Bradford Dale, jumbled rocks protect
the Portway, guide it past the Nine Stones Circle
down to Broad Meadow Farm
where Saxon ridges rise like waves
to push the causeway
straight over the river at Hollow Bridge
then up Dark Lane.
The path still beats below our footfall,
it flowed before settlers on Castle Hill Ring
brewed their iron or buried their dead
in the heaped barrows and tumuli
and when we walk it
their voices clamour through the rain, eager
to point out the way ahead.
Portway flood, 1718
Winter unleashed a deluge of waters,
the ford at Alport scoured out by river-force
Bradford and Lathkill locked in a tumult
of pell-mell, white-flecked land-soak.
Monk’s Hall up to its haunches, inundated,
thick ropes of stream-melt, cattle pushed
up breakneck banking, dams burst
foaming like the mouths of dead horses.
A gang of carriers faced the flooded Portway.
How to travel to the north of Old Town?
How to cross this fury of water?
They tried to push through. It hurled them away,
ankles tumbled over their heads, mouths gaped,
breath failed them, limbs flailing and snatching
at quick grasps of rock, branches, horse-gear.
Their bales and bundles, leather goods, baubles
dragged to the mill-race, the broken wheel
reluctant to offer any hand hold. Instead they drowned
crying out for a bridge, found their souls sodden
in Derbyshire rain-drench, unprotected by ravens.
And as the waters had not yet dried from the earth
no dry ground rose to cover the corpses.