November’s writing

Death in the tarot is a 3 card, meaning he’s related to the Empress. If the Empress is the garden, a wealth of fecundity and creation, Death is what didn’t work out. And in that sense, it’s not a state, it is a process. You clear out what is dead or dying, you add it to the compost heap.  You allow it to break down. And hopefully, next season, you can use that fertilize the new round of crops or flowers or ornamental trees.
– Jessa Crispin

Autumn seems to be a time of memories.  A time of looking back to childhoods of newly sharpened pencils and fresh books of lined paper.  New starts and great hopes.  This year I promise I’ll keep my homework neat and tidy and do it all as soon as I get it.

Autumn is a time of reflection.  We look back on what we have harvested, we look back on the success of the year.  We go even further with Halloween, Sahmain or whatever you chose to call it.  We go further back than our own lives, we go back to the memories of ancestors, long gone, never known.

“Wild is the music
of autumnal winds
Amongst the faded woods.”
― William Wordsworth

There is something evocative of autumn which summons safety and warmth even though we are headed into the darkest time of the year.  The cosy aura of autumn defies the approaching winter.  The golden leaves and russet fruits, the amber sparks of fire.  Are we summoning the darkness with our lights or are we warding it off?

Every leaf speaks bliss to me 

Fluttering from the autumn tree. 

– Emily Dickinson

A tree in autumn

Branches slowly appear
Like the antlers of a stag,
Strewn with rich nutty velvet
And moss.

The scarred, dry bark
Feels the warmth of the dying sun.
Winter is almost upon us.
Another year has nearly passed.

Wearily, the tree performs
Her autumn duties;
Turning lush summer greens –
Shades of freshly cut grass and tart cooking apple –
Into copper and russet displays.

Feathers of fading sunlight
Now reach the forest floor
Casting gold lustre on all that lays there;
The midas touch.

She sighs and releases
Another scatter of leaves
To the decay below.
Turning fire to death.

Turning death to life.

***

There is a lot you can write about this time of year.  The fading vegetation, the migrating birds.  The abrupt weight of darkness as the clocks fall back an hour.  This is a time when the turning of the year feels much more noticeable.  We have halloween and bonfire night, christmas is coming along with other winter festivals.  You can write reflectively on the year that has passed, about hibernation and the joy of the harvest.  Or death and rebirth, or the return to school.

Find a warm and cosy spot, nestle up, pull a blanket around you and let that freshly sharpened pencil jot notes over the new book of lined paper.  Mistakes are allowed.  Rewrites are allowed.  For now, breathe in the crisp air and let your mind drift.

 

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November’s reading

Naturally there was been a large element of fairy tales in this month’s reading!  And we’ve taken a look at plants and trees in literature, folklore, poetry and nursery rhymes already.  So here I’m going to look a little more closely at a few less well known poems.

What the trees do by Laura Scott

This might be the poem I’d have tried to write this month if it hadn’t already been written.  Of course, I ‘m not saying I could have pulled it off as well as Laura does – this poem was Commended in the resurgence prize 2017 awards.

“a long time ago
one of them
caught the heel of a girl”

Such a relatable opening, a moment we get drawn in by, we’ve all been there, our shoes caught by a tree branch or root.  But oh, how the tale continues, weaving us into the girl as the girl is woven into the tree.  The delightful, childlike, opening stanza becomes ominous in its repetition at the close.  A warning, a cry for help, a lesson to be learnt.  Be careful when you enter the forests, for you never come out the same.

Aside: When I did a search to refind the link to the poem, I came up with an article called Not All Trees Are Meant to Bear Fruit: Laura Scott on Living Childless by Choice.  I have no idea if it’s the same Laura Scott but it could be another lens through which to read the poem.

Don Paterson, Two Trees

Don Paterson reads ‘Two Trees’ from Faber and Faber on Vimeo.

 

Two Trees has a different structure to What the Trees Do and at first this makes the poem feel upbeat and positive and indeed, Don Miguel achieves the challenging task of entwining two trees.  Trees, which like lovers in old age, become tangled up and inseparable.  The poem could easily have ended there.  Miguel, master of a magic tree, infamous in the village.

But in steps an unnamed name.  And I think it’s important he is nameless.  We feel like we know Miguel, we have a sense of him and obviously his name.  The lack of name emphasises a sense of distance between us, the reader, and this man and his actions.  As the nameless man hacks away at the tree, separating what had grown so close, and on a whim, we mourn for the tree.  In the tree, we see a malicious man destroying strong relationships for no particular reason.

But the trees survive, against the odds, resilient, like we are.  They have weathered their particular storm and they live on.

The nameless man, who has no dreams, is clearly very different to Miguel who gets out of bed one morning with the idea.  Miguel is portrayed as a dreamer, but one with practical skills and perseverance.  The nameless man feels brutal and cruel.  He has no reason behind his actions and whilst the trees do not die, that may not have been the case.  One man is creator, the other destroyer.

I like the irony of the last two stanzas.  This poem is about trees, and it could well be all it’s about.  It could easily be an anecdote being shared but I doubt that many of us read it that way.

Covered by the Forest by Elizabeth Rimmer

I love this poem.  I’ve not really got a lot to say but I really enjoyed the way I felt when I read it.  It was like I was sinking into the forest, grounding myself, connecting with the moment and getting lost amongst the trees.  Whilst this echoes the subject matter, I think the careful choice of words and rhythm guided my transition from reader to tree.

She has another, seasonally relevant, poem called Naming the Autumn (at the bottom of the page, beneath an interesting sort of bio written by Rimmer), I also really like Slow Plant Crossing (a little way down the page).

October – my writing

Just in case you were going to comment unconstructively, I’m not in the mood… I shared a poem in an online context recently, with the note it was unfinished, to illustrate an idea I was discussing.  Instead of engaging with the idea or adding something constructive I got a fairly unhelpful comment about my assonance… Had this person given examples of what was meant and where in my work this was I would have found it very helpful but as they didn’t, it just felt rubbish…

Virtually nothing I post on here is a final version and if I tried to do that you’d not get October inspired poems in October.  Given the current structure of this project, I feel like it is more helpful for me to share unedited work that is relevant to the month’s topic as they will share ideas about approaches and exercises.

I also, inevitably, have some words about autumn but I’m going to look at that in a different post.

Prompted by the structure of Larkin’s ‘The little lives of earth and form’, I wrote a sextilla:

Granite strong and chalky soft
To this land, my hat I doff.
Jagged peaks and silky sands;
                A contradiction
                This composition.
A feat unmatched by human hands.

Whilst line two has issues, I like the contradiction in the poem and in nature and it fits with the idea of nature not being less than us.

One night this month, I lay awake.  Well actually, many nights this month I’ve lain awake.  But this particular night was raining and surprisingly my neighbours were quiet so I listened to it from my bed at 3am, thinking of rain words.

The crackle of rain
On the window pane

Tip tip tap
Tip tip tap

Each drip drop crashes
Into sleeplessness
Pittering
Pattering

Tip tip tap
Tip tip tap

Clock ticking, tocking
Droplets plip, plopping

Tip tip tap
Tip tip tap

Trashing in the night
Insomniac’s fight
Tossing and turning
Running from morning

Tip tip tap
Tip tip tap

Tip tip tap…

And we have to have one poem about humans and animals, after all, it is the theme of the month!!  Whilst I declared at the start these are all drafts, this one very very much is a draft.  I like the idea and I know it needs work so constructive criticism welcomed!

Roll up!  Roll up!
For The Greatest Zoo On Earth!©
Roll up!  Roll up!
For your last chance to see…

Our antelopes and badgers,
Crustaceans and dancing deer!
Elephants and flying fish
You may even see a reindeer*!

*Seasonal attraction only, no guaranteed sightings, no refunds available.

Goats and hippopotamuses
Iguanas and jaguars!
Kackling Kookaburras™
And lots of leaping leopards!

Meerkats standing guard, new newts,
Orangutans and peacocks.
And don’t forget to see all
The happy, smiling quokkas!

Roll up!  Roll up!
For rats, raccoons and Rudolph™
See the seals, snails, snakes and skunks
Turtles and terrapins too!

Umbrella birds, vampire bats
Weasels and X-Scape Monkeys™.
You can see it all right here
At The Greatest Zoo On Earth©

Closing soon.

Cats in literature

We’ve already realised that I love cats, and because I am very very allergic to them I can’t have one so I tend to live vicariously through other cat owners and cat related things.  Hence cats in literature are getting their very own blog post!

Cats, as we know, have been with humans for a long time so it is no surprise that they have a prominent place in art and literature of both today and the past.  They are complicated creatures but cats, in stories and poems, tend to be portrayed as clever and wily, as independent and cunning, and as mysterious and enigmatic.  They are shown to be witch’s familiars, travellers companions, heroes and villains. In some writings they take centre stage and in others, supporting roles.

In folklore, cats tend to be haughty and proud, sneaking and clever, wise and helpful.  This sits gratingly against the less flattering cat related metaphors we use; fat cat, copy cat, pussy, pussy footing, cat burglar, alley cat, have kittens, wild cat, catty and so on.  Even miow, when said the right way, is derisive.  There is something about the cat that means we use it to say lazy, to talk of sexual behaviour and to deride sexual women.  I’m actually going to look a bit closer at cats and women when I focus in on gender within nature and writing so I shall leave that thought with you for now.

As well as metaphors, there are also a host of interesting sayings involving cats which are great for sparking the imagination!  It can be raining cats and dogs whilst children fight like cats and dogs and suddenly curiosity kills all these cats, except the one in the cat’s pajamas!

Cats in stories

To get a flavour of the many different cat characters found in fiction, here is a small sample:

  • Lewis Carrol’s Cheshire Cat, a cunning, clever and manipulative beast.
  • The range of cats which appear in the books of Beatrix Potter, portrayed anthropomorphically but still retaining a number of elements of their natural life and are playful and a little mischievous.
  • Mog from Judith Kerr
  • Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat by Ursula Moray Williams
  • Garfield created by Jim Davis
  • The Mousehole Cat by Antonia Barber
  • The Marmalade Cat by Kathleen Hale
  • There are even cats in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales

And big cats aren’t neglected either

  • Aslan, the lion from the Narnia books. I don’t know much about the Christian imagery in the series but I do know that Aslan is supposed to represent Jesus.
  • The tiger in The Life of Pi by Yann Martel
  • Bagheera from the Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling
  • There is also the Tiger Who Came to Tea by Judith Kerr

In addition to these examples, cats show up in a range of fiction types, from children’s books to science fiction and beyond.  They are familiar creatures with an array of different personalities and habitats which give authors a lot of scope to work with.  Because there are a lot of metaphors and symbols that can be found in the cat, they can be used to add depth to work and as shortcuts in creating character traits.

Naturally, cats also crop up in Aesop’s fables, written about 500BC, so the use of cats in fiction is not a modern idea.  In one of the fables, Belling the Cat, the cat is cast in the role of enemy and hunter, as does the Town Mouse and The City Mouse. Obviously, perspective is important when considering the traits of any animal.  Of course, most stories told from the point of view of mice are going to show the cat as evil and dangerous.  And stories told from the point of view of a dog would probably exaggerate the cat’s faults and tar them with aspersions which emphasise their own strengths.  If you were a dog who was trying to show everyone how fast and hardworking you were, you’d tell everyone how lazy the cat was.

There are lots of folk tales (I nearly did go there and say tails…) regarding the cat but here are just three, from very different cultures, which help give a flavour:

  • The boy who drew cats, Japan. In this tale, the cat is shown to protect the boy and to be helpful towards humans whilst not expecting anything in return.
  • The cat who came indoors, Africa. This is a story which illustrates how the cat domesticated itself and thus how the cat is independent and strong minded.
  • Puss in boots, also known as the master cat, Europe. Here we see the cat as clever, planning ahead and getting what it wants (and escaping death).

We also find cats all over the world in mythology playing the roles of gods and goddesses as well as guides and guardians of humans.  They were often considered magical and portrayed as moving between worlds; night and day, this world and the other.  As we’ve seen before, cats in Egypt were associated with pregnancy, motherhood and the feminine and this was also the case in Norse mythology where they were sacred to Freya, goddess of love and beauty and fertility.

Cats in poetry

As the subject of poetry, cats appear across the centuries and from both male and female writers. There are serious poems and playful ones, ones where the cats are adored and ones where the cat is barely tolerated…

The earliest cat poem I found was written in 550AD by Agathias about a cat attacking one of his partridges… Not a great start to a literary career but by the 9th century, in Ireland at least, they were faring better; Pangur Ban tells of a monk and his cat.  However, cat poetry seems to have become more popular from the mid 1700s which makes sense when you think about the timeline of cats and humans.  Prior to this, they were considered more as pest control than pets and just before this time, they were associated with witches and thus were not popular to keep around.

Again, I just want to provide a few examples to show the scope of cats in poetry:

  • T S Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats
  • Dr Seuss’s Cat in the Hat gives us a characteristic rule breaker, showing the more chaotic side of our feline friends.
  • Edward Lear, The Owl and the Pussycat, 1868
  • William Blake, The Tyger, 1794
  • William Wordsworth, The kitten and the falling leaves, 1804
  • Emily Dickinson, She sights a bird – she chuckles, 1800s. Don’t you think even the title brings to mind a cat?!
  • Eleonor Fargeon (1881-1965), Cats.
  • Cat Kisses by Bobbi Katz (at the bottom of the link)
  • Black Cat by Rainer Maria Rilke, 1875 – 1926
  • Edward Thomas, A Cat. It turns out not everyone is such a fan…

As you can see, there are a very diverse range of cats hiding within the pages of our books and we’ve not even looked at plays and films and tv programmes.  Or even cats in non fiction such as Elsa in Born Free.  And we’ve only glanced at cats in myths.

You can find out more about big cats as symbols and their role in myths and beliefs in my animal spirit posts:

Who are your favourite literary cats?  Let me know, I’d love to hear and I’m always up for book recommendations (about cats or even, I suppose, not about cats).

October’s Poems

As we will see over the course of this month, animals feature heavily in literature and poetry is no exception.  We write about animals, about animals and us and use animals as metaphors to say things which otherwise would be very difficult.

Phillip Larkin, 1977, The Little Lives Of Earth And Form

The little lives of earth and form,
Of finding food, and keeping warm,
Are not like ours, and yet
A kinship lingers nonetheless:
We hanker for the homeliness
Of den, and hole, and set.

And this identity we feel
– Perhaps not right, perhaps not real –
Will link us constantly;
I see the rock, the clay, the chalk,
The flattened grass, the swaying stalk,
And it is you I see.

This ties in nicely with the question about whether humans are animals, in this case Larkin is looking more broadly and declaring that humans are a part of nature, not apart.

It has a nice lyrical feel to it and shares a similar message to that of Wordsworth, both valuing nature and seeing humans within nature. It also places value on a simpler way of life, one that is concerned with day to day needs.  Like Wordsworth, Larkin draws the readers attention to the little, every day things – the rock, the clay, the chalk – and imbues them with greater significance and meaning.

If nature erected walls, Tanya Cliff

I enjoyed this poem alongside some of the themes I’ve looked at this month.  In particular it chimes strongly with one of the articles I read about humans and nature.

It casts nature in the role of an artist and asks what she would chose to leave out of her masterpiece.  Inevitably, whilst Cliff doesn’t answer the question explicitly, the message is that humans would be the ones kept out.

This poem also reminded me of the dingo fence.  It is a huge fence in Australia which is designed to keep dingoes out of certain areas.  Work on it was started when British arrived and started trying to control the world they found themselves in.  Up until that point, Australians had been living alongside dingo and whilst I’m not saying it was an easy relationship, it was one which accepted other lifeforms.

The Fox, Simon Armitage, 1996

The discussion around the poem in the Independent article probably says most of what I was going to so I won’t!  When I first read the poem, I didn’t know that there is a constellation called the fox and that knowledge really helped.  It actually features in a collection that is focused on the stars so reading it in context probably adds a lot.

I like the honest humanness to this poem.  The starry, sky fox comes down to the earth and so close to our own lives that we could “hit it…with a stone”.  But instead of revering it or romanticising it, Armitage tells of the damage the fox has done whilst also emphasising the physical proximity of man and fox.  The violent, unforgiving ending, harsh as it may seem to the reader is one which echoes our wider feelings of nature and our impact.  We seem to be emotionally disconnected and apathetic towards death of animals and even extinctions pass us by, mostly unnoted or uncared about, with the exception of those animals we deem particularly cute.

What we lose, Kate Tempest

This is one of those apparently simple poets which I return to over and over.  The premise is that as we get older, the gulf between humans and animals grows wider.  As I’ve already mentioned a bit, children’s books are filled with animals and we befriend these characters and they help us navigate the world as we grow up.  And then, one day we turn around and find ourselves disconnected from nature.

I read Tempest’s poem with an air of sadness but as I said, it’s deceptively simple, so I can’t point to any words or images which show this, it is just a feeling that comes through the poem.  It leaves me with a heavy, regretful feeling.  And a longing to return as much as possible to that childhood state.

On being eaten by a snake, Susan Wicks, 1994

I don’t really like sharing poems when I don’t have copyright so where possible I try to link to the poem (except where they’re older poems which are absolutely everywhere).  Normally I can find a version somewhere but not this one…

Knowing they are not poisonous
I kneel on the path to watch it
Between poppies by a crown of nasturtiums,
The grey-stripe body almost half as long
As my own body. The formless black head
Rearing, swaying, the wide black lips seeming
To smile at me. And I see
That the head is not a head,
The slit I have seen as mouth
Is not a mouth, the frilled black under-lips
Not lips, but another creature dying; I see
How the snake’s own head is narrow and delicate,
How it slides its mouth up and then back
With love, stretched to this shapelessness
As if with love.  The sun stroking
The slug’s wet skin as it hangs
In the light, resting so that even the victim
Must surely feel pleasures, the dark ripple
Of neck that is not neck lovely
As the slug is sucked backwards
To the belly that is not belly, the head
That is merely head
Shrinking to nameable proportions.

This is one poem in a collection about Wicks’s illness and was written during a reprieve, something which I feel really adds to the reading of it.  We start with the declaration that the snake is not poisonous, perhaps a statement about the respite from her illness?  The start of the poem talks of bodies; she kneels, there is the grey-stripe body, her own body and a formless black head.  As someone who has chronic illness, I enjoyed this last image in particular.  Illness can certainly feel like a formless thing.  Especially if it is undiagnosed or unpredictable or unreliable – you cannot manage or fight with something formless.

And then, the poem pivots.  The midline sentence end takes us from what she sees to her realising that what she sees is not how things are. Another parallel with illness – I regularly doubt my own health, thinking I’m not as bad as I am, or seeing through the eyes of depression which do the opposite of rose tinted glasses.

From here, we discover nothing is as it first seemed.  She also shapes this image of a snake eating a slug into something sensual and dreamy.  There are a lot of s sounds – “slides it’s mouth”, “slugs wet skin”, “slug is sucked” – which add to this sexuality and echo the hissing sound of the snake.  The event ends with the “dark ripple of the neck” which feels to me like a metaphor for an orgasm which is followed by the “head shrinking to nameable proportions”.  Obviously this has one particular sexual interpretation.  But returning to the running symbolism of illness, to be able to name your illness is powerful and to have it in suitable proportions makes a huge difference.  The formless, intangible, overwhelming beast has become something you can handle and label.

I found the snake in this poem a fascinating metaphor.  Snakes are associated with the medical profession and with healing as well as with change and transformation.  There is also an element of the unknown, most of us in the UK don’t regularly see snakes or interact with them.

September Poems: My poetry

To get me started again, I’ve used a few tools and exercises to warm up the poetry part of my mind and soul.

Playing with form

Mslexia has a regular column for specific poetry forms and the back issues I was catching up on looked at triolets and palidromes.

Triolet

A triolet is made up of 8 lines, each 8 syllables, with the rhyming pattern ABAAABAB. The first line reoccurs as the fourth and seventh, the second line as the eighth.  It’s been a long time since I wrote poetry and much longer since I used any sort of structure so this was quite the challenge!  I didn’t expect it to be as hard as it was though.

Seasons rolled over as I slept;
Autumn golds, heavy skies roll on
From lazy days; I mourned, I wept.
Seasons rolled over as I slept.
I grieved for dreams that went undreamt
Under hazy skies now long gone.
Seasons rolled over as I slept
Autumn golds, heavy skies, roll on…

Palindrome

A palindrome is a a poem which has a pivot point and then reverses itself, both words and lines are reversed.  And wow is that tough.  I think just the lines reversed would be hard but reversing the words as well!  Eek!

The Turn of The Year

Autumn and
Leaves falling
Reaching
Outstretched arms
Twirling, twisting
Like turning year

Rising and falling
Falling and rising

Year turning like
Twisting, twirling
Arms outstretched
Reaching
Falling leaves
And autumn

Jam jar poetry

There may be an actual name for this but basically, I have written a collection of words, mostly but not all about nature, and put them in a jar. Every so often I sit and pull out one or two, or a handful, and see what poems arise.

In the event of my death,
Take a pilgrimage to the secluded
Decaying bench;

Weathered, overgrown and black as pitch.
Hunt out the fallen stones with
Pounding breath.

I am here.

I am not fluttering candle light.
I am not silken eggshell.
I am not the wishes from shooting stars.

I am heart broken bones.
I am gnarled, discarded antlers.
I am the echo from a forest of dead wood.

In the event of my death,
Take a pilgrimage to the secluded
Decaying bench;

I am here.

It has also produced fragments which I hope to develop at some stage:

The winter magic twists sunbeams to night

The image of roadkill scratches and scritches like a grain of sand in a wound.

Twisted dead wood rusts away to powder

September’s Poems

So having established what nature writing is, I wanted to do some of my own.  I’ve been gathering prompts and ideas for a few weeks and have decided to focus mostly on poetry.  As such, I’ve read a number of nature poems and decided on a handful to look at more closely:

I’ve chosen poems from a range of dates since the Romanticism era so that I can consider a range of styles and contents.  I don’t intend to write long critques of these poems but in order to help me consider them more careful, I have written down some thoughts.

Derry Derry Down, Seamus Heaney

I love the use of syllables in this poem. We have the one syllable rhyming words – lush, blush, bush – which are interspersed with words which linger on the tongue a little longer – gooseberry, unforbidden. This primal, lustful part contrasts with the fairytale-esque depiction in the remainder of the poem; storybook, sleeping beauty.

All Nature Has a Feeling, John Clare

All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks
Are life eternal: and in silence they
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
There’s nothing mortal in them; their decay
Is the green life of change; to pass away
And come again in blooms revivified.
Its birth was heaven, eternal it its stay,
And with the sun and moon shall still abide
Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.

Apparently this is quite a popular funeral poem… I haven’t yet found a date for the poem but Clare was alive between 1793-1864 and for context William Wordsworth was born in 1770 and died in 1850. The poem echoes the themes from The Tables Turned, opening up the reader to the natural world and guiding them away from books. However, unlike Wordsworth, Clare was not an educated man and thus his call to nature instead of learning feels more accessible to the common person and does not have the irony of The Tables Turned.

Clare talks of nature as a sentient being, one which is always changing but will never die. This theme of cycles and rebirth is one which comes up in a lot of nature writing and one which most of us can relate to or feel inspired or comforted by.

“Nature” is What We See, Emily Dickinson

“Nature” is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse— the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

NB, A bobolink is a type of bird with a lovely tune.

Defining nature was one of my key aims this month so it was only appropriate that I included this poem. I really like the way that Dickinson plucks at definitions and discards them as being unsuitable. There is a quality about it that, even though it is more than a list, reads as a list. A ticking off of things which nature is not. Finding she cannot use that particular sense to find nature, she moves on to a new list. And eventually gives up. The poem itself appears simple but Dickinson’s use of language means it is more than what it first seems, like many good poems. The ordering of her images means we are constantly moving between small and large and thus she cleverly illustrates the vast diversity of nature. The delicate twinkle of the Bobolink contrasts with the strong and powerful sound of the sea.

The Causeway, Lindesfarne, Emily Dee

I love the texture in this poem, the crisp frost, the gritty sand, the soft, slithery snail. They really help me feel part of the place, and they focus me in on the detail and then the tearful seals raising their heads to the sky throw me wide.

The last two lines of this poem stunned me. The moon as a silent engine, how powerful and how Dee has taken this incredibly natural, almost untouchable, entity and turned it on its head with the use of the word engine, a word which summons up man made, functionality.

Dee was 17 when she was one of the winners of the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2016.