Wild Words Plymouth was a nature poetry project facilitated and produced by Heidi Stephenson at Plymouth Central Library, supported using public funding by the National Lottery through Arts Council England, with support in kind from the library. 12 poets participated in 8 workshops, learning how to write nature and eco poetry, celebrating wild Plymouth and advocating for wild and marine life, including the critically endangered Horrid Ground Weaver spiders who are now only found, globally, in two limestone quarry sites in Plymouth – both under threat of “development.” This is a sample of the 40 poems which became the Wild Words Plymouth show.
“Bugs” by Rhianna Berthoud
“We want Plymouth’s City Centre to come alive” by Laura Quigley
When you ask me what I think about your plans,
When you ask me what I think about the trees,
When you ask me what I think about your intentions,
Your actions, castrations,
Your civic annihilations –
You do not wait to hear my answer.
Instead, you say: “The restoration will be civilised.
In the valleys of reinforced steel, we’ll channel
Rivers of rubber piping. We’re trunking
Electric storms into acoustic shielding, regurgitating
Sewage through plastic straws.” You say,
“Eye protection must be worn”, to avoid
Me see you burying my money
In the septic tank behind the swarm of hoardings.
“Just sit and drink your coffee,” you say,
“By the cement pool, on the plastic chairs provided.”
I watch the caterpillar tracking
Smash the daffodils.
There are dead flies in your netting.
It’s raining plastic buckets and
Beggar magpies
Chew on polystyrene cups. The sign says,
“Wildlife visitors must wear PPE in line with policy,”
Is that bird song? No,
It’s a karaoke machine, singing
“There’s a fire starting in my heart”
But the hoardings are flame retardant and
Images are recorded for crime prevention…
So say the signs.
Ocean City Plymouth.
Come seek the city centre.
Meet the concrete monster.
It’s alive.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-devon-64961358
Chainsaw Massacre by Kate Meyer-Currey
The corpse lay where it was felled,
hacked to death by killers who knew
their anatomy. A sneaky attack, at
the dead of night, when the victim
was undefended. Who could imagine
their long life of service, like a security
guard, a centurion on duty in this breach
of ancient wall, could be cut down in its
prime, in an execution style murder?
That their toppled head would inflict
blunt force trauma on piled stone?
A landmark uprooted, cut off at the
knees by an unprovoked assault, with
malice aforethought. In scant minutes,
a life of many centuries was brutally
destroyed. To consider victimology, it
was popular, loved by locals, known
worldwide . It was joint enterprise. Both
perpetrators have profiles typical of
serial offenders, hating or fearing their
victim’s kind. They are local, know the
dump site. The corpse was left to rot with
no regard for dignity post-mortem, with
limbs splayed, found by shocked walkers
and wardens the next day. The nature of
the cuts suggests the chain saw blade
with some skill. This outrage was
filmed like some snuff movie. A trophy
taken from the scene in the iconic MO of
or Jack the Ripper. In the aftermath of the kill,
the assailants inserted themselves into online
speculation about the nature of those guilty.
They have left a gap in the environment with
deep roots to fill. Ego drove their knowing
comments on how the murder unfolded,
showed insider knowledge not in the public
domain. Every contact leaves a trace, they
say. What lies in the DNA of such people,
we might ask ourselves? Maybe they got off
on felling an individual with both girth and
circumference, of a stature they could never equal?
Maybe they haven’t been hugged enough? Who
knows? Analyse their would-be macho incel
blustering on the presumed weakness of cowardly
killers. As the saying goes, the weak will not inherit
the earth but they sap the strength of the courageous and
the brave. All culpability denied. If justice was served
they would swing from its branches for all the world to
see on Tik Tok, X, Insta and Facebook. Come back Swampy
your community needs you. If you’d been there,
they would never have got away with it.
We Fell Asleep. An Obituary to the Fallen Trees by Hannah Govan
We slept like the dead last night,
And we woke up.
My love,
I woke to find your creature as a corpse.
Your limbs are sliced from their sockets,
Defenceless against the motorised maw.
I chastise myself for not being a surgeon or a sewer;
They had tissue and thread – all I have is your stump.
Daffodils pray to your body instead of the sun;
I dread there isn’t a coffin for them to embrace,
The same way poppies once softened the soil
For soldiers lying in shrapnel and snow.
I used to chase after the sun you could reach,
Now, I’d rather break my fallen knees than meet your level;
Dig myself a grave to bury the barbarism,
And bless the blood and sawdust you were left to rot in.
I yearn for your songbirds’ snoring,
So I can believe you’re breathing sweet slumbers,
Not silent severance.
But believing is a wish your heart breaks.
My God! I’m sorry,
I’m too fleshy to hold your frigid form,
To plunge your roots back into pillowy mud,
To tuck you in and sing our lullaby;
The mourning organ rings hollow,
Because the birds are gone.
A sun shielder
A muddy soldier,
And the shoulders
for songbirds,
have fallen.
My love,
I’m sorry we failed you
and fell asleep.
Please wake up.
Nature’s Storehouse by Chloe Camille
Ok, Left at the pasty shop, Subway across
Tree on the corner covered in moss
That’s alright, the next direction Doesn’t make sense
Two benches sit in the shade of a tree, immense
With twisted bark shaped like a flower
Marking the spot, I left food for winter’s dark hour.
I find a nearby rat to ask it for tips
They don’t store food, they make countless trips.
It laughs at me bitterly, I can’t help you survive
There’s barely food in the bin to keep, just me, alive.
Next, I spot pigeons milling about in stress
I pose my question which they answer, restless
“Tomorrow is Friday with any luck,
A lady might throw us some scraps in the muck.”
With none of my friends left to ask now,
I take a moment to look around
I slink with much caution,
Towards some humans eating their portion.
No sooner am I visible, I feel naked
I hope against hope, my breath bated
Instead eyed with immediate disdain
Maybe a crumb dropped if they deign.
https://www.nhm.ac.uk/discover/urban-wildlife.html
Unlikely Companions by Sue Claremont
Through drifts of daffodils
A gull in the park
Takes flight
And lands on a mound
starred with dandelions and daisies
No fish, molluscs, or waves
No seabirds.
In a flash of black and white –
green and blue
A magpie settles on a tree trunk.
Breast feathers ruffled
They consider each other
Cock their heads in greeting
The magpie flutters down.
They search verdant blades.
No crustaceans, instead
Rich with insects,
Worms, seeds and berries
Side by side,
They forage.
Squirrel – Beaumont Park by Catherine Edwards
This way, that way
Hither and yon, hither and yon
Leaping, listening
My legs as powerful as a kangaroos
But—
Fancier britches twitch, flick
Land, stand
Up
Hands together
Parson pursed
One up, one down
Think, blink, look, sniff — ah
The wind tickles my tendrilous tail
Reminding me
Which way
I — am— GOING
Fag butt, fly, twig, leaf, earth
Big leaf, human thing – empty
Downy feather, fag butt, leaf, twig, glass
Here, yes here, maybe, no
YES
Dig, dig, oh – it’s gone
Swivel my half a black universe eyes
Up, past
Spider’s silk tight rope waving
Slack slung on flimsy fence
To see
Humans —
Drawn out by
Early, incubating warmth
Extracting garlic funk
Watching me —
Now leaping
Undulating through
Shadow light, shadow light
Onto the old beech
And round and round
Winding, weaving
Up and up
My aged mother’s
Elephantine trunk
Whose limbs crease, sag
In knotty knarls.
At fork high up
Where rain creates
My dark drinking pool
I pause —
Think, blink, look, sniff —ah
Safe.
Cryptosporidium Coast by Mahrey Berthoud
The tourist board tells us to visit
Our beaches with sand of gold;
To play in the safe, clean waters,
Pleasure for all, young and old.
But, bacteria, viruses, parasites
Pop up when your kids dig the sand;
A bucket and spade of E.coli,
Explosive diarrhoea unplanned.
Where oestrogen and penicillin,
Splash with you on your sea dip,
Valium, diazepam, Prozac,
A cocktail you won’t want to sip.
Where insecticides, oil and asbestos,
Mercury, cadmium, lead,
Blend with P.O.P.s, D.D.T., dioxins,
forever chemicals mankind has spread.
There are tampons, used loo roll and wet wipes,
Water sporters had better watch out,
Don’t get them wound round your snorkels
And hold your breath when you wipe out!
Raw sewage and run off and slurry
Turn sea water glorious brown,
Where pig poo and human poo mingle,
Make sure you don’t swallow it down.
“It’s not our fault” the water boss tells us;
“The rainwater shares the same drain
As the stuff that you flush down your toilet
– it’s too much for us to contain”
“We don’t want your bathrooms to backup,
We don’t want a stink in your street,
We don’t want you wading through sewage,
So, we pop it all into the sea!”
https://www.sas.org.uk/water-quality/
Blue washing by Simon Yung
Ahoy me hearties!
Feast at Black Beards Seafood
Bar & Grill floating restaurant
Celebrate Britain’s Ocean City
‘First-of-its-kind’ national
‘greenwash’ marine park
A commemorative set meal
Fresh from the Sound’s hood
Food to warm your cockles
a four-course dinner that includes:
APPETIZER
Captain Bottom’s Blowhole Sinker
Ocean broiled shucked less hellfish –
lam, ussel, callop, rab, rawn
SLOUP OF THE DAY
Heave-Ho lobster risqué
Soaked in factory raw sewage
And human affluence
POISSON OF THE DAY
Harbour Keel mullet stuffed with
micro-plastic pellets
marinated in grade A tanker fuel
sprinkled with harbour debris
SEAFOOD SPECIAL
Poseidon’s fluvial nightmare
(Not for weak stomachs)
Carbon dioxide choked dolphin,
protein deficient with immune system failure
SIGNATURE DESERT
Mermaid sweet abyss kiss
Coral crumble, crab stick brittle,
topped with yellow oozing octopus
(Please inform your server of any allergy – the establishment can take no responsibility for the long-term survival of their guests).
The Plymouth Sound hijacked by commercial pirates
Bent on an ocean haven of slow burning kitchens –
Marine life stewing (inclusive of VAT).
Seafood grill doing a roaring trade.
Waiters tipped, cash registers clatter
Where Fishes Can Dream by Lesley Lees
High up on the Hoe,
Plymouth Sound is on show,
from the Plym to the Tamar
to the border of the breakwater
and beyond
still waters reflect the blue sky.
Down and down the steep sloping steps
receding tide reveals
stranded water
in small rock pools, with limpets,
bountiful species of barnacles
and a kelp covering softening
the harsh grey stone.
The salt and the seaweed
fragrance the air,
we breathe a balm of calm,
gentle lapping
on the shingle of the foreshore,
sea gazing, blue grazing
a sense of self restored.
In the deep, deep waters
meadows of life saving
sea grasses grow,
capturing carbon,
cooling the ocean,
an aquatic playground for fishy friends,
A temple for species unseen,
where fishes dream
of a net free life,
in this ocean
of marine restoration.
https://www.national-aquarium.co.uk/explore/conservation-projects/seagrass-restoration/
Truths by Guy Paulley
Hell, no!
Are we not family
peas in the proverbial pod!
Truths aplenty I say . . .
My words.
The beginning:
canvas, blue
there, vast and deep,
sapphire hue
emerald sleep,
mirror bright
reflecting skies
where sunbeams kiss
and slowly rise.
NO MORE.
Seas – I for one –
canvas that I am,
custodian to those
there dwell herein
my playground
where wet delights
there, satiate.
Treat me with respect
I plead. For
Those self-centred ones,
gratifiers of quick fix,
be warned. The last say
will be mine.
Happening:
entrails, swirling entrails
drag you down
deep to your death
bed among contaminants,
chemicals, levelling
Catsharks, Cuckoos ghostly
shadows of their former selves.
Drake’s Island (good friend)
steeped in history’s past,
sheds tears, salty toward
times ahead, But
now, high priests
laud cruel endeavours
under the maxim:
Tourism Trumps the People.
The Future.
What future I say.
Visions, all of the roasting,
toasting kind. And
not just for me; those
welly wet friends of mine
whom have no voice.
I will speak up for them.
Today:
I’m gurgling
With much glee
For I have found my voice
O holy moly me
I feel alive
I am alive
For now,
Just. And
you, high priest,
I’m coming after you.
I’m conundrum
vision, dream
embraced by colour
a world that sees,
likening the weather
where wavelets wax
then wane
flattering to deceive.
Truth will win
In the end.
Invasive Species by Kate Wing
Blooming biodiversity bringing all the foreigners.
Spanish bluebells mingling with our drooping native flowers
producing scentless hybrids.
Shame on you, three cornered leek,
No room for our own wild garlic since you got here.
Don’t get me started on those grey squirrels,
Coming here from America with their squirrel pox,
Killing all our British reds.
What about you Periwinkle? Are you Greater or Lesser?
Are you small and naturalised or large and invasive?
You’ve been here four hundred years?
Tell that to those cooing pigeons,
Strutting around with their puffed-up breasts.
I blame the Romans and their rock doves,
Bringing them here for meat and eggs.
And round the park the traffic rumbles,
Motorbikes growl and roar,
While grey buildings peer boldly over the walls
At the small patch of nature humans allow.
What belongs here? What can stay?
And who decides?
the happy-go-lucky spied spinner by Jane Alana Ross
hallo dear hapstance rad-don’t-mind-me
i’m tiny! bitsy lit thing just
tip-tipping pad
minding my lot
oh, what? can’t lug
the tap? ah well no hap
am pleased to make your enormous acquaintance
and you actu’ly catch me at lunch!
done me sheet weaving for the wink,
time now in to tuck
to a good ole staple springtail
au, where me manners? amn’t
many us around
so no wonder you blunder
see, i be the kindly horrid
(means hairied)
ground weaver
top to tail millimetes i length a whole half and two
and do
you dig my stylish orange?
o i hope you find us cute
on this earth
so we can keep of it
all’s we need’s space, so like ’oot worry
we currently exist in three, no
scratch that, two
on-earth quarry
o i’m sure it looks busy
to you dear, but you’re a gargant!
time crawl so sluvvy slouh
so you may’ve not e’n notice we scant
but you notice me now
and we crawl so ticky quick
so well met
hey, say that your den?
then i’d best gen ot
we don’t live plural years, thus cheers
in advance
depending your behaviour
and i’ll just keep to my dance
on the whim of a would-be saviour
https://www.buglife.org.uk/projects/horrid-ground-weaver/
.
Wonderful to see them all published together. Thank you!
Comment by Laura Quigley on 24 May, 2025 at 8:19 am