"I expect wonders round every corner"
I was bored, picked a book off from the shelf. Ignored chapters on Esperanto, Volapük, Interlingua, Toki Pona, Lingua Ignota, and Solresol, and started reading a one on Klingon because I liked the Star Trek series on TV and film following the adventures of the Star Ship Enterprise and its crew. It’s mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilisations, and to boldly go where no one has gone before.
There wasn’t any doubt what I’d write about. It was the highlight of the day, and I felt guilty about not writing about all the other things: Dave at the cruise terminal who directed me to a barber’s for my first haircut on the cruise, the museum itself with its installations, the war memorial gardens which reminded me of the hero’s shrine in Aldershot. But it was only when I started writing that I realised just how significant the experience was. How much respect meant. In 2024 I travelled on a World Cruise and wrote a poem a day for 100 days. I’m now getting a book of these ready for publication. This is the poem 44. A version was published by Wildfire words.
Talking with the house band’s guitarist Lee about seeing the blues singer/guitarist Muddy Waters back in 1968
In 2024 I travelled on a World Cruise and wrote a poem a day for 100 days.
Photograph by Richard Lovelock. See also https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=682878398095070&set=a.149287128120869 for other wonderful photos.
Many thanks to David Cooke for publishing this poem in the Summer 2026 edition of The High Window, and to Richard Lovelock for allowing me to use his wildlife photographs from the voyage.
The Story Behind the Poem
This happened on a sea day somewhere in the Atlantic.
I was reading a Jack Reacher novel on a lounger when June, from the next cabin, said a bird was trapped by the cabin window. Ray, from the cabin opposite, identified it as a storm petrel and explained that these birds struggle to take off from solid surfaces because of their specialised legs, weak feet and long wings. They normally need open water, a wave, or a cliff edge to gain lift.
After much discussion about what to do, June fetched the guest lecturer and wildlife photographer Richard Lovelock. Wearing cargo shorts and looking entirely unfazed, he gently wrapped the bird in a towel, carried it to the stern, and launched it into the wind.
For a few seconds it seemed uncertain whether the bird would fly.
Then it caught the air and disappeared into the sky.
The Poem
DAY 92: THE SOFTEST THING
A storm petrel falls from the sky,
feathers plastered by rain,
wings folding under the pull of gravity,
one half alert to waves,
the other drifting, chest rising in tiny rhythms.
Then Richard Lovelock appears,
hands practiced, careful,
beard salt white, eyes scanning the storm.
He kneels by the cabin door,
swaddles the bird in a towel,
feeling the pulse, the fear,
breath trembling through feathers.
Passengers angle for photos,
oblivious to the small life
he carries to the stern,
a small message
meant for sky, not sea.
He throws the bird upward,
expecting a miracle.
Gravity, that unsentimental editor,
offers no guarantees.
For three long beats: nothing.
Then instinct kicks in.
Wings catch the wind,
rain stinging, spray on the deck:
it rises, slipping into the open sky.
Publication
Published in The High Window, Summer 2026.
About the Project
In 2024 I travelled on a world cruise and wrote a poem for each of the 100 days of the voyage and am now getting the book ready for publication. This poem is Day 92 of that sequence.
Last week I received four rejections in the space of a few days. Close enough together to feel cumulative. I reminded myself, as I always do, that there are many reasons a strong poem is turned away.
Not a fit for the journal
A poem can be doing serious work and still fall outside a journal’s aesthetic or tonal frame. Editors shape issues deliberately. Fit is curatorial, not evaluative. Rejection here says nothing about the poem’s durability.
The editor already has enough poems
Space is finite. Once a balance of voices, forms, or subjects is reached, later submissions face a higher bar regardless of quality. Timing often outweighs merit. Many strong poems arrive after the door has effectively closed.
The poem was read after several stronger or similar pieces
Reading is comparative, not absolute. When poems echo themes or structures already encountered, even a good one can feel diminished. Fatigue is contextual. In a different sequence, the poem may have stood out.
The editor read it on a crowded, distracted day
Submissions are often read between other obligations. Attention is uneven. Energy is limited. Subtle work can be missed under these conditions. The poem did not fail the reader. The reading failed the poem.
Rejected for logistical reasons, not merit
Editorial calendars, themed issues, internal debates, and shifting priorities all shape decisions. Many rejections come after a poem has been taken seriously. Silence or form replies often mask constraint rather than judgment.
Of course I feel disappointed. Rejection costs something. But I do not feel judged. A rejection is not a verdict on the poem’s intelligence, ambition, or future. It is a situational decision made under conditions I cannot see.
My responses vary. Sometimes the poem goes straight to the next journal unchanged, a belief that the work is finished and the context was wrong. Sometimes I let it sit, then return with cooler attention. Distance can expose slack, or confirm the poem’s integrity.
I try not to revise aggressively to preempt rejection. Risk and strangeness are easy to trim and hard to restore. More often, I shelve the poem and write something new, accepting that not every strong poem needs an outlet immediately. Over time, rejection becomes background noise.
There is no ideal response. What matters is whether the response allows the work to continue. I like Sylvia Plath’s response “I love my rejection slips. They show me I try.” Tony Hoagland reminds me that editors are often protecting a framework, not judging a life’s work. Mary Oliver frames rejection as ordinary labour, endures.
1. Opening scene
A decade ago, a poet handing out a stapled pamphlet at an open mic in Leeds or Hackney risked being quietly dismissed. If your work did not pass through a recognised press, people assumed you had missed the mark. The rule was never written down, but everyone knew it. You had to be serious.
2. What “proper poet” used to mean
Serious poets subscribed to Poetry Review, PN Review and The Rialto. They clocked every new issue of magazines such as Magma, Ambit, Butcher’s Dog and Acumen. They tracked pamphlet releases from Smith Doorstop, HappenStance, Shoestring and Tall-lighthouse. They knew who had moved from Faber to Picador or stepped across to Cape. They knew about the canon, even championed obscure ones. This was the culture of correctness and it was a full-time job. Oh yes, they were mostly men.
3. Why things changed
Digital tools lowered barriers. Print on demand services such as KDP, IngramSpark and Lulu brought costs down. Mixam and Ex Why Zed made small runs viable. A poet in Norwich could design a cover, send the file to print and have twenty books ready for a weekend fair. The poet did not need a gatekeeper to check it was good enough, would sell enough copies, eventually say yes. Or no
4. The poet changed too
The rise of spoken word reshaped expectations. Poets were no longer only page writers queuing for magazine slots. They were performers touring pubs, bars and festivals. Open mics across London, Manchester, Bristol, Liverpool, Cardiff and here in Woking created active scenes for local people to become involved in. A poem refined on stage fed straight into a hand sold pamphlet. The poet became author, editor, promoter, bookseller and sometimes publisher.
5. The new audience
Spoken word brought people who had never read Poetry Review into the room. They bought what moved them. Salena Godden, Joelle Taylor, Robert Garnham built loyal followings through live work long before anyone took notice. When those readers wanted the poems in print, self published or micro press books filled the gap.
6. The new landscape
Tables at Ledbury, the London Small Press Fair show self published work stacked beside titles from Nine Arches, Verve, Bad Betty, Fly On The Wall, Paper Swans and Bloodaxe. But publishing is a precarious trade. Small presses stretch shoestring budgets, depend on grant cycles and volunteer labour, and sometimes fold without warning. In the past decade presses such as Tall Lighthouse and Eyewear have closed or paused activity. Others shrink their lists or skip a season when money or time runs short. A poet who waited years for a perfect home could watch it disappear overnight. Self publishing became a practical safeguard against this uncertainty.
7. Money and control
A ten pound pamphlet printed through Mixam might cost two pounds per copy. Sell it after a reading and the poet keeps most of the margin. In a traditional deal the poet might receive one or two pounds per copy. Self publishing also means choosing artwork, correcting drafts immediately and reprinting on your own schedule.
8. Where the old stigma still clings
Some gates remain narrow. Prizes such as the Forward and T S Eliot typically accept books submitted by publishers. National review pages lean toward Picador, Faber, Cape and Carcanet catalogues. Yet blogs and podcasts including The Poetry School, Sabotage Reviews and Lunar Poetry regularly feature self published titles.
9. Choosing what fits your life
A press such as Carcanet, Bloodaxe or Peepal Tree works well for poets who want editorial depth and distribution. For occasional writers or anyone who cannot spare hours each day sending to magazines, a local print shop may be the simplest route. Design a cover, order fifty copies, give or sell them to friends and local readers. Either way the work reaches the world.
10. Closing reflection
The definition of a poet has widened. No longer confined to pages in sanctioned magazines, poets now read, perform, film, post and print on their own terms. Some still pursue the traditional ladder. Others build their own steps. A poem that connects with a listener or reader counts. The route it travelled is no longer the test. So this year I will self-publish a book.
Barry Smith invited me to read here yesterday. Arrived at 7 at the Vic Institute to be met by the MC Mike Carey, a dab hand at the piano as well. I was on first and read a set dealing with thin hair, Genesis, death and love (of course, after all it’s our 50th anniversary at the end of the month) to an audience who were not that used to poetry, but I made them laugh in a few places, and there was a decent applause at the end. In the second half, Maria Jastrezebska read some poems from her book “Small Odysseys” which are still rattling my head at the moment. I was also treated to some songs by Amanda Waring ( Noel Coward and music Hall) and she also took part in a double hander with Bill Brennan. a spoof of Brief Encounter, and the Theatre Designer who explained how he makes 3D designs rather than draws then so he can see the actors in space.
The wonderful and engimatic poet, Rodney Wood is joining us today.
Applause – Crowd go mad – security is called (again)
Rodney elegantly descends the lighted stairs
Now, settle down, Poetry Lovers! Let’s let our guest take his seat
Cool hat, Rodney! I think this is the hat – is it not? It certainly has a story to tell!
Every hat tells a story, Heather. I particularly like this one as it goes with my tie dye vest
Oh Rodney, you are so cool ! Tie dye is the way to go! How long did you stand at that sink to get such a strong shade of pink? Isn’t he the most, everybody?!
pandemonium
Now calm down, Poetry Lovers, because I’m chomping at the bit to ask Rodney his first question – How did poetry become a part of your life?
In my very late 20’s, I spent a week with the poet lorryeate of Milton Keynes, Bill Billing, at Open University Summer School. He introduced me to poetry (and much else) and encouraged me to “just write”.
I was able to thank him a few years later by putting him on the stage with his hero, Ivor Cutler, in Aldershot and by buying him some SAS wings. From that stage I continued to write bad poems.
Fabulous, Rodney! How I’d love to interview those guys too! You’ve certainly come a long way, and so modest!
Now which poets influenced you the most?
Elizabeth Bishop, Raymond Carver, Ken Smith and Matthew Sweeney. I fell in love with them and read everything they’d ever written. When I had the chance to meet Ken and Matthew (who was writer in residence at nearby Farnham. He invited me to a reading once but didn’t tell me the audience would be made up of sixth form schoolgirls) they were both so kind and generous that I just wanted to become part of that world.
I had much to learn so paid weekly visits to the Poetry Library, went on Arvon courses, was one of the founder members of the OU Poets and put on about a dozen poetry readings.
Rodney! That is so impressive! An inspiring example of what we do for our passion and art.
spontaneous applause
And what a CV! Tell us about your pamphlet Dante called you Beatrice, published by Red Ceiling Press. How did you come to write it?
I’d read so many books with dedications to a significant other and I thought well why not write all the love poems to and for that person. Found the title by the way from a book by Paul Potts, not the opera singing one.
Geoffrey Pimlott told me how he’d been a landscape watercolourist but when he saw how computers could generate the same result, he had to do something different. I invented a new form that was short, based on repetition and mucked around with the structure.
The last thing to fall in place was the cover. I’d seen the Cuban artist’s work while I was on holiday and emailed him (Raul Cordero) to say how much I enjoyed his exhibition. A few years later, I emailed him again and asked if I could use one specific painting. He replied that I could use any one of his paintings I wanted. That generosity again.
Todd Swift, of Eyewear Publishing, called it a lovely little book and gave me much needed confidence. “When did you start getting good” he said.
Love it, Rodney! What a story! And that was praise indeed!
Now, can you elaborate on starting Write Out Loud Woking with the wonderful Greg Freeman?
For various reasons (one of them to do with my leather hat), Greg and I wanted an open-mic in Woking where people could just read their poems in a relaxed, non-competitive environment. We also both had a passion for poetry and liked each other’s poems. After perhaps too much prompting from me, Greg found a venue at Send (bit out the way) and later The Lightbox in the centre of Woking, where a few great writers from London also came to enjoy the vibe, Matthew, Tom and Heather.
We’re zooming across the universe now. We enjoy the events so much and at every reading are struck by the varieties and types of poems on offer. In fact, no poem is better than any other.
I was, and still am, the Stanza rep for Woking at this time and it was a good fit as I believe that reading out loud is the final stage of editing a poem.
Well, I’m blushing here, Rodney, I tell you. I treasure those nights at Woking. Loved Send too. Magical nights at both.
So, what was your best poetry gig, and what was your worst?
The worst was at the Poetry Cafe in London. I was really giving the poems some welly and then looked at the organizer who was busy writing and chatting to a neighbour. Why bother? I thought.
The best reading was at the LRB Bookshop where there was an attentive audience and I was trying to see what my poems looked like when signed. I’m half deaf as well. A magical experience like laughing along with Ivor Cutler.
Tsk! That’s happened to me too. It’s a really deflating experience.
I would love to have known Ivor Cutler. He sounded a great talent.
Rodney, thank you so much for sharing such unique, enthralling and inspiring stories. Hasn’t he been wonderful, Poetry Lovers?!
standing ovation, security look nervous
Now Rodney, you’ve got to come up the Talk of the Town tonight. Lovelace Watkins and Peter Gordeno are having a frilled shirt contest. You’ve gotta be there! Greg’s going!
They never let me in, Heather. I think it’s my hats!
Well! If your hats aren’t good enough for them………I’m just going up Send with Cliff and The Shadows then! Greg can tell me who won. Coming, Rodney?
The Shads and I drank Send dry last night, Heather.
Tonight it’s feet up, watching Z Cars.
What?? I bloody love Z Cars! That’s it! They’re getting the old heave-ho!
Thank you so much for coming in, Rodney, and allowing me to interview you.
Huge huge applause as Rodney is smuggled out the building
Wasn’t that great, everybody?! Tune in, same time, same channel for more poetry antics. Bye bye