The Hawk's Mewl a 'significant selection of poems by Nigel Humphreys' was published in 2007 by Arbor Vitae Press, London. The editor Jonathan Wood in his introduction feels 'sure that readers will find themselves transported by these poems into a dimension of great humanity and sensitivity . . . The style of his writing and the images he sets down impart the elegance and depth of the imaginative process of writing itself . . . The voice of the poet travels deep into the regions of the imaginative conception, excavating and bringing back with it comparisons and revelations, small and great, that cannot be contained . . Each word is wrought with brevity and forged in fire.'
The poet David Parry reviews the Collection here : http://www.calibans-redemption.blogspot.com/ in his entry of Sept. 8th Signs of Spirit.
The Church Times Review July 25th 08: Nigel Humphreys’s talent for language is announced in the “mewl” of his collection’s title, which precisely evokes a buzzard’s call. Humphrey’s language is often scientifically crisp; yet it is revelatory, and his observations intrigue. He shows us cowrie shells’ “drizzled colours, humpty With inrolled whorls”; or “a simple coffin . . . tumbrilled by strangers On the crackle gravel”. Original description is matched by haunting, unfinished narratives, such as the “passenger in his own car Quietly slipping away”. . . where Humphreys writes from personal experience, his work shines and searches.
Idris Caffrey for Cinnamon Press writes
I have seen the work of Nigel Humphreys over a number of years in magazines like Borderlines, Coffee House Poetry, Poetry Monthly and Roundyhouse – all very good publications. A very well presented book this with a lovely front cover and well presented poems. It is obvious that the editor has taken great care over the presentation of the poet’s work. It soon becomes obvious, after reading three or four of these poem, that Humphreys has a great love and knowledge of the natural world. The titlepoem itself shows his humanity and sensitivity and introduces us to the collection. It also underlines the poets obvious craft. There are some beautiful poems in the collection. One of my favourites is “The Beech Tree,” describing how the tree has fallen – “to a night wind” and I love the last two lines of the poem – “and there is nowhere/ to hang a rope.” This is the poet at his very best.
In the poem “Cowrie Shells,” the poet tells us about how his mother collected them –
“but she never did anything with them
not even a bangle strung on thread;
just hoarded them on a pantry shelf
in a Kilner jar with her hopes
because they were hard to find.”
I recommend this book without hesitation and it has been a real pleasure reading it.
Kay Green editor of Circaidy Gregory Press writes "The eternal mysteries of living and dying, of presence and absence, are the tones that ring through this collection, not least because the poet goes out of his way to add the caveat to the book - 'The reader should not presume that any one of these pomes is autobiographical' thus, naturally, making the reader wonder which ones might be. But it is the richness of the language and the ideas that makes me want to go back again and again, revisiting those poems that present Hay Tor as ‘a fist punched through the moor’ and tell me that to plant a tree is to ‘set a trap for the future’, and that the smiles bestowed on a waitress are ‘grappling hooks’.
Author Pam Eaves writes Every poem is a miniature painting in words, carefully crafted and bringing to life a picture. The hawk’s primitive cry, an everlasting howl through the ages; memories of a barely noticed beech tree until it had gone and the horror of the Somme described in sparse, but horrific words. I marvelled at the language painstakingly chosen to illuminate the terror and pain men suffered far more clearly than a novel full of words. Such a joy to read in these days of limited vocabulary.
The Collection is currently on sale in London bookshops including Foyles at £4.99 but can be purchased directly from the publishers BM Spellbound, London, WC1N 3XX (cheques should be made out to J.M. Wood and include £1 for P&P. Postage free on two or more purchases. Nigel Humphreys also has two poems published in Through the Woods Issue 5 and one in Issue 6 which can be purchased from BM Spellbound at £3.50 incl. P&P
By way of a taster:
A grandson’s photo shoot
Two tricky grannies
lithic perms, aran woollies
in speculative deckchairs
outside Mrs Bonny’s boarding house;
they didn’t ‘want us fotas took’
but they didn’t stop him
pretended not to notice,
stared like fire dogs,
ignored him for the first time.
He only took one
the last one,
a heavy trip.
The shutter click
erased a dimension
stopped their clock
sprung them into corners
in an album
to be flicked through
on poor TV nights,
and jigsaws done.
Curosities:
napthalene weddings
trips in charabancs
reluctant in dunes, in parks,
in wickerchairs in backyards,
a smile for geraniums
grandchildren in arms
to this last one
nothing to follow
full stop.
Derwent Reservoir
trout doodle on silk today
lasso reflections from below
unlike the whipcrack
of the fisherman’s arm
which puts a fold in calm,
or the skim of stone
swallowed by dark water
the inevitable is
perhaps not
from my displacement
off the fringe of the lake
I draw a bead on the bright corrugations
which rib the middle distance,
petrify them with concentration,
pour molten thought into the mould
it casts a surge of contra-flow
as when
looking out from a stationary carriage
one appears to move backwards
when the train on the next line
begins its journey
the pattern re-draughts itself
and the next seconds
become a sprinkling of eternity in reverse:
concentric circles lure the fish,
the angler’s catch swims
in his bait tin
and a stone rises from deep water
triple jumping into my peace
Grains of knowledge
The Haratin squatted
in a palm grove
making a tent of his headdress
with one hand
against the Harmattan wind.
The stars nudged eachother,
his goats bickered.
With his free hand
he spooned the desert,
cupped a splash of sand
and began to count the grains
in the tracery of firelight,
recalling what the Imam had said:
For each grain of sand upon the planet
a million stars diffuse across the universe..
All night he had weighed
the ineffable’s dimensions
in the sandglow round his feet.
A spark shot from the fire
blazed a lucid trail
for the briefest moment
and died into the darkness.
He gave up
and a billion suns trickle-fell
through his fingers.
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