this is yogic

I am the island

Funeral Ikos in Clifton Cathedral

Everything is swipeable. The spire daggers skywards.
Your velvet robes are lifted from the tales of Robin Hood.

Today the day comes around again. Light falls
into a copper well. The tuning is electrical

& in the garden such a fine-boned man walks out.
It is dawn in the Temple. I am searching for a rawl plug

or the right adaptor. Red eye to the city, my ATM
spews till receipts. Let’s do the movements now.

The sinner. The redeemed. The secret shopper
treading water in the central aisle. Old friend,

forgive me, I have binned the voices. These breeze blocks
will do for kneelers. Touch me & touch me & let me touch.

Dawn cracks & the river goes to foil. The best notes
are the wrong notes. My palm conceals a ticket.

Things I’ve been up to

I haven’t blogged here for a while. These last few months, I’ve been about as busy as I have ever been. Here is a selection of recent activities. (All good, of course. It’s not polite to mention the bad stuff!)


Moving flat

After nine years living in Aldgate, in the heart of it all, my wife and I have moved south of the river to the sleepy Thames-side ‘village’ of Rotherhithe. I think it may prove to be the best thing we’ve ever done. It’s got some great pubs, lovely walks, and a deep and complex history.

The Thames at Rotherhithe, looking towards Wapping

An Antidote to Indifference

I had a piece about the lost islands of Sussex printed in this fanzine published by Caught by the River in association with the Island Review. It’s edited by The Island Review’s editor Mallachy Tallack. You can still read my original article online here.

Mount London

Another anthology is out – this one co-edited with Martin Kratz. The subtitle is ‘Ascents in the Vertical City’. It’s a great read!

Moray Walking Festival

I was invited to give a 45 minute talk/reading at this splendid local festival in the north of Scotland dedicated to walking. Before I did my slot, we had the opportunity to walk out onto the bleak, beautiful sand dunes of the Moray Firth with a walking artist. It was a magical experience.

The Moray Firth near Findhorn

LIFT Festival

Myself and long-time friend James Wilkes were commissioned to make an audio piece for Battersea Arts Centre by LIFT Festival. This culminated in The Listening Post, a semi-immersive experience that told surprising stories of World War One Battersea – from roller-skating rinks to munitions factories to the tribunals of Conscientious Objectors. It was a real pleasure making the work, collaborating with Jamie, and installing it in the rafters of the beautiful Arts Centre. Natasha Tripney of Exeunt Magazine reviewed the work:

From the orchid room you ascend, passing under the rafters, noting stray roller skates and flickering clips of Charlie Chaplin; the overlapping voices are underscored by an ominous aeroplane drone and suggestive of suspicions hissed over back garden fences, the twitch of the curtain.

We plan to turn what we made into some kind of digital experience over the summer, so that more people can discover the stories we brought life to.

The Orchid Room as part of The Listening Post at BAC (LIFT Festival)

Edwin Morgan Award shortlist

I am honoured to have been shortlisted for this prestigious prize for Scottish poets 30 and under. I just slipped under the barrier on both counts, it seems. The winner is announced at the Edinburgh Book Festival on 16th August. I will be there. The shortlisting is for the manuscript of my second collection (currently unpublished), Dark Islands.

Edwin Morgan

I Leave This At Your Ear

Last year I recorded some poems for the Poetry Library at the Southbank Centre. One of my own, and two in Anglo-Saxon! They are now going to be part of an audio installation as part of Poetry International Festival. It’s free, so do drop by.

Arts Council news

My publishing / performance company Penned in the Margins received some wonderful news. We have been selected as an Arts Council NPO (National Portfolio Organisation) for 2015-18. After almost ten years of precarious labour at the arts coal face, this gives us three years of relative stability with which to stabilise the ship, raise our game, and ensure that we have the grounding to build for the future.

Two early reviews of Flood Drain

Chivers’ Flood Drain speaks in many voices: some are beautiful, some are demotic and, pulled together, they achieve a confluence, like the Humber and the Hull, like the past and the present.

John Field, ‘Find the River’


Very different from the ambitious Medieval allegorical world of Langland’s dream poem this witty and intelligent take on industrial drainage in the twenty-first century has no qualms about playing with sounds and inferences.

Ian Brinton, Tears in the Fence

Flood Drain OUT NOW

Flood Drain is out now from Annexe Press, in a limited edition risograph pamphlet, priced £4. Details here.


Personal Space


Personal Space

Out on the isthmus, they could be sales reps on a junket.
One shoulders his rifle like a paintball gun. The balaclava slips
as he aims across the scrub till a hand on his arm defers the event.

On the headland, a man in a coat with too many pockets
scans the horizon. So much sea. It could be Dungeness or Clacton.
Men look so much smaller wearing uniform, don’t you find?

Great banks of cloud move in from the east, along the pipeline,
by the coast road, in unmarked trucks from the ferry terminal.
I’m thinking about personal space. I’m thinking about the edge.

Mutant River: Messing around on the Hull

The confluence of Hull and Humber

In the opening of the great medieval dream vision Piers Plowman, the narrator lies down ‘on a brood bank by a bourne syde’ and is sent to sleep by the sound of the stream which, as he says ‘sweyed so murye’. The poem registers a universal truth, that there is something mesmeric about running water, but it also prefigures the Jungian association of rivers with dreaming and the unconscious. The river, of course, can also stand for death or, as Styx, the underworld. In another medieval poem, Pearl, an unfordable river separates the dreamer from the ghost of his daughter and the promise of heavenly paradise. And in Hamlet, all three concepts – death, dream and river – are combined in the famous ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy, where death is identified as ‘The undiscover’d country from whose bourn no traveler returns’.

I was recently commissioned to write a new work for Humber Mouth Literature Festival in Hull, East Yorkshire. The result is Flood Drain, a long poem which meditates on the dual themes of dreaming and drainage, inspired by a two-day drift down the river Hull. The city, recently announced as Britain’s Capital of Culture for 2017, is properly called Kingston-upon-Hull; but such is the ubiquity of the shortened name Hull that the river itself has got somewhat lost. Perhaps this is not so surprising; after all, the city faces out into the vast grey estuary of a much larger river, the Humber, leaving its eponymous stream to snake through the industrial landscape of wrecking yards and ruined docks undisturbed and unrecognised.

Hull is also a lost word. A name with no definitive etymology. Some claim it as Celtic for ‘deep river’ or Saxon for ‘muddy river’, but the most alluring explanation was offered by Nathan Bailey in his 1721 An Universal Etymological English Dictionary:

HULL … of hulen, Lower Saxon heulen, Teutonic, to howl, from the Noise the River makes, when it meets with the Sea

I wanted to walk the Hull as an attempt to trigger an altered state of consciousness, a state of dreaming, and just like the dreamer of Piers Plowman, to listen to the murmur, or the howling, of the river.

On commencing my drift at the river’s mouth, I was struck by a sense of the deep and layered history of Hull. There has been a major port here since medieval times, when it was a prosperous trading centre with links to Scandinavia and the Baltic. In the nineteenth century its docks were some of the most important in Britain, indeed the whole British Empire. Hull suffered more than any other city, save London, during the Blitz, and this onslaught not only altered the industrial landscape forever – it also precipitated Hull’s seemingly terminal decline in the late twentieth century (in 2003 Hull came top of a list of the UK’s Crap Towns).

The environment of the river mouth, whether River Hull meets the Humber, is messy and exposed. Old dock gates shake in the turbulent tide; grey-brown, frothing water spills over crumbling walls, and the metal gangways creak and swell. The scifi prow of the ominously-named new ‘submarium’ – The Deep – juts out into the estuary. This cape was once dominated by one corner of a formidable castle (later citadel) overlooking the walled city. A chain and windlass were employed to protect the entrance to the river from invaders, and the appearance of the mouth as a fortified gate persists as one looks north through the great tidal surge barrier and the first of numerous bridges that span the Hull.

The Deep

Dry dock at the mouth of the Hull

As you follow the river’s course through the city, access to the waterfront is never guaranteed. Your view of the river is often complex or obscured; mediated through a patchwork of fenced-off wasteland, former docks reduced to stagnant pools, makeshift carparks and industrial sites. Hull’s Streetlife Museum and a restored ship the Arctic Corsair (in whose rigging pigeons were loudly roosting) are the few ‘heritage’ artefacts on the riverbank. I saw no tourists, and only a handful of recreational walkers, namely a couple of families near the museum and dog walkers. The history of Hull is all the more intriguing by the absence of any sustained memoralisation, and by the juxtaposition of the restless, timeless river with its ruined, choked-up banks. I imagined the monks of the Charterhouse Monastery (whose buildings are now part of Hull College) tramping through the scrappy car park towards the Maizecor Tower. Multiple iterations of industry exist on one site, each one layering over the other like a graffiti wall, or a palimpsest. In short, then: Hull is the psychogeographer’s dream job.

Hull is a city of districts, each one boasting a distinct flavour. Approaching Wincolmlee – which literally means ‘a field in the corner of an island’ – the banks thrive with scrapyards and processing plants; chemical works and double glazing manufacturers. The sign for an inflatable boat company has been eroded to a joke version of itself in pig Latin. I had the sensation of real activity – the constant low buzz of machinery, the beep of reversing lorries – but without actually seeing more than about fifteen people in hard hats and high viz jackets. When I stepped into the Kingston Cafe for lunch – a traditional workers’ caff located inside a light industrial estate – I was the only customer.

Off Wincolmlee, I stumbled across a wildly overgrown graveyard. Faded headstones lost in a sea of hawthorn and rampant ivy. On inspection, most of the dead were nineteenth century, but the site – the former church of St Mary’s, Sculcoates – is more ancient, at least thirteenth century. Reckitt’s Chimney looms above this abandoned space like an admonishing index finger. A brick stack of 141 metres, the chimney once gave off sulphurous fumes from the manufactoring of ultramarine pigment from Reckett & Sons, but is now obsolete.

The river continues to emit an uncanny atmosphere as it snakes, entirely canalised by a steel girdle, past abandoned warehouses and stained gas cylinders. A bridge permanently raised up presents its tarmac surface as a verticle plane, a writing or climbing wall. Maybe TS Eliot had in mind not London but Hull when he wrote of the ‘unreal city’?

Past Stoneferry and the marvellously graffitied frontages of boarded-up warehouses, the Hull loses its girder on one side, and a strip of almost fluorescent green turf greets the walker in this weird edgeland.

On the opposite bank, chemical works steam and hiss, whilst the path on the east bank nudges up against the steel fences of car parks, storage units and industrial hangars. In the middle distance a  wind turbine – owned by chemicals company Croda – moves its giant sails through the crisp air.

What appeared at first to be a large bear crouching on the riverbank turned out, as I approached slightly nervously, to be a horse – tethered (actually, chained) to a post in the spongy ground. Beyond it, another, and then another. These horses, I later discovered, are kept here illegally – that is, against council regulations – by Irish travellers.

As the river Hull emerges from the industrial fringes of the city, through the suburbs of Sutton Fields and Greylees, it enters a flat landscape cut and organised by a complex network of ditches and dikes. Follow the river all the way to Beverley and you will never be more than a couple of metres above sea level; the fields and farms of this rural hinterland were once unusable marshes (or in the local dialect ‘carrs’) and would be again if it were not for their systematic draining. In the seventeenth century engineers from the Netherlands were employed here, as they were in East Anglia, because they, above all others, understood about living below the sea.

On my second day exploring the river Hull, I walked from the market town of Beverley along Beverley Brook to Grovehill Lock. This is the point at which the (artificial) Brook meets the (natural) river, but is also the point of intersection with the Beverley and Barmston Drain, which flows in dead straight lines roughly parallel with the meandering river all the way to their confluence at Sculcoates Gote (also known as High Flags). A number of other, smaller drains can be found in the vicinity, hustling across the expanse of common land at Figham.

Under a pale Autumn sun, the bucolic atmospherics of the river out here – far from the city yet still in sight of Reckitt’s Chimney – were undercut by a persistent feeling of being followed. Walking the Hull’s raised bank was like walking along a ridgeway. In one field the distant rumble of an engine was the bass drone to the mournful, falsetto wails of unknown birds hidden in the stubble. Near the outflow of Well Stone Carr Drain, a large, unleashed dog charged at me, barking aggressively as if I was a threatening interloper. At Kenley Reach, an isolated farm was surrounded by a junkyard of smashed cabins, abandoned caravans and containers, gut-less vehicles, a rusting barge concealed behind tall reeds. A little further on, I found a sad pony tethered to a kissing gate.

Rusting barge, Kenley Reach Farm

I turned away from the Hull at Ferry Lane, where an overgrown wooden platform on the riverbank is all that’s left of a ghost ferry across the river between the hamlets of Wawne and Thearne.

The drain, it seems to me, is a defining symbol of Hull: oscillating between cleanliness and disease, between the bucolic and the urban industrial; a reminder of the provisional geography the city overlays.

And so I completed my walk by following the Beverley and Barmston Drain – the ‘Barmy Drain’ to locals – from Dunswell, beyond the boundaries of the city, through Newlands and Sculcoates. The slow-moving water was covered in algal bloom and full of junk: bottles, cans, discarded takeaways cartons, shopping trolleys, mattresses, even a television screen – face down in the murk. It’s hard to believe that back in the 1950s children used to swim in it. Nowadays the path along the drain is more popular with dog-walkers than with bathers.

The Barmy Drain is only the open drain that stills runs through the centre of Hull, but the city is still full of traces of other drains, now buried beneath the streets. Through Sculcoates I nosed around for the trail of the former Cottingham Drain, and found it ghosting the cycle paths and alleyways, the waste grounds and in-between parks, before it too meets the river through a disused dock. You can track these vanished lines on Google Maps; the satellite imagery reveals forgotten routes threading across the streetplan.

At the end of the dream vision, the dreamer awakes, returned to the old world. The river is not this knowable thing. On a hoarding underneath Mytton Bridge, by the river’s mouth, someone had scrawled this message.



Graffiti on the banks of the Hull


Flood Drain will be published by Annexe in a limited edition in December 2013.

A full set of photographs can be found on Flickr.

Flood Drain

Photo of Beverley & Barmston Drain, Sculcoates by Paul Glazzard

I couldn’t be more excited to have been commissioned by Humber Mouth Literature Festival to write Flood Drain.


Flood Drain: A Contemporary Dream Vision of the River Hull

Inspired by the extraordinary dream visions of the medieval poets, the contemporary writer Tom Chivers proposes a new exploration of the liminal terrain of the River Hull floodplain. Part psychogeographical walk, part poetic enquiry, Flood Drain will follow the River and the complex drainage system associated with it from Beverley to its outfall at the Humber Estuary in Hull; through meadows and parkland, playing fields and suburban streets, past ancient churches and industrial estates, underneath A roads and railway tracks.

Referencing political visions through the metaphor of the river as dreamland, Flood Drain will also approach the vital issues of flooding and climate change. The poet will combine historical and geographical research with chance encounters with local residents and river users in his investigations of the edgelands between city and countryside, land and water.


Launch of the project: Friday 8th November, 6.45pm at Hull Central Library. (Download the Humber Mouth brochure.)

Seamus Heaney’s Human Touch

It’s fair to say that Heaney stood apart from many of the innovations of modern poetry, but he was a master of breath, and of the poised line-ending. His poems are always clean and efficient, but with sounds that leap off the page: his was a poetry of speaking, of a gently turned vernacular. They are, to me, deeply religious too; fascinated by things that fade, by the possibility of a world beyond the visible.

My celebration of Seamus Heaney was published in The Guardian on the day of his death. North (1975) has always been one of my favourite poetry collections of the twentieth century.


Island of Coral

As if you might hold back ocean with a fizzling ring of yourself,

life distils into petrified matter: cabbage, ginger roots,
skeletal fungi moved by the currents like a card trick.

To see the dry bones of you washed in their millions:
job lots of diamonds so brittle and white on the tide-line

at dusk; a horned anemone perched on a rock,
junked mine I had to hold just to ask how it came;

or a can or something stripped of its label
that is lodged in a thicket and turned into you, coral. Ash after fire.

From the house, from the spring-line, from the sugar cane factory
we watch the breaking of colour on a false horizon.

And the noise of you: a canned drone in the sinus,
as if I never stepped out of the plane.

Between the land and the reef there is all that we need.
Edwin’s sparrow-hawk, a luminous globe submersible.

O how small and happy are we in the rising tide how
breathless and tumbling repelled and yet drawn by the reef.

I could keep here forever suspended with my heart
in my mouth and a lungful of sea.

For you are death, the howling of dogs, the noise in the forest.
You are shadow, an island enclosed in a cloak.

An island of slaves who stepped off the rock into open air.

Five new dates for The Walbrook Pilgrimage

Part historical/cultural research project, part exercise in acute environmental observation, Chivers’ ode to the Walbrook – “ghost and friend of the City” – is an immersive, beautifully executed exercise in urban psychogeography. (Wild Culture)

If you missed the initial, sold-out run of The Walbrook Pilgrimage, it’s your lucky day – I am leading five more walks in October to coincide with National Poetry Day (this year’s theme is ‘water’).

The walks will follow the course of one of London’s most important yet mysterious lost rivers – the Walbrook – from the heart of Shoreditch through the City to its dirty outfall on the Thames foreshore. On the way you will explore back alleys and grand avenues, passing holy wells, playhouses and mystical mounds; Roman cemeteries, architectural oddities and buried temples.

Each walk takes just over an hour and a half, and is narrated on headphones with live action along the way. Groups are restricted to ten per walk, so it will be an intimate experience! Tickets are £10. Click on the links below to book now and avoid disappointment.


Wed 2 Oct, 4.15pm

Thu 3 Oct, 5.15pm (National Poetry Day)

Fri 4 Oct, 6pm

Sat 5 Oct, 6.45pm

Sun 6 Oct, 7.30pm

Practical details

Please arrive on time, as equipment will need to be distributed. We will not be able to wait for latecomers. The walks commence 15 minutes after the advertised time, and last approximately 100 minutes. The terminus is by the Thames near Cannon Street station.

Mp3 players will be distributed at the start, but I advise bringing your own set of headphones if possible as they will be more comfortable (over the ear ones are best!).

Please bring clothing appropriate to the weather, including a decent pair of shoes.

Please be aware that the pace may be brisk at time.

Queries can be directed to


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