Many of you will already know with great sadness of Graham Burchell's recent death after a long illness. We'd like to register our appreciation of his contribution as a former Chair to the development of Moor Poets, helping to make it what it is today, and his continued support as an active member. We have very good memories of him leading at least four workshops for us, most recently an inspiring online ekphrastic session last Autumn entitled ‘Thinking outside the Frame’ with his customary aplomb, insight and good humour.
It has been heartwarming to see so much positive sharing of memories of Graham, reflecting on his gifts of character, of creativity, his calm, wise and always reassuringly dependable presence, and his unassuming generosity of spirit. Despite suffering a long period of poor health he bore those challenges, which many of us were unaware of until recently, with uncomplaining, good-humoured stoicism. He has left a rich legacy of perceptive, vivid, shrewd and memorable writing along with the example he set of a keen and whole-hearted engagement with life.
We shall be posting this on our website and if members would like to send their own personal memories and anecdotes about Graham’s life please forward them to Helen at [email protected] or to me and we’ll ensure that they are added to the page.
With warm wishes - Helen and Simon
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I met Graham in 2016 when I was reading at Uncut Poets in Exeter, and my Stanley Spencer poems prompted him to suggest collaborating on a volume together, as he was also working on some Spencer poems. And though I soon discovered we worked very differently, did things at different speeds, what impressed me most about Graham as we put our book together was that he remained always positive, unreactive and good-humoured, no matter what I threw at him. I loved his wry, ironic take on things - as in his poem ‘Scorpion’:
Life. He's already felt its sting.
He had it in the palm of his hand
and he had to poke it.
Who else could put Christ and an artist sitting on the toilet in the same poem?
I don’t know exactly when Graham’s illness took over his life, it seemed a slow deterioration until the last few months. But once he knew it was endgame, his humour and imperturbable spirit took over more strongly than ever. In his last email to me, from 11 May, as he lamented the mistakes in a review of our book I’d sent him, he commented 'well, it's better than a poke in the eye or someone standing on my oxygen tube.’ That’s how I’ll remember him: droll, dry, watching Antiques Roadshow for distraction, and devoted to poetry - not only his own, but that of all contemporary poets, with a rare, heart-warming generosity. Thank you, Graham. I am so proud of our Two Girls and a Beehive. Hope you are now splashing in those ‘puddles of light.’
Rosie Jackson
(photo of me and Graham May 2019 at Cookham after a reading there.)
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Poems in memory of Graham
Poems in memory of Graham
Part of the furniture
for G.B.
- of my life. Month in, month out, looking at words
together. And if you were, I see you as a Welsh Dresser
made of oak – a tree in its prime with a story,
heavy and imposing, a discreet shine in lamplight
a warmth to the touch. There’s a candle on you
now, pooling golden light on your grain, and I can
count the map of your lines – how many years –
if I wished. You’re stacked with a vintage service
I think – nothing chintzy – leaves maybe, bright
butterflies. Your cups gleam on their shelves and
there’d have to be a tankard. If someone brushes
past you, your saucers chink. It’s clear that you’ve
been much-loved but there are cracks and breaks
in the wood if I look closely, trace them with my fingers,
here a tightening and drying, the long-gone ooze
of sap, old wood, holding its dream of forest
retreating. Such comfort to have you in the room
taking up that space, there, where nothing else
could go yet there are spaces in you I know
nothing about: secret drawers holding words
I’ll never read. A Welsh Dresser with private recesses.
Hard to believe I’ll come into this room next month
and you won’t be there. Maybe an outline of dust
around your absence. A butterfly at the window.
Sue Proffitt
Weightless
for G.B.
I dreamed about you the other night, for the first time ever –
you were there all right –
I held a pack of cards in my hand, was looking at them
not you, but my dream
was soaked in you like marsh bubbling underfoot –
you were everywhere.
Weightless! you laughed, just the one word you said, and I looked
at the card in my hand –
weightless! a laugh in your voice (you were a big man) and I saw
how that one word
changed everything, air charging itself around that word, hearing
you smile, knowing yourself
weightless, and I knew you’d died - what a surprise, a shared joke,
you were afloat.
Sue Proffitt
Weightless
for G.B.
I dreamed about you the other night, for the first time ever –
you were there all right –
I held a pack of cards in my hand, was looking at them
not you, but my dream
was soaked in you like marsh bubbling underfoot –
you were everywhere.
Weightless! you laughed, just the one word you said, and I looked
at the card in my hand –
weightless! a laugh in your voice (you were a big man) and I saw
how that one word
changed everything, air charging itself around that word, hearing
you smile, knowing yourself
weightless, and I knew you’d died - what a surprise, a shared joke,
you were afloat.
Sue Proffitt
Dear Graham
You’ve been walking around in my dreams
filling up the space you’ve left – in your hands
a poised pen and in your eyes an almost laugh.
Even though your broad back is turned sometimes
I know that’s your expression.
So when I wake up it’s a shock to remember
this is the only way I’ll see you now,
until the other day while driving home
our cars passed each other on a country lane
and you waved your thanks for my backing up.
I knew it was you and had something I must tell you
but by the time I’d got over the surprise
and wound the window down
I couldn’t see you in the rearview mirror
and your cheery smile blurred the windscreen.
Rebecca Gethin
The day you died
I brought you to meditation.
You arrived sharp-edged, living,
a big man with clean white hair,
your cheeks flushed lightly with joy
not disease, their colour echoing
your red Hawaiian shirt.
You looked at ease in it,
in your body, laughing with us
at a joke you’d just made.
I felt happy at your happiness,
your sweet release from the torture
of being compelled to breathe.
That afternoon when the email came
I was walking in muddy woods,
discovering late bluebells hidden
beside newly cut stumps,
hearing birds you would have known
as friends. I walked with you
among the tall conifers, the shy green
of beech leaves, the clearings
of rain-fresh grass, feeling your love
for all of nature, remembering
how it filled your poetry, how you
were always there where poetry was.
In the rain’s soft sadness I heard you
tell us everything was all right.
Susan Jordan
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