Tim Rich lives and writes in Hastings, England. Most recently, his poems have appeared in the book Dark Angels: Three Contemporary Poets (Paekakariki Press, London), at the Bloomsbury Festival, and in the 2024 Connections project with writers’ group 26 and the Barbican Centre. He has also guested on poetry podcasts such as Night Light with Tom Snarsky and Eat the Storms. @timrichphotographs
Where were you born and raised? How did it influence your writing and your thinking about the world? I was born in the woods of Sussex, England—a place of gentle wildness. From an early age, I was left to wander. I spent many hours following old tracks and streams, dreaming up stories. The way light falls in those thick woodlands still inspires the atmosphere in many of my poems, even those set far from the countryside. I'm often writing in the dusk of doubt, trying to find my way to the clarity of belief in something—or even faith. Out on those paths, I would stumble on abandoned farms, huts, cottages, bridges, tractors, scythes. I’m still always looking for the beauty in decay and hard use.
What kind of reader were you as a child? What books made you fall in love with reading as a child? My mother despaired because I wouldn’t touch a book. Cleverly, she started leaving magazines about soccer—my obsession at the time—lying around. I was soon begging for more words, and the content broadened from sport into tales of adventure and mystery. I read so much, I had to start writing just to spill some of the vocabulary and ideas filling me up so fast. Later, I came across an illustrated edition of William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, which took me through the gate of poetry and into a world of esoteric art and thought.
Can you walk us through your day when you’re deep into poem? A poem may have begun sub-consciously years back, but it can emerge at any time of day. I stop whatever I’m doing and get down as much of that first shape as possible—words, phrases, anything that’s arrived. It’s like stopping mid-walk to photograph a butterfly. A poem often begins for me with a phrase that opens up into an idea, atmosphere, or story. I revisit my rough notes soon after, adding depth and form, shaping lines. Usually, by the next evening, I’ll sit with those lines and push at their structure, trying to figure out what I’m really saying. I’m a better editor than writer, so a draft generally takes off once I start to work and work and work and work it. It’s rare that I do fewer than 50 edits of a poem.
Tell us about the creative process and current writing projects. Along with working on a new collection, I’m developing ways to present my poems in unliterary settings. For example, I’m creating a small show in a secret pub near the sea in England. It will feature my semi-abstract photographs of boat hulls, paired with letterpress prints of poems about wear and tear. I’m also planning a collaboration with a woodblock artist, exploring the local landscape. And I’m developing ideas for using new digital technologies to weave poetry into people’s everyday lives—especially for those who wouldn’t typically consider themselves poetry readers.
Do you keep a journal or notebook? If so, what’s in it? Alas, my note-taking is chaotic. I use Apple Notes for many early ideas—my phone’s always nearby and never runs out of ink. I use paper notebooks to rewrite poems. For early drafts, I’ve also been using paper embedded with wildflower seeds; I will give a version to a friend to read, then invite them to rip it up and plant it.
How do you research and what role does research play in your writing? I go on information odysseys, starting with a long exploration online, then into books and, later, conversations with people that might know unexpected things. These journeys almost always create the starting point for a poem, although that might not crystallize until months later. If I’m writing about a topic, I’ll research hard to ensure I have it right, especially if I’m audaciously using some allusion to advanced physics or chemistry or maths, and so on. I’m always looking out for obscure glossaries, like books on Victorian nautical terms, or essays on the etymology of certain wild flowers, stars, goddesses, lakes...
Which writer, living or dead, would you most like to have dinner with? The poet Louise Glück—partly because I want to talk to her about her poems. But also because she was a demanding teacher, and I’m feeling the need for a demanding mentor.
Do you draw inspiration from music, art, or other disciplines? Everything, all the time. I sometimes rework scenes from paintings in my poems. I often show my poems alongside some of my photographs. I generally shoot lo-fi images of the margins of our world, like drain covers or old doors or sun-bleached ‘missing dog’ posters. With music, the influence partly comes because I was a drummer, way back when. I have a strong sense of rhythm in writing. I’m also doing more readings these days, and your rhythm can bring a piece to life, or kill it in a bloodbath of confused metre. Also, Mark E. Smith of The Fall did things with lyrics and music that will never be matched; I’m inspired by his creative spirit each day.
AI and technology are changing the ways we write and receive stories. What are your reflections on AI, technology and the future of storytelling? What’s at stake when machines become storytellers—and what should remain human? Is it important that humans remain at the center of the creative process? It's always worth considering the unthinkable—that maybe we won't. But really, the art that moves me is odd, nuanced, unsettling—it often emerges from the psychic mess within a scarred person. I don’t need AI wasting electricity creating more of that. I use AI right now for early-stage research or grammar queries. Results are flawed, but sometimes they open up new approaches. I am concerned about what comes next. AI’s ruthlessness may appeal to certain corporations. Yet, as someone living with ME/CFS, I’m hopeful it could also bring breakthroughs in complex health conditions.
Tell us about some books you've recently enjoyed and your favorite books and writers of all time. I’m reading Modern Poetry by Diane Seuss—one of the great modern collections. I just finished Jun'ichiro Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows, an exquisite meditation on old Japanese craft, materials, homes, and sensibility. For those intrigued by language, myth, and Armageddon, I highly recommend Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban. It’s written in a post-apocalyptic English that seems tricky at first, but you become fluent in it within a few pages. I reread it yearly and find myself thinking in Riddley-speak, even when I’m not reading it. Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is one of the great novels, but I sometimes reread parts of it as a prose poem. James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake is often misunderstood; I say dip into it as if it’s a fast-flowing river of poetry.
Exploring literature, the arts, and the creative process connects me to… the far reaches of the lit universe inside me.
