Sean
Swallow
Gardener Turned
Poet
Attention to Nature
Originally from suburban Cheshire, in the north west of England, Sean (he/him) is a poet and garden maker with a lifelong connection with rural Wales.
His poetry explores nature with a gay sensibility, and hopes to subvert traditional pastoral themes.
Sometimes feeling like an outsider, he navigates themes of identity and belonging, with poems that pay rapt attention to nature.
Photograph by Charlie Hopkinson
Life in Books and Gardens
Sean earned his BA (Hons) in English Literature from The University of Liverpool.
In his twenties, he worked as a bookseller in London, managing an independent bookshop. Later, he transitioned into garden design, and his work quite regularly appeared in the national press.
He developed a garden style that "seemed natural," focusing on creating wildlife habitats through planting hedgerows, woodlands and hay meadows. This style later came to influence his poetry.
He furthered his craft in 2014, by studying poetry and form online with Oxford University Department for Continuing Education.
.In 2017, two of Sean’s poems (under the pen name CB Green) were published in The Rialto (88).
Sean’s debut public reading was at The Cheltenham Poetry Festival in 2018. He also completed his MA in Creative Writing (with Distinction) from The Open University in 2019.
“Being different, or ‘feeling queer’ from a young age, could be viewed as an advantage because I came to habitually question predominant narratives.”
Something to Celebrate
Sean’s first memory is staring up at a foxglove on the edge of the school playground. And, as an older child, his favourite book was a Thesaurus, given to him by his father.
Gardening is something he now does part time, as the writing slowly takes over. Sometimes his back and brain both ache but he still finds both occupations are pleasurable.
And both integrate the different aspects of ourselves with one another, and connect us to the environment we all share. In which, with playful insistence, he always finds something to celebrate however damaged we and the world might be.
Poems
Hangover
April is winter weighted with new brightness.
Blue flowers under rusty trees in the frozen yard
and shit up to the door. I reach through branches
to hidden empties. Hunger is our problem,
haylage was a price and now we rent
fields of winter beet. The frosted lambs get up
from sleep-melted circles, one squeak from the gate
and they pour off the hills. Farming is about waking up
one thing and not another yet it all grows at once:
ewes with rotten cloves, brassicas with moths,
oil on the shed floor, blood from a cracked face,
the Off Licence miles off. Last night thaws.
Had I tacked the chainharrow to the Landrover,
spun around the fields, music banging as lambs
foamed in hedgerows? Neglected, they all come to look,
I mean I, we, they, all come to look the same
This poem was first published in The Rialto Magazine 88.
I bead [biːd]
Bead; any strung, sewn object
made of seeds, crystals, beans.
Beadwork; in embroidery,
threads repeated to make patterns
for clasp bags, bishops’ capes.
Unbeaded; a quick hand
on a décolleté catches a necklace,
pearls scatter across the slate.
He unbeads hair extensions
and runs his weightless head
under a tap. Beader; one who beads
and is always right, deftly selecting
the next bead without thought.
The formation of beads of sweat,
the porosity of resting athletes.
Beady-eyed; blackbirds, yet not
unfeeling, Rembrandt’s eyes,
plummy sea urchins in marine light.
Prayer Beads; continuous yet discrete,
as fingertips count along the string
and find a beading soul right there.
Photograph by Charlie Hopkinson
Contact Sean
hello@seansean.net