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August 2025
HP Poet: Nick Moore
Age: 50+
Country: UK


Question 1: We warmly welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Nick. Please tell us about your background?

Nick Moore: "I was born in Knutsford Cheshire; my parents split up when I was 7, so me and my mother moved to the North of England, this affected me greatly, influencing many poems. I didn't like school very much, finding it too restrictive, going straight into work at 16, into the university of life (a well-used saying at the time) working with adults with a learning disability for many years. I moved to Cornwall 10 years ago, never missing a day on the beach."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Nick Moore: "Since 2011. I was in a band for a while, around the age of 20, writing songs, when I felt some of the songs seemed like they could pass as poems. My daughter was born a few years later, she sparked something in me, that just had to be expressed; the first poem I wrote was about her, what a child sees."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Nick Moore: "Just about anything: philosophy, science, comedy, music, people, nature; but I have to let the idea grow in my mind, it's there in the background, and when it's ready, it will make itself known."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Nick Moore: "As a child, I was fascinated with the lyrics to songs, certain ones really spoke to me; for example Daniel by Elton John, the emotion in those words really got to me, so poetry was inevitably going to come into my life; so for me, it's a way of expressing thoughts and feelings that are hard to just bring up in a conversation."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Nick Moore: "Mark Bolan, was the first poetry I read, think the book was called Warlock of Love? Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan, Edgar Allan Poe, W.B. Yeats, C.S. Lewis and the many poets on Hello poetry."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Nick Moore: "Growing my own food, reading, surfing (not very good), listening to music, watching films from the silent era to recent ones, and walking my dog."


Carlo C. Gomez: “We would like to thank you Nick, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”

Nick Moore: "Thanks again."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Nick better. We most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #31 in September!

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I found a staircase carved into thunder
Each step a tooth pulled from sleeping beasts
The air tasted of copper
And half-remembered hymns
I climbed until my name fell off my shoulders
And rolled back into the darkness like a coin
Mirrors waited
Cracked and sighing with old weather
And when I reached for one
It bit my hand
A lantern swung from the jawbone of a tree
Older than remorse
Moths gathered like ash in my mouth
And taught me to speak
In vanished dialects
Even the silence had a pulse
I tried to pray once
But the sky folded its arms
Every word transformed into wolves
Who wouldn't approach me
The horizon was a wound stitched with lightning
Far below
Cities slept in the stomachs of drowned bells
Their windows flickering with dreams left unclaimed
I wanted to wake them
But my hands resembled rivers
And everything I touched forgot its shape
By dawn
I had grown antlers made of frost
And a mouth full of rain
The staircase ended in nothing
Except the sound of wings
Turning to glass

There are three kinds of injuries:
That of the body, the mind, and the heart.
And there are three healers who answer the call:
Vitality, Serenity, and Catharsis.

When the body is stricken, we understand:
A physician brings the flesh back to wholeness.
The cracks in your vessel do not diminish the light within.

When the mind is ensnared, do not despair:
A psychologist untangles the threads of thought.
The storm in your mind does not extinguish your brilliance.

When the heart is pierced, take solace:  
A therapist nurtures the tender, aching spirit.
The fractures in your soul do not detract from your worth.

Remember, these healers are not confined to offices or clinics alone.

Vitality is caring:
She may arrive through the tender touch of a parent,
The helping hand of a friend,
Or the quiet kindness of a stranger.

Serenity is calming:
She may reveal herself in the wisdom tucked within a book,
The stillness of a sunrise,
Or the clarity of a friend’s reasoned words.

Catharsis is cleansing:
She may emerge from the warm embrace of a beloved pet,
The chorus of laughter shared among companions,
Or the soothing presence of a field of flowers.

You are not broken. You are not crazy. You are not pathetic.
You are wounded, and wounds can heal.
You are not a failure. You are not a freak. You are not inadequate.
You are a patient, deserving of care.

The injuries of the body, mind, and heart do not stand alone.
The body’s weariness may weigh upon the heart;
The heart’s ache may cloud the mind;
The mind’s confusion may whisper pain to the body.

Though the source may hide in shadow,
And though the journey may stretch long,
Have courage. Have faith. Have compassion for your wounded self.
In time, with the blessings bestowed by Vitality, Serenity, and Catharsis,
You will heal.

though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute

so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking  hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized

she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more

the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow

and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry