Hubert Moore

Hubert Moore

Hubert Moore is a British poet with six published poetry collections, including Beautifully Kept Things (Smith/Doorstop, 2007). The most recent is The Hearing Room (Shoestring, 2006).

After retiring from forty years of teaching, Hubert Moore spent nine years as a writing mentor at The Medical Foundation, now called Freedom from Torture.


His most recent collections are Whistling Back (2012) and his eighth, The Bright Gaze of the Disoriented (2014), both published by Shoestring. To date Hubert had had nine full collections published, the ninth being The tree line (2017), the last five of them from Shoestring Press.  As well as reading at the Royal Festival Hall and the Ledbury and Aldeburgh Festivals, he has performed at venues such as the Eden Project, New Scotland Yard and Whitstable Beach. His poem 'Hosing Down' was Highly Commended in this year's Forward prize.

D.A.Prince wrote in London Grip: 'He wears his considerable poetic skills lightly, keeping them subservient to the humanity that is central to his poetry even in the face of inhuman torture; there is a strong sense here of a poet drawing the whole world into his poems.'
Huberts tenth collection, The feeding-station is expected late in 2019.


'These poems match their subject, things left behind by a loved one after death. They are beautifully exact, full of cherishing and grief … dignified, witty, always pointing to (and making us feel) more than their words have said.' — David Constantine


Newport’s still there then, first stop
after the Severn, no distance now, a sleep
and a coffee-and-croissant from Paddington.

My friend went. Checked out the shopping,
found in some winsome glitterhouse
a jumper stylish as London or Italy.

Not like the old days. Not like Rodney Parade –

where, every October in the 1950s and 60s,
we lightweight London nancy-boys went cheerfully
to defeat. The mist was in place before us,
the home soil licked its lips: we squelched
as we ran, while the Black-and-Ambers
bulldozed through or tip-toed over the top of it.

Mining men on weekdays, their locks, their pit-props.
We could hardly embrace some of them, let alone
tackle. We were brave, of course, we had style,
our haughty side-steppers glittered a little,
long white legs in the mist. We scored once or twice. 

Newport, though, they ran through us for their lives,
for their aunts and uncles, for their fathers who scored
before them, for their girls from up on the terraces.
Touching down was touching down in the valley.

Most of it’s gone, though even now I can hear
a spring-heeled Newport voice dancing clear
of the dogged throat of the system:
‘Ken Jones scored the try; Brian Jones converted.’

Beyond that, nothing: we set off for London
so smoothly we don’t even move. There are light
refreshments available, the old days
are gliding west and throughout the train
there’s a policy of no smoking.

Titles by this author

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