Occupied

by Tim Rich

We buttered the cat’s paws
and baked bread in borrowed tins
to make the unfamiliar speak of pleasure
and our intentions to remain

All that first day
the house talked to itself
about us

Later than I expected, light withdrew
across our table, unopened crates
back through thin glass
towards tomorrow

So the room released its form
and we sat among one another
giving our ears to the conversation:
inner doorways muttering behind
flat hands; oak floors—masonic
in their black treacle gloss—
deciding whether to settle
under our presence

Later still, in bed, I stared sideways
into an unlit universe, absently
mindwalking the bounds,
relocking iron door-bolts
like an old rifle, drawing
drawn curtains a little closer,
charting the evaporating path
behind that plane’s descent

In time, each stray thought
went to its home, leaving this
accommodation to take place:
the air held here sighing gently,
like contented tortoise breaths;
the softening percussion of bodies
sleeping; the punctuating crack and hiss
as fresh eggs are broken
into a smoking pan; someone
opening a window

 

---

Interview transcript

Mark: Tim, where did this poem come from?

Tim: So, almost always for me, poems just emerge out of some sort of inner dusk. I’m not someone that can go to their desk with a plan to write about a particular message or topic or piece of content. The poem just presents itself to me. And actually I don’t really have any choice in the matter. I’m sort of just forced to be a transcriber in that moment.

And I was looking at the sea the other day, and I had this moment when I just thought my poems are a bit like strange sea creatures that live on the seabed. And at a particular point in their life, they decide that they just want to go to the light and they start floating up through the murky water and explode in bubbles on the surface. And, you know, hopefully I’m there sitting in the poet’s boat ready to haul them on board. So, that’s almost always how poems start for me. And this poem very much began that way.

I was at home on a winter’s evening, and it just began to come through me, as it were. And the context for that was that after many years of living in the same house, my wife and I were starting to think about the possibility of moving. And, you know, it was a really exciting prospect but also it definitely was stirring up the sediment of my unconscious. I’m someone that really feels the need for a settled home, a settled place, and this unsettled me. So, I think that that was what was giving the raw energy to the content.

And there was something else, which is what informed the scenery of the poem, if you like, which is this idea of light withdrawing from a space and what that does within the space. And when I was 11, I was living just with my dad, and he would come home from work later than I would get home from school. So, for the first year or so, he arranged for me to go to some elderly neighbours on the way home from school.

So I was, sort of, watched, and we would sit in their front room, and they would load up their coal fire. And through the windows, the sun would set slowly, and they were so calm. They would hardly speak. When they did speak, it was about these, kind of, wonderful domestic details like, you know, what needs to be chopped for dinner, or are there any windfalls in the garden that we can harvest tomorrow? It was very, very calm. And, you know, the coals in the fire were glowing red, but the rest of the room just lost its light.

And I remember the shape of their very heavy old furniture, and the picture frames, and the curtains all began to disappear. And that must have just lodged somewhere deep within me, because that’s very much, as the poem came out, where I was also taken to in my mind.

Mark: So, I like this. So, I mean, to put it bluntly, it’s not like you moved into a house and then you wrote this. You were thinking about moving and then a house emerged from your unconscious, from memories of other houses and so on.

Tim: Yeah, yeah. Absolutely.

Mark: And I think that’s kind of a salutary thing to hear because… And this is a poem that really you read it and you totally believe it. It feels like a first-hand account of, well, we did this and this is what happened. And yet you’re, kind of, pulling the rug from under our feet here, which is a nice thing in poetry. I think that you can’t necessarily take it literally or face value.

Tim: Well, we moved house… Yeah, we moved house about six months after I wrote the poem. So, I went through the experience of living the poem, which seems to be quite a good way around.

Mark: Did you conjure the house, Tim?

Tim: Actually, it was wonderful because it confirmed to me part of what motivated the poem, which is that I think we can all become a little bit… I don’t know. Complacent seems to be too loaded a term, but we get so used to how our houses speak that we stop hearing them. And actually, there’s this kind of wonderful symphony going on the whole time, you know, radiators making those strange percussive noises, and the way that the door squeaks, or suddenly, you know, how your staircase gets to a particular temperature in the middle of the night and decides to squeak. And they’re constantly making these noises. And when you’re living there, you stop hearing them.

But when you move to somewhere for the first time, or sometimes if you go and stay in a haunted Airbnb in the woods, that first night particularly, everything’s coming to you fresh. So, I think there’s a strong sense of what’s it like when a person moves into a space for the first time and that space has a character, and an energy, and a being of its own.

Mark: So, really it’s that state of heightened awareness, isn’t it? You know, apparently this is how the mind works. If you’ve got a constant stimulus, the mind will tune it out. It’s that Heaney line, you know, ‘The refrigerator whinnied into silence,’ which is just that moment of… You only hear the fridge when it stops.

Tim: Yeah.

Mark: And what you’re describing is the reverse of that. When you’re in the house for the first time and everything is new and you’re on hyperalert for the voices of the house.

Tim: Yeah. And we’re listening to our houses right now because there’s a 1066 Line train from Hastings that’s just gone into the tunnel over there. But we probably can’t quite hear it on the microphones, but it’s in the air and it’s just touching elements of the house. And we’re surrounded by this the whole time.

And I think it’s important to say, as soon as the poem had laid itself out on the page for the first time, it was clear to me that this poem was about people moving into a home for the first time, but it is also quite a vivid description, I think, of what was going through me at the time in terms of that unsettled nature.

You know, I was quite surprised by the nature of the metaphors that my unconscious had presented me with. I mean, it’s quite a portrait of anxiety to double-check the curtains, to lock a bolt as if it’s an old rifle. You know, this is partly a portrait of an unsettled, anxious mind, which is, I think, something that I was going through at the time.

Mark: And you’ve got some great similes, you know, the iron door bolts like an old rifle. And there’s this lovely bit where you talk about ‘drawing drawn curtains’. And if you look on the website, then you can see that there’s a line break after drawing, so it’s drawing, line break, drawn curtains, which really just emphasises it’s already drawn. You don’t need to do it. This is the OCD kicking in, which really speaks to that anxiety you’re describing.

And I really love the second section where you say, ‘All that first day, the house talked to itself about us,’ which is just a wonderfully unsettling idea that we are the intruders and the house has an opinion.

Tim: Yeah, I definitely wasn’t being sort of whimsically mystical about infrastructure and materials. It was definitely the feeling that there is an exchange when animals, human and other, come into a space. There’s a change in energies and temperatures and sound and smells. And, you know, the dynamism of creatures come into a space that has been unoccupied, which is what generally most houses are, you know, sometimes for days, sometimes for months, and years before the new occupants come in.

And I was just really taken with that idea that the house also needs to find its way of settling under these new occupants. And that seemed like a moment of 24 hours of the two parties eyeing each other and listening to each other and wondering about, ‘Who is this that I need to live with for these next years?’

Mark: And it’s quite a humbling poem, isn’t it? Because, you know, when you think of owning the house or occupying the house, it’s like you’re the one in charge. But this poem just kind of subverts that idea that it’s the house that’s weighing us up, as in the people in the poem.

It made me think of that TV series David Olusoga does, A House Through Time, where he gets an old house, and he goes through the records, and he looks at all the people who lived in the house and tells their story. And there’s quite a lot of them, like, much more than I would have expected. You know, each episode goes on and on and on, and you just realise the house is staying there. The house is constant. These people, they’re temporary. They might think they’re the owners, but we’re just passing through.

Tim: We are passing through. It is a reminder of our mortality and our houses often way outlive us. Also, in recent years and decades, there’s been an increase in the way in which people work from home, but that isn’t a new thing.

So, I wrote this poem in the house we lived in before, which was built to be a weaver’s cottage, a live/work weaver’s cottage. And, you know, they would find their living accommodation in quite modest corners of the house because a lot of it, at different times in the process, was given to equipment and storing material and a very intense version of live/work and working from home.

And, you know, I think that part of when people suddenly a whole generation through particularly lockdowns but also just this change in working habits are spending much more of their life within the home quite often and what that means in terms of their relationship to the space and how the house relates to that.

Tim: I think, just as I’m speaking, it occurs to me that perhaps also part of the influence of the atmosphere in the poem is around some of the fiction that I enjoy. And I haven’t thought about this until we were talking now, but I like an M. R. James novel, or, you know, The Haunting of Hill House has just come to mind, and buildings and atmospheres that speak, as sort of some of the atmospheres you get in a Robert Aickman type horror novel. So, some of the classic British horror novels and that type of fiction.

And just as we were talking about that, and I was also casting my eyes down the poem, there’s some of the dusk that you get with those places, which is in this poem. And it’s great, isn’t it, coming back to one of your own poems quite a while after you wrote it, and you perhaps see some of the reasons for its being in a slightly different way.

Mark: I mean, that’s the basic premise of the haunted house is that the house is alive. I mean, you’ve not gone full Hammer Horror with this one. It’s maybe a little more subtle, but you’ve definitely got some really wonderfully suggestive details. I loved ‘inner doorways muttering behind / flat hands, oak floors – masonic / in their black treacle gloss’. And that’s so true. There are so many of these old houses. It’s like, what happens to the wood? How does it get to be like treacle? And there’s that heaviness and that opacity about it that you convey really well.

Tim: Yeah. I was taken with the idea of the house being almost quite an august figure in some ways. It would be wrong to say it’s proud of itself, but deciding whether to settle under our presence is quite…

Mark: It’s not aiming to please, is it?

Tim: It’s not. It’s not easily won over. I mean, you know… Yeah, let’s see what these new occupants are like. You know, what do they get up to? What are their tastes? What do we think of the prints that they put up on the wall?

Mark: Yeah. Will they get it? Will they behave themselves? So you’ve got this lovely line in the third paragraph, ‘So the room released its form / and we sat among one another.’ Well, thinking about the form of the poem, how close is this to, say, the first draft when you were hauling the sea creature out from the depths over the side of your poetic boat?

Tim: Yeah, when the poem came out onto the page, it actually made a demand of me. It said, ‘I don’t want you to put me into very organised type measures. I don’t want to be sorted into regular stanzas. And also, I want you to be quite careful about any linguistic bells and whistles.’ It just was a bit like the house. It had almost a sort of slightly stern feeling to it as a poem. It was very clear, and it was saying each of these stanzas, or scenes maybe, has to be as long as it wants to be. ‘I don’t want you to spend time evening things up or creating consistency.’

And there are many other poems that I’ve written where, of course, I’m deliberately very measured, very consistent. At the moment, a lot of the poems I’m writing have a lot of half rhymes but particularly a lot of internal rhymes. And, goodness, audaciously, you know, I even have a rhyming couplet in a poem that I’m working on at the moment. But this poem just said, ‘I don’t want any of that.’ Now, that’s not to say that there aren’t some half rhymes or suggestions of rhymes, and certainly some lovely withholding with words at the end of the line that only resolve as you move through into the next line, the enjambment of the word and the meaning falling over into the next line. Definitely that happens.

But I tried to edit this into different shapes. I probably tried it five different ways, and each time it just felt wrong quite quickly actually. I tried to give it a consistent number of lines per stanza, and it repulsed me as a poem. It just said, ‘No, I need to be this free form.’ And also, I had to accept that it’s probably a little bit messier than I normally feel comfortable with. And it was good. I was like, ‘Actually, you know, just stop fighting. Just stop fighting it.’ Sometimes your poems can be more irregular, more free, less obviously organised. And I think it has its rhythms that hold it together. It does for me. And listeners will decide, when they hear it, whether those rhythms are actually holding it together.

Mark: Well, for me, it feels a bit like one of those old houses where you go in and there’s not a right angle in sight. You know, the floors are sloping. The doors have to be a kind of trapezium to open and close, which I think is obviously true to the spirit of the thing. And it’s like the house itself. It’s not trying too hard. You can read it quite quickly, and it seems quite plain-spoken and spartan.

But when you look, you notice the little details. Like, you know, there’s the door bolts like a rifle, and the ‘nasonic’, a wonderful adjective. And I’ve just noticed now, as we were talking, in the final verse, ‘In time, each stray thought / went to its home, leaving this / accommodation to take place’. And that’s a lovely reframing of ‘accommodation’, because the everyday sense is a place where you go and live, but it’s an accommodation in the sense of a mutual alignment, almost like a negotiation or getting used to each other, which I think is really delightful.

Mark: Okay, Tim, so I have to ask, looking again at the poem, what on earth is going on with buttering the cat’s paws at the beginning?

Tim: So, buttering the cat’s paws is a bit of folk wisdom. And the idea is that when you move to a new house, if you have a cat or cats, that you actually put lovely, creamy butter on their paws and that they, you know, as cats do, will then spend time licking and licking and licking. And it means that more of their scent is put into the floor and the grounds of the place so they feel at home quicker and sooner. So they’re sensing the place much more actively sooner.

Now, I don’t think there’s any scientific evidence to suggest it works. But, you know, if anyone has any experience with this, I would love to hear it. But I don’t really care, because the whole image of spreading beautiful, creamy butter onto the paws of the cat and that somehow just inviting them to feel that this place is home is more than enough for me.

And I’d heard the phrase years and years and years before. And again, I think it was just the very first phrase that came out as the poem emerged. I think it was opening the doorway to the poem, and it felt very natural for it to be the beginning of the poem. I wonder now, looking back, whether there’s something to do with the eye opened with an animal spirit. And so much of this poem really has come up from the unconscious.

And I’m not starting with a very measured, conscious human, you know, activity or… I’m not saying, you know, ‘we made the decision to move’. It’s not a person-led piece in the sense that, okay, we’re doing the buttering, but it’s the cat that’s front and centre in that open line. And that’s not something that I particularly thought about consciously at the time. But looking back, I think there’s a hint there that we’re not just talking about a straightforward human, rational response to living in a place. There are animal spirits too.

Mark: Yeah, and it feels like a wonderful piece of folk magic. I mean, cats are magical creatures like witches’ familiars. And, you know, maybe there’s a magical aspect to that. It’s a little ritual, isn’t it?

Tim: It is. I had a question for you, but it just came out of part of my experience of this poem going out into the world, which is that I’ve just been surprised, in a wonderful way, by how diverse and often surprising people’s responses are to poems, how I can never really tell what it is about a poem someone’s going to pick up and come back to you about. You know, for example, someone has given copies of this poem to friends when they move house.

Mark: Oh, lovely.

Tim: …as a housewarming present, a printed letterpress, which is very, very beautiful. Someone else said that they really loved sort of, what did they say, the soft absurdity around the house being almost this grand piece. And others have responded in different ways.

And I think it’s one of the wonders of poetry, maybe something that doesn’t get talked about quite so much, which is that we interrogate the meaning for ourselves. And if you work with your editor and sometimes reviewers, meaning is discussed. But actually, my experience, when poems go out into the world, is it’s just incredible how broad the range of response is and what people pick up on.

And I suddenly think, well, is that just my experience? So what’s it like for you? Are you constantly surprised by what people pick up and come back to and focus on with your poems?

Mark: Yeah, it’s a little bit like a Rorschach test, isn’t it? People see themselves in it to a degree, or they see something that will resonate for them. And to me, it’s the sign of a real poem if it can do that, if different people see different things in it. If it was too obvious and too, you know, two-dimensional, then that’s fine, but it’s not really a poem.

And I think this is part of the magic of why poems can persist over time. Society is shifting all around them. Maybe a few of the houses are constant, but the poem still inhabits the space, and people still relate to it for decades or hundreds or even thousands of years sometimes.

Tim: Yeah, I think there’s an important point for poets that you have to maintain your confidence in ambiguity and what might feel like potential confusion. Of course, you need to think through how you’re writing it and avoid unintended, poor consequences. But there’s also a point in which I think you have to protect some of the messiness of meaning and not try to pin things down too much.

Of course, there are different types of poets, and some poets need to be very clear and very message-driven. But I’m thinking, for me, there are sometimes moments when I think, ‘Am I just leaving this hanging and ambiguous and a bit dusky in terms of meaning?’ And that’s the point at which I think, ‘No, quite often just trust that people will find their own way into the poem.’

Mark: Yeah, absolutely. And this is something I’ve seen a lot in classes, and it certainly happened to me very often. You know, the teacher will say you can cut the last line because we already get it. You don’t need to underline the message of the poem. Sometimes we feel a bit nervous just leaving it hanging. And you’ve absolutely had the confidence to do that with the wonderful ending of this, where you talk about ‘the punctuating crack and hiss / as fresh eggs are broken / into a smoking pan. Someone / opening a window’ – and that’s it. I mean, tell me about that ending. How did you arrive at that? And did you go back and forth? Did you think, ‘Can I leave that window open, that line?’ And by the way, listener, there is no full stop either to hang on to at that point!

Tim: Yeah. I have to say, I do find myself clearing away more and more of the furniture of the poems. And there is a very deliberate lack of a full stop there. It was all there in the first draft that came out. It wasn’t a constructed or reconstructed ending later on.

Again, the poem seemed to want to open into something rather than close itself down and make a point. I think that in the action of the poem, we’ve moved through this dusky night, including a sort of bout of insomnia, of staring into the darkness. And then morning is coming, and it’s full of new things. And there is something about that morning of waking up in a new house. What a moment in someone’s life that is.

Mark: Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Tim: It’s just extraordinary. And there’s a natural link there into the egg as a symbol. Something new, something is being born. And yeah, there may be many reasons why that window needed to be open. The smoke from the pan is one thing, which is all about the…

Mark: Right, right. Setting the smoke alarm off!

Tim: Yeah, it goes off in our kitchen quite often. And of course, the cooking is, again, this thing of humans being in a house and occupying it and all of the energy and dynamics. And how are you most going to make a new home your own? You’re going to get out and start cooking and making a mess and eating together and getting things moving. I have no idea who the someone is, and I don’t know what their motivation is for opening a window. And I like that.

Mark: Okay. Well, let’s have another listen to the poem and maybe, you know, each of us, as we listen to this this time, just see what associations come up for you. You know, houses you’ve lived in, places you’ve been, memories it conjures up. Thank you very much, Tim. What a lovely space to explore with this poem.

---

 

Occupied

by Tim Rich

We buttered the cat’s paws
and baked bread in borrowed tins
to make the unfamiliar speak of pleasure
and our intentions to remain

All that first day
the house talked to itself
about us

Later than I expected, light withdrew
across our table, unopened crates
back through thin glass
towards tomorrow

So the room released its form
and we sat among one another
giving our ears to the conversation:
inner doorways muttering behind
flat hands; oak floors—masonic
in their black treacle gloss—
deciding whether to settle
under our presence

Later still, in bed, I stared sideways
into an unlit universe, absently
mindwalking the bounds,
relocking iron door-bolts
like an old rifle, drawing
drawn curtains a little closer,
charting the evaporating path
behind that plane’s descent

In time, each stray thought
went to its home, leaving this
accommodation to take place:
the air held here sighing gently,
like contented tortoise breaths;
the softening percussion of bodies
sleeping; the punctuating crack and hiss
as fresh eggs are broken
into a smoking pan; someone
opening a window

 

---

Dark Angels: Three Contemporary Poets

‘Occupied’ is from Dark Angels: Three Contemporary Poets, published by Paekakariki Press.

Available from:

Dark Angels is available from:

The publisher: Paekakariki Press

Amazon: UK

 

 

Tim Rich

Tim Rich grew up in the woods of Sussex and now lives and writes by the sea in Hastings. His poems have been published in numerous anthologies and journals, including Dark Angels: Three Contemporary Poets (Paekakariki Press) and Poet Town (Moth Light Press). The Landfall series – exhibited at the Bloomsbury Festival, London — brought together his poetry and photography. He has five poems in the anthology Family Matters, a collection of poetry about family, to be published in 2026. Alongside poetry, Tim writes, edits and ghostwrites books. 

timrich.com

Photograph by Maxine Silver

 

A Mouthful of Air – the podcast

This is a transcript of an episode of A Mouthful of Air – a poetry podcast hosted by Mark McGuinness. New episodes are released every other Tuesday.

You can hear every episode of the podcast via Apple, Spotify, Google Podcasts or your favourite app.

You can have a full transcript of every new episode sent to you via email.

The music and soundscapes for the show are created by Javier Weyler. Sound production is by Breaking Waves and visual identity by Irene Hoffman.

A Mouthful of Air is produced by The 21st Century Creative, with support from Arts Council England via a National Lottery Project Grant.