Joseph Barrow – From soil to stanza, a life lived in earth and words.
Joseph Barrow has carved out a quiet but distinctive presence in Liverpool’s poetry landscape. A long-time gardener with two decades of experience running his own small business, Barrow brings an eye for detail and a naturalist’s patience to his writing. Much of his work leans toward autobiography—glimpses of lived experience shaped by the cycles of nature, the rhythm of work, and the reflective spaces in between. His poems are often described as musical, thoughtful and open-hearted, and he has developed a reputation as an eccentric storyteller with a wide range of material suited to almost any audience.
The poem he offers for this year’s 52 for 26 Poetry Project arises from a moment of stillness turned into creative impulse. After reading a line from the Stoic philosopher Epictetus—“We don’t abandon our pursuits because we despair of ever perfecting them”— Barrow wrote the poem in roughly an hour, barely revising it afterwards. For him, the piece arrived almost fully formed, its message clear: the pursuit of perfection often prevents us from beginning at all.
He anchors this idea through references to Cornelia and Julia, the wife and daughter of Julius Caesar, using figures from classical history to frame a modern, very human hesitation—the instinct to delay, refine, rethink, and stall. Barrow’s approach to Stoicism is neither academic nor distant; instead, he brings the philosophy into everyday life, asking readers to step forward rather than wait for the ideal moment.
In the context of the wider project, his poem serves as a reminder of the value of action, however modest, and the importance of making use of the time we’re given. It’s characteristic of Barrow’s work: personal, lightly philosophical, and grounded in the simplicity of getting on with things.
A WORTHY WANDERER (TO THE BLUE YONDER)
Wandering to the sea and back on this walk,
I always find someone worthy of some small talk,
Up a little hill that looks over a beautiful valley,
A small girl sits paintbrush in hand,
Canvas before her blank,
What are you waiting for my dear?
I said ever so clear as I Inched near,
The valley is so beautiful,
I won’t fully capture it,
Nothing in life is perfect my love,
Just make a connection
Don’t worry about perfection,
She started painting and off I strode into the scenery she had patiently waited to capture,
The grass tickled my knees ,
Bumble bees were so lovingly obsessed with lavender rows,
Crafty crows watched on from an old oak,
Then i noticed a Little boy holding a knife and a block of wood,
He seemed lost in thought,
What’s wrong son?
Why the knife?
I’m whittling mister,
Did I just pass your sister?
Yes Julia’s painting on the brow,
I whispered..She wasn’t but is now,
Anyway, what’s up?
Why haven’t you begun?
It will be rubbish, I know it,
He threw the knife away,
Crossed his arms
I’ll try another day,
His face reddened…
Son I’m sorry to have to tell you this but..
No one is guaranteed another day,
All we have is the present,
Nothing in life can be perfect,
All we can do is try our best,
You whittle anything and just enjoy the process of getting better,
Life is a journey we all must enjoy,
I walked off down a slope towards the seductive sea,
I hear the faint cutting of wood recede as I proceed to the waiting water,
I wonder what he makes?
Before I reach the dock
I enter a little orchard,
A beautiful lady my age sits on a blanket,
Book and pen in hand,
Hello my dear, are you ok?
Why yes I am,
Was that your son I’ve just seen?
Yes Troy is such a stubborn boy,
What are you doing, may I ask ?
I’m trying to write a poem about this magical apple orchard,
I just don’t know where to start?
I’ll never fully procure the true beauty with my words,
Can I give you some advice,
I have wrote many poems myself,
Popped my collar,
Gave her a copy of Paper Roses,
You may Joseph, go on ..
I said this…
We don’t write Poetry for perfection,
That’s a false concept, we write for ourselves, to clear our hearts shelves, the pure joy of words is one poets hold on to their dying breath, nothing lasts forever my dear, write with all you have now, not tomorrow, not next week, now!
She began writing and off I went,
Looking out at the sea,
Calmness fell upon my soul,
A flock of birds danced in the distance,
I thought…What a treasure to be alive,
An hour or so in contemplation,
I walked home…
Stumbling into the orchard,
How did you get on?
I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name before…
Cornelia…
Beautiful…
She read me her poem as I sat on the edge of the blanket and ate a fresh apple I’d just picked,
I loved it,
Hurrah splendid,
Gave her a hearty round of applause,
You must keep writing, not for me,
For you and only you,
She kissed my cheek,
Blushing and rushing back up the incline
I find Troy who had whittled himself a little soldier toy,
What is that, you have their son?
It’s prince Hector, protector of Troy ,
He’s my hero,
Absolutely stupendous Troy,
Keep whittling and remember all we have is this moment,
He shook my hand like a proper gentleman,
Off I went to the brow to see Julia,
There she was, pink bows in her hair,
How did you get on my dear I said as I came near?
Turning the canvas to show me an exquisite landscape,
I was lost for words,
With a tear in my eye,
Eventually I said this…
Bravo my dear…bravo,
Do you see yourself there Mister?
I looked closer,
There I was walking to the sea,
Then I noticed Troy with Hector,
And Cornelia with a book in her hand,
The last thing she painted as I stood in awe was herself with the canvas at the very bottom,
I said this …
You must keep painting my dear,
Not for me or your brother or mother,
For you,
She blew me a kiss as I walked home…
I caught it and placed in my pocket for a darker day,
All I thought was…
We’re all just…
Paint on a canvas,
Wood on the chopping block,
Words in a forgotten book,
We can’t catch perfection,
All we can do is make our best reflection.
