Notes by Lizzie Elliot-Klein

My poems Snail, Wembury, Orbit, and Babble were each born from moments of awe — whether through connection with the natural world or the profound unfolding of motherhood.

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Snail and Wembury

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Snail and Wembury were inspired by experiences of awe through deep connection with the natural world. For me, nature is a source of wonder, healing, and guidance — especially in these challenging modern times. I remain constantly in awe of the beings we share this planet with, and feel called to be a voice for the voiceless things in nature.

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Snail

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In times of burnout and weariness, I tend to see snails everywhere. With their slowness and hardiness, I feel that snails creep into my world to remind me to slow down and retreat when I need to. The words of Snail are a homage to these small, overlooked, and misunderstood creatures — who are my guides and inspiration to live a slower and softer life.

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​I felt drawn to using the repeating phrase “in your spiral shell you hold the answer” to frame the poem —it  appears like a mantra throughout the work. Contrasting language, such as “slowness is radical” and “softness is strength", were chosen to juxtapose between snail-time and modern fast-paced living.

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In crafting the poem, I mirrored this slowness in its structure by creating snail-trail fragments. These deliberately spaced short lines, weaving across the page, mimic the movement of a snail and slow the reader’s pace.

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The image of Kintsugi (the Japanese art of repairing broken objects with gold) is a symbol that healing and slow rebuilding of the self can create something beautiful — and even stronger — than before. The poem ends with a whisper of soft resilience — a slow shifting into a radical, intentional way of living. 

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Wembury

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Wembury is a beach close to where I live — a beautiful expanse of water that hides a thriving haven of life when the tide ebbs and you can peer into the rockpools. It was marine biology that brought me to the South West over a decade ago. Since watching the first season of Blue Planet as a child, I knew I wanted to study the wonders of the ocean. I ended up spending a lot of time in rockpools and falling in love with the animals and plants that live there.

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Wembury was written after a long time away from the rockpools, and flowed freely out onto my phone as I sat on a rock at the edge of the sea.

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The opening line, “Mindfully I step,” sets the tone for the poem’s gentle pacing. I chose this deliberate, measured rhythm to mirror the careful movements needed when walking across rockpools. I wanted the reader to walk with me — choosing short lines to encourage them to slow down and tread lightly through the poem.

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I made the decision to start each stanza with a word beginning with m — “mindfully,” “marvelling,” and “magically” — to create a rhythm like the rolling waves.

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The image of the limpet returning to its homescar (an indent on the rock made by repeated visits) felt like a fitting end to the poem. It symbolises not only my return to the sea, but the emotional mark it leaves — a reminder that some places live inside us, no matter how far we roam.

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Orbit and Babble

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Orbit and Babble emerged from moments in my motherhood journey, when awe was sparked by my daughter. Watching a small person unfurl into the world has been a profound experience — glimmers of gold amidst the complexity of early motherhood.

 

Orbit

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Orbit was written shortly after my daughter (whom we call Maus) took her first steps. We were in our favourite park, and my little one started to walk — not stumbling towards me or her Papa, as her first steps had been — but away! In the opposite direction, boldly going where no Maus had gone before. I wanted to write a poem that explored the feeling of watching your child begin to move independently through the world.

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The poem opens with a rush of joy (“Dripping in wonder and cooing joy”) and then immediately introduces the tension of letting go (“You walk away. You walk away from me.”). That juxtaposition was a deliberate choice — I wanted the reader to feel both the awe and the ache of witnessing independence for the first time.

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In the weeks before, I had talked with other mamas about the feelings of watching your baby walk away from you. While others had expressed sadness that their little ones were growing up so fast, as my daughter toddled away, I felt excitement. She was magnificent.

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I used celestial imagery (“a bright asteroid of untapped promise”) to elevate the experience of watching my daughter take her first steps away from me. The title Orbit also plays into this theme — of my daughter slowly breaking free from the close orbit we shared in those early days (“Once entwined milky mother-baby, soaked in oxytocin laced proximity”).

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Rather than ending in grief, the poem closes with quiet admiration for my daughter. The repetition of “you walk away from me” at the end brings the focus back to this milestone, while leaving space for pride and tenderness.

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Babble

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Babble was another poem hurriedly typed into my notes app while my daughter slept — a common writing happening in this season of matrescence.

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We were in Germany visiting my husband’s mother (Omi) for her birthday. Maus had been saying words here and there for a few months — a wonder in itself, to see her learning and savouring the sounds her mouth could make.

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At Omi’s birthday dinner, Maus was sitting in her highchair and suddenly sang — in William Shatner-esque style — the song from Tabby McTat. After she’d finished, she just went back to eating her yoghurt — unaware of the open mouths and the tears in my eyes. It made my heart swell. My awe for her grows day by day. As someone with a passion for words, it has been such a beautiful thing to watch hers emerge.

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I wrote the poem in a single burst and chose to keep its format free-flowing, with minimal punctuation. This was a conscious stylistic choice — I wanted the rhythm to reflect the spontaneity of toddler speech, and the rush of emotion I felt in that moment. The sensory imagery — “gummy pink mouth,” “rice cake crumbs,” “covered in yoghurt” — were used to ground the poem in the small, beautiful mess of early parenthood.

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I chose to end the poem quietly, similarly to how the event unfolded. After this momentous moment my daughter did not seek applause or acknowledgement - instead returning to her yoghurt as if nothing special had occurred. I wanted to capture the feeling that is created when moments of awe often go unnoticed by those who inspire them.

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