HOLDING HIMSELF AT KNIFE-POINT; JACOB DAVIES IN CONVERSATION.
- Joe Booth
- 4 days ago
- 8 min read
Jacob Davies speaks to Joe Booth, November 2025.
Read the full, unedited transcript below.
On The Trial and Execution of Jacob Davies;
What on earth is The Trial and Execution of Jacob Davies?
The Trial and Execution is a new film, which will be out early next year. It’s a set of live poetry interlaced with interview clips about those poems. It’s a nice showcase of some of my poetry from the last two books, whilst also being completely absurd and often nonsensical.
Is it ironic, is it macabre, metaphorical even?
I think there’s a sense of macabre in everything I do, and it’s of course metaphorical in some sense. We had our final filming day last month, and to the disappointment of some, here I still am.
What drove you to make a film?
I’ve had the idea of filming a set of my poetry for a few years now. I pitched this thought to film director and friend Haris Robinson, who took it in a Lynchian and damning direction. I liked his creative input greatly; he’s certainly an original. It’s his baby really and I’m very pleased to be a part of that… even if I am the punchline of the joke more often than not.
It feels like an anti-film. What stops you from just celebrating your talent?
Because that would be easy, and crass. Those are the only two things I’m trying not to be.
How does the act of self-judgment in this work connect to your broader poetic themes?
Because everything is scrutiny. Everything is self-analysis. In most of my poems I am holding myself at knife-point and so why should that be any different in a film about my poetry? What would be the point in creating something straightforward that doesn’t challenge anyone? It would be a waste of time for everyone, most of all me.
What do you hope viewers will feel when they encounter it?
Confusion, mainly. If they get to the end of the film and don’t question at least something then we have done it wrong. Entertainment is the second priority. It’s certainly less ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off’ and more ‘Synecdoche, New York’.
On New Poetry;
I have been granted access to read some of your new and unreleased poetry; do you mind if we discuss it?
No, not at all.
Your new poetry seems slightly more melancholic, perhaps deeper, yet it seems to contain simpler and more emotive language. Is that your intention?
It’s perhaps more melancholic in a tender sense, yes, but that was never a conscious intention. I write what I feel and the colours of my world today. It’s always changing and I find that fascinating. The angst has been drained out of me slightly over the last few years. I care a lot less but also so, so much more. I couldn’t write Moving Wheels or many of the poems from The Things They’ve Never Seen in 2025. Thank God.
You seem to write about loss and ‘missing out’ as a theme?
I suppose so. It’s been the predominant emotion in my life, despite really having so much at my disposal. I am in a position of privilege in so many ways, and yet I struggle to see the bright side. I’m not sure if that makes me a bad person, or ungrateful, or what? But it’s true. I seek out the missing link and I dwell.
How can someone so young feel so deeply like that? What is loss to you?
I’m not sure. It’s been said of me that I was born nostalgic and I think that’s probably true. I see loss in other people’s lives too. It often doesn’t take much unravelling. I feel it. Everybody is lost.
What direction do you feel your writing is going in? What leads what? Is there any intention, or path, or does something just pull you wherever you go?
Again, there’s no intention. If you try and be something creatively, that is a grave mistake. Ideas flow freely and I let them do the work. I’m glad I have the outlet of writing poetry. It would be a frustrating existence otherwise.
In The Ed Sullivan Show, you seem to create a scene from a bygone age yet the theme itself is timeless. Why do you use such aged references?
Yes. That was the thought process. About a year ago I found myself fixated on the thought of a young Priscilla Presley watching her future husband on the Ed Sullivan Show – which I’m led to believe actually happened. I thought about it so much I actually felt as if I was there with her. If you say something like that to a doctor, they give you a worried look and a prescription, but put it into a poem and people applaud. The theme is universal, yes, that was definitely the idea.
In You, Elizabeth and So Many Stimulants, (amazing title by the way) you seem to talk about one-way relationships and the voices we have in our heads. How do you approach writing about relationships without slipping into cliché?
It’s difficult, because most poems or songs or paintings are about relationships in some way or another. You’d struggle to find an album without at least three songs on the topic. So, to make it feel fresh and true to yourself is hard. The answer is writing what you know, and being unapologetically truthful. You, Elizabeth and So Many Stimulants is undoubtedly grittily real. There’s so much ego involved in relationships too; I tried to write a poem that was devoid of that… and did I succeed? I don’t know.
In The Yellow Light of His Grandparents’ House, you again tackle solitude, regret and end of life. From where within you does that come?
It comes from the thought that, surely, there will be some sense of clarity in death. I imagine it’ll be mixed in with the silly things we remember from our lives - the scratches that are left on our brains. Surely there’ll be some sense of resolve in death? I’m hoping so.
There is a biting cynicism in Our Richard that smacks of self-interest and discourse. It feels more like an outcry, a moment of anger rather than a reflection?
Exactly, yes. I’m proud of this one. It’s a sort of idea for a poem that never gets properly written, but I managed it. Anger is generally a more fleeting emotion and therefore it’s more difficult to write. I have a lot of anger for people who are used and then left behind. There have been plenty of people like that in the public spotlight in the last 15 years. That’s what Our Richard represents. “There comes a time when sorry is too late” basically sums up the entirety of the poem – I’m looking forward to performing it.
On Performance and Silence;
You haven’t performed since September. Was that a deliberate retreat, or did something pull you away?
Not really. I have been crying out for a proper break since March 2023, and on a rare occasion when I felt that I didn’t really need one, a natural one occurred. I will be back performing at The Wakefield Exchange on 6th December, provided I don’t get snowed in.
Have you still been writing?
Yes. That never stops. The written word is oxygen.
How does absence from the stage affect your writing? Does silence sharpen your voice, or dull it?
A little bit of both. It’s nice to get some perspective and take a step back, but I also really miss the expression and the bite of being on a stage, the whole process lends itself to being creative, so in that way, it’s a nice cycle when I am performing. It will be nice to return and perform some different poems after doing the same 20 or so for the last 18 months.
Do you see performance as essential to poetry and indeed to your expression, or can the page alone carry the weight?
It wasn’t when I first started writing, but it certainly is now. The Dream Must Die was my first collection written entirely for the purpose of performance, and my next collection – whenever and whatever that may be – will certainly be the same. The performance, to me, is as important as the written word. It’s one reason of many why I have always struggled to write a novel worth publishing.
Some poems seem better read and others heard. Are you ever conscious of that when you write or start to write?
Not really. It’s not part of the process. Some poems are obviously better heard or written when I finish them, but I’m never trying to angle them as such – and, of course, it’s all so subjective.
On The Dream Must Die & Looking to 2026;
It’s also been a year since the release of The Dream Must Die; how do you regard that collection now?
Very favourably. A year on, I still feel like that collection represents me, whereas I couldn’t really say that about the other two. That either means it is a better written collection, or that I’ve stopped evolving as a person. I’ll leave that for you to decide.
What has been the reception to the book, do you get feedback from readers?
Mainly positive. People are very kind and that often makes me quite nauseous. It’s been largely forgotten about now, of course, which is a symptom of being a niche within a niche within a niche. I don’t mind that as much as you might think.
Do you have any concrete plans for 2026 in terms of writing or performing?
I have no idea what 2026 holds. There will be performances of course, but, beyond that, who knows? I don’t know what or who or where I’ll be this time next year. Before that, there are plans to mark the five-year anniversary of the release of The Things They’ve Never Seen in December. I thought it was the fifty-year anniversary, but I was quickly corrected.
How do you think poetry can help us given the state of the wider world? Indeed, can it, and should it help?
I’m not sure I’m the right person to answer that question. As a writer, it helps me. As a consumer, it helps me. That’s all the insight I can really give. We live in bleak times and so anything that can drag us from the mud is worthwhile.
On Reflection;
There is a lot of talk about separating the artist from the art currently. How much of you is in your work and can you be separated from it?
It’s impossible, for me anyway. You could probably separate Sabrina Carpenter the person from Sabrina Carpenter the performer, but for truly independent, and dare I say real, artists there is no separating the two. How could anyone listen to a Jeff Buckley album and think there was any part of him being held back? He is the person and the performer, and in my experience that combination creates by far the best art.
Is Jacob Davies a character, a persona or is he truly just you?
He is me, entirely. When doing anything creative, there is no point being any other way. I am not a play or a comical act. As I’ve said, I’m not trying to be anyone – least of all myself.
Do you write more to understand yourself, or to be understood by others?
I think both conquests are basically impossible. Could you imagine what it would be like to understand yourself? It would be insufferable, boring, dull. I can count on my fingers the amount of people that I have felt truly understood by in my life.
How do you navigate vulnerability in your art, what do you choose to reveal, and what do you keep hidden?
I made the choice early on to hold nothing back – because what would be the point otherwise? The advantage I do have is language… the labyrinth of the written word. That’s the fun part – I am sharing my filthy secrets and my dark truths in print and on stage and most people have no idea what I’m on about. Win-win.
What does success look like for you? Is it recognition, resonance, or simply survival?
Success is fulfilment, and that comes mostly from within. If I can write something that truly represents me, whatever I am, and it’s in some way phonetically pleasing, that’s enough for me. If I can stand my ground, that’s enough for me. It sounds sickly, but it’s true.
Thank you, Jacob.
Thank you.
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