Annie Hayter: the poet bringing wonder to patients at St Mary's Hospital

02 October 2026

In my work, I hope to create spaces of brightness that pause the usual journey of a day, where patients feel heard and seen.

When I arrive on a ward, I introduce myself as a visiting poet and ask patients if they’d like to have a conversation. If the answer is yes, I’ll sit beside them. We speak about whatever comes naturally, our minds wandering through past and present. If a patient is fond of music, then we might listen to an old song together.

Singing with patients, sometimes, we travel through time. Memories shimmer in those tunes from childhood, the melodies carried over the sea, across counties and continents. There is laughter and looks of recognition. A reminder that even in this space of sickness and healing, there can be time for delight.

When I don’t share a language with patients, beyond a love of music, I try to find a song that might speak to them in some way. It’s been magical and moving to watch patients’ faces light up when they hear the opening bars from the Teresa Teng ‘70s classic, ‘The Moon Represents My Heart’, or the soaring vocals of Umm Kulthum on ‘Alf Leila Wa Leila’. All this can radically shift the atmosphere of a ward, and how we relate to each other as a community – especially when staff members dance or clap along.

Many older patients, especially people from marginalised backgrounds, have experienced great hardship, surviving a world that has often ignored what they have to say. There is both sorrow and joy in our talking, part of the poetry of every human life.

If it feels right, at some point, I might offer to write a patient a poem, which I handwrite on paper to give to them, but only if they will give me their blessing. I ask what they might like me to write about, so they have more ownership over this creation.

I feel privileged to sit beside people during these difficult moments in their lives. I want to remind them that their words matter – that they are poetry, and beautiful to behold.

It’s not unusual for some patients (and their visitors) to cry after hearing their poem read out loud. It’s cathartic when they feel listened to and recognise something about themselves in these collaborative texts. Words on the page act as visible, tactile things that can give form to their experiences. Together, we find the poetry in their stories and interests, embedding moments of their speech where I can.

Responding with care and tenderness is especially vital for people who have had barriers to creativity imposed by society. Given the negative associations some people have experienced with poetry from school, and their natural suspicions about a stranger entering their space, it’s my job to be compassionate when they are in a vulnerable position – and to respect their feelings.

I cherish the many miraculous meetings I have on the wards. So much beauty and wonder is possible. One interaction that I hold dearly was with an incredible man in his nineties, a former factory worker, who had to conceal his sexuality for his safety. We spoke about our respective experiences of being queer. I will never forget when he thanked me in tears, saying that he loved how ‘you are very open in your gaiety’. I carry his approval with me wherever I go, a desire to be true to myself where it feels right, knowing it might uplift others. In many contexts, this is not straightforward for our LGBTQIA+ community.

I met another amazing elder from the Windrush generation, who had worked on the railroads and been mistreated from the day he arrived in England. He told me of his sorrows about the tragedies harming our planet and its children. He felt deeply concerned for the generations to come. We listened together to Miles Davis’ ‘Blue’ and hummed along together. Though this was some small comfort in the face of the suffering he had described, he told me with great warmth that ‘you have brought me upliftment,’ which was unexpected that morning. He did the same for me.

Sometimes, I show patients my portable postcard gallery, and we speak about the images that shine out for us. On occasion, I recite old, famous poems with dramatic gestures. ‘The Owl and The Pussycat’ is beloved by many because, like a song, the words can suddenly fly back into the brain.

These verses can unlock so much feeling. This is especially true for people with forms of dementia or memory loss, who might be inhabiting different realities simultaneously. Perhaps they see rabbits twinkling along the hospital floor, perhaps they are returned to their teenage days, shimmying in the dance hall, or perhaps they feel very frightened about what is happening around them, and need some reassurance.

Above all, I hope to show patients that I genuinely care about their thoughts and feelings, whatever route we take during our time together. Over the past two years, many patients and visitors have said they want to frame the poem we’ve created. One time, when a lady sadly returned to the hospital after a long interval, her partner pulled out a dog-eared piece of paper – the poem I’d written with them a year ago.

I feel privileged to sit beside people during these difficult moments in their lives. I want to remind them that their words matter – that they are poetry, and beautiful to behold.

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