Professor of creative writing at the University of Roehampton, David Harsent (born 1942) deserves that Shakespearean phrase from Measure for Measure, “the duke of dark corners”, as a poet because in his work – including nocturnes, unquiet dreams, hauntings – it seems that he has always been able to see in the dark.

His outstanding 11th collection, Fire Songs (Faber, £12.99), which has just won the TS Eliot prize, has its darkness shot through with fire (with a riveting and terrifying poem about a witch being burnt at the stake) and ice – a particularly dazzling poem about an ice field was inspired by a picture taken by his acclaimed photographer son, Simon.

You have been a Forward prize winner and been shortlisted four times for the TS Eliot. Were you surprised to win it this time with Fire Songs?

I did think I might be becoming the Beryl Bainbridge of poetry, bless her heart. The judges narrow this competition down to what they consider the 10 best books of the year – the list included Michael Longley, John Burnside, Hugo Williams… So, in a sense, you stand there waiting for the winner to be announced and thinking: God, this is a lottery.

Is there a family likeness between this collection and its predecessors? What makes it different?

There is a likeness. I write a lot for the opera stage with Harrison Birtwistle. When we were working on The Minotaur, he wanted an aria for Ariadne – six or eight lines. He said: “Make it dark.” I said: “But dark is my default mode.” And he said: “Make it darker.”

In this collection, there is a concern for what I refer to as the depredation of the planet, an urgent narrative strain running through the book.

Many of the poems read like hauntings or bad dreams. Were any of them dreamed before they were written?

I often get a lead in dreams… I write fiction, not from personal experience. My editor at Faber, Matthew Hollis, asked: “How did you write these poems?” I told him: “I wrote them in a fever.”

Where do poems come from?

Poems fall to hand. If you are a poet, you are open to the notion of poems happening. Lines just occur. Yet poems also always have to be worked for.

I like your poem about tinnitus and wonder whether you suffer from it?

Oh, big time. Both ears – nonstop, full pitch.

In an interview, you were once described as coming from nowhere – where do you come from? What did your parents do?

It was Ian Hamilton who said: “Oh David Harsent – he came out of nowhere.” I actually come from a working-class background – bourgeois, not interestingly brutal. I lived in Princes Risborough in a terrible little flat, where I slept in my gran’s bed because she was a night telephonist.

I had a typical postwar bad education. My teachers were bullying ignoramuses. I hated them all. They must be dead now and I am glad. I left school at 16.

Is it true you once wrote detective novels?

I think poetry and detective novels do sometimes go together. There was a rumour TS Eliot wrote one (perhaps it was called Little Bloodshed?).

I wrote detective novels after I’d left a publishing job that was like a 10-year panic attack. I was not a bad editor, but I was a crap businessman. I was divorced with three children to support when I started writing thrillers.

Is it important to read poems aloud? And do you enjoy performing your own work?

I used to be against it, am much more for it now. I used to be a purist and thought the reading aloud was just showbiz. But I am married to an actress – Julia Watson. When she came to a reading for the first time, I asked her: “How was that?” “Oh, very good,” she replied. And then she said: “But you could try not to cough at the end of every line.”

What do you think poetry can do that other forms of writing cannot?

Poetry is a condensed form. It is much closer to music than to prose. If I can’t hear the music, I don’t think it is a poem.

Fire Songs is published by Faber (£12.99). Click here to buy it for £10.39