TYNESIDE POETS!

TYNESIDE POETS!

Friday 27 July 2018

COMING SOON! THE WOODEN DOLLIES OF NORTH SHIELDS


















































THE WOODEN DOLLIES OF NORTH SHIELDS

A HERITAGE OPEN DAYS EVENT

North Shields Library, Northumberland Square, North Shields, Thursday 6th September 2018 10.30am. Admission free.

Launch of a new book from Northern Voices Community Projects, supported by North Tyneside Council, recounting the history of all the North Shields Wooden Dollies over the years, published to mark the 60th anniversary of the Dolly in Northumberland Square, North Shields.

Editors Doctor Keith Armstrong and Peter Dixon will introduce the event with poetry, songs and stories performed by contributors to the book, featuring folk music from The Sawdust Jacks band. A specially created display featuring the Wooden Dollies will serve as a backdrop to proceedings.

After the main event, there will also be a short performance on location by the Wooden Dolly statue in the Square.

FURTHER INFORMATION: NORTHERN VOICES COMMUNITY PROJECTS TEL. 0191 2529531.

 






SHAVINGS AND SCRAPINGS


We chip away
on this beheaded night,
waiting for the memories
to meet us round the corners
of our seafaring dreams.
The folk have gone away,
left the frames of tinted photographs behind
and disappeared into scrapbooks
of shavings and scrapings
on historic shelves.
Monuments outlive us,
smirk knowingly at us
as our faces twitch
and bodies shuffle along streets
that are all at sea.

Fare thee well old Shields,
my Dolly girls,
this old evening
I sail away,
leaving a floating life behind
for the gulls to pick at
and demolish
by the forgotten pub;
the grimy lane
of forgotten loves.




KEITH ARMSTRONG

Tuesday 17 July 2018

THE SPANISH CITY, WHITLEY BAY!



GARCIA LORCA IN WHITLEY BAY

‘I’ve come to devour your mouth
and dry you off by the hair
into the seashells of daybreak.’
(Federico Garcia Lorca)

In the rotunda,
your voice lashes out at war.
You
sing
on the crests of the girls,
streaming up the Esplanade.
You
scream under a parasol of gulls,
skimming through the fairground,
on a mission to strangle
flying fish.
Haunting poetry
in the dead ghost train,
the palms of the fortune-tellers,
dust.

Lorca in a broken-down ghost town,
scattering your petals:
Garcia up against the wall
of last night,
eyes shot;
blood from the evening sky,
dripping down an ice cream cone,
down a sweet lass’s blouse.

Saw you on the Metro, Federico,
saw you in Woolworth’s.
Saw you in the crematorium,
on Feather’s caravan site.
Saw you drown
in a sea of lyrical beauty.

Lorca,
like Community,
you are gone;
ideals
torn into coastal shreds.

Still shells
glisten,
lips on the beach
ready
for kissing again
ready
for the re-launch
of childish dreams,                                                             
sticky
with candy floss                                                                                                                   
and cuckoo spit.
                                                                                                

The Spanish City, Whitley Bay.



LIKE THE SPANISH CITY


The days have gone;
the laughter and shrieks
blown away.
We have all grown up,
left old Catalonian dreams
and the blazing seaside bullfights.
We are dazed,
phased out.
Spaces where we courted
bulldozed
to make way
for the tack of tomorrow;
the hope in the sea breeze;
the distant echo of castanets
and voices scraping
in a dusty rotunda.
I remember where I kissed you,
where I lost you.
It was in Spain, wasn’t it?
Or was it down the Esplanade
on a wet Sunday in July?
Either way,
we are still
twinned with sunny Whitley Bay,
and flaming Barcelona too;
and our lives
will dance in fading photographs
from the pleasure dome,
whenever we leave home.



KEITH ARMSTRONG


BAY WHEEL

Here I come
through Bay Fog,
gold ring glinting
in the Park Road dark.
Seeking a North Sea fortune,
looking for a tuneful lass
to make my aching skin sing
of Wooden Dollies
and Spanish Galleons,
sailing across the old fairground
to sunnier climbs.

There’s this guy in the Rockcliffe
and he looks like a ghost.
He’s as pale as the weather
amd mist drips from his nose.
He’s an Old Waltzer,
my young Uncle Walter,
and his eyes are all talk of the War.
He did his strong courting
in an Old Spanish City
and the rose he seduced
was a Cullercoats’ flame.

Now those cold bones are ready
for the warm Crematorium:
a Memoriam to seconds flown by;
the joy of the candyfloss,
the hum of the summer,
the simmer of hamburgers,
and the hot suck of kisses dashed off.

And I am the dome of your past,
the breast of the future,
and I will hug your treasured snaps,
stick your faces in my locket
and spin you down my blouse.
For I have given you joy.
I have thrown you lifelines
and bobbing girls and boys.

And my Bay Wheel
keeps on turning.
My Big Heart
goes on burning.
My Sweet,
my sweet Streets,
my Catalon Whitley,
kiss me.
Kiss me.


KEITH ARMSTRONG

                            

Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, where he has worked as a community worker, poet, librarian and publisher, Doctor Keith Armstrong now resides in Whitley Bay. He is a coordinator of the Northern Voices Community Projects creative writing and community publishing enterprise.
He was awarded a doctorate in 2007 for his work on Newcastle writer Jack Common at the University of Durham where he received a BA Honours Degree in Sociology in 1995 and Masters Degree in 1998 for his studies on culture in the North East of England.
His poetry has been extensively published in magazines such as New Statesman and Poetry Review as well as in the collections Splinters (2011) and The Month of the Asparagus (2011) and broadcast on radio & TV.
He has performed his poetry throughout Britain and abroad.
In his youth, he travelled to Paris and he has been making international cultural pilgrimages ever since.

Monday 2 July 2018

FOOTBALL POETRY BY DR KEITH ARMSTRONG











PIGGYBACK

My father took me piggyback
to the people's game.
I felt the surge of the Gallowgate End
beneath me
like the sea roaring
off Tynemouth.
I sensed the solidarity
of those football-mad days
and my little heart
swelled with a Magpie pride.
Black and white love
came to me early,
inherited down life's straining seasons.
The throbbing crowd
lifted me
over tough shoulders,
the passion
surging with me
to the front
where I could share
the yearning dreams
for just a little glory.
Those terraces lit up,
made the blue star glow.
We young and thirsty Geordies
learnt quickly
to get drunk
on the back
of flowing football.


I REMEMBER IVOR ALLCHURCH

Golden Boy,
I remember you
made me queue
with all the other Geordie lads
in one straight line
down the car park
for your autograph.
Patiently,
one by one,
you signed for us.
A Swansea son,
footballing gentleman,
all those years ago,
you impressed me
with your calm consideration:
a measured passer
of dignity
through generations.

*Ivor Allchurch (1929 -1997) played for Newcastle United 143 times between 1958 and 1962 and scored 46 goals.



'DAZZLER'
(in honour of Robert "Bobby" Carmichael Mitchell, 19/7/1924-8/4/1993)
 

Mine Host
of the twinkling left foot,
wing-raiding Scot,
this Border Reiver
was a man of magic,
made full backs disappear.
"Dazzler" we called him,
he tied the ball to his toes,
took it for a walk.
Wor Bobby bobbing along,
criss crossing
patterns
through flat defences.
His waving hair
streaked
under the waves
of "Popular Side" crowds:
classic moments
flickering on film,
roars on a soundtrack,
Cup goals laid
on a plate.




LEN IN BLACK AND WHITE(in memory of Len White, 23/3/1930-17/6/1994)

Len White
was a hammer.
He rammed in goals
like rivets into a ship.
Len in black and white,
belter of a heavy ball,
whacker of leather bullets
with crafty head and clever feet.
Me and my old schoolmate Peter
saw you lash the Wolves,
sending a screamer
through the posts
to ignite Gallowgate
and set the Magpies chanting.
Uncapped hat-trick scorer,
153 goals merchant,
you deserve
a statue
of your own,
dedicated
to the Skellow lad
who became a Geordie
and will always be.




SUN OVER ST. JAMES' PARK

Sun sets on Empire,
a football sinking in the sky.
Dreams are gone,
the kicks we had.
I see their ghosts in The Strawberry night:
Len White and George Eastham,
Gordon Hughes and Liam Tuohy,
Alf McMichael, Jimmy Scoular.
Roaring Boys of one hue or another:
Alan Suddick and Jim Smith,
John McGrath and Dick Keith,
Dave Hilley and Andy Penman.
Stalwart lads from an industrial past,
hold on to those memories.
Golden Balls of light
shine on the surface of The Tyne,
ripple in the mind.
Great times were had
and peanuts tanner a bag.
Swaying lads on the Popular Side,
Oxo down our throats.
Chuck us a cup,
we're thirsty.




KEITH ARMSTRONG


These poems were published in the Newcastle United fanzine 'True Faith' as part of Keith's poet-in-residence stint with the magazine.