OUR SPITTAL - POEMS: KEITH ARMSTRONG PHOTOS: TONY WHITTLE

Tammy Spence he had no sense,

he bought a fiddle for eighteen pence

and all the tunes that he could play

was ‘O’er the Hills and Far Away’.

From Cow Road to Hud’s Head,

Toppye Knowe Stone and Spittal Point,

we have dredged the coal

and snapped up fish

with ‘Lovely Polly’ and all.

We have ground the corn and bone,

found the iron and cured and smoked.

We have worshipped Bart and lifeboats

and prayed to Paul and John.

We have staggered on in rain and nonconformity.

We have lurched along old shores,

drowned the thirst of sailors

with the rattling old Town Bell and the tunes of jolly Jack,

whistled and fiddled away

in the bright Red Lion light.

Jesus Light of the World,

we are the history in the barrel,

in the soaring wind

and in the foaming waves:

it is our blood,

it is our bread,

it is our Spittal,

our mirrored past.

TALES OF SPITTAL

This small space

for tall tales,

the leprous tongues of centuries,

hospitalised gossips,

words drifting out of ward windows

on a dripping wet afternoon.

Church reduced to a hung silence,

closed hearts

ready for a drink.

And there’s this man

like a tea leaf in the corners

of the Blenheim or the Red Lion or The Albion.

He’s gagging for a chat about the old days,

it’s on the lips of driftwood,

swirling in the blown down days.

Tug the fruit machine,

wallop down a pie-eyed dream.

The ghosts of Victorian ladies

hiss along the promenade

as we are hit in the face

with sepia breezes.

They come from North Sea places

and from Kelso,

Selkirk and Hawick,

they ripple the surface of the sea

and the leaves in the border forests.

Take the ancient waters,

sips of iron and sulphur,

bathe yourself in history and grime.

Pellets of sleet,

hail a watery charabanc drive,

run a hot bath

down the prom prom prom.

And let the keen and callous wind

whip up the skirts of the Tweedside girls,

so you can dance for your lives.

We are the Spittal folk,

the old Pierrots,

our songs are shattered

on ancient rocks.

Our children skip through the clutter of news.

Bless them,

bless young hearts.

Splash in Bishop’s Water,

in fishing places,

songs of herring and of salmon.

Spittal Rovers

sing again.

Leap for breath

in the ways of Spring.

RICHARD MENDHAM’S SPITTAL TIPPLE

Yon tippling illiterate Spittaler,

that smuggler of drunkenness,

thief and copier of the night.

Across the lines of sobriety,

you lurched,

carving a living

from rich streams

of whisky.

Dodging water bailiffs across rooftops,

creeping down trap stairs,

you and your gang

of fleetfooted drunks

shifted illicit dreams.

Eyes glinting in hidie-holes,

disguised in black cloth and gowns,

you sparked like bar-flies in the dark.

Dancing round brightly,

skipping school lightly,

laughed in your dens of warm cackle.

Shook the village with laughter,

gave the rude sign to Berwick,

pranced till they caught you,

hung you high

from your rafter

for daring to test

the stone-sober law.

*Richard Mendham - 1830s Spittal smuggler and counterfeiter who was tried and executed at Jedburgh in the presence of Sir Walter Scott, Sheriff of Selkirkshire.

DRINKING IN SPITTAL

See me fall out of The Elephant bar,

where I’ve been drinking with salmon.

Spittal foaming from my open mouth.

Lame, maimed, drunken,

dissolute, boisterous and poor,

I have become intoxicated by parties of pleasure.

I have strayed from the Holy Island to Brandy Well,

become awash in luggers of boozers,

staggering on smugglers’ sand.

Gin, brandy, tobacco and silk,

let me cleanse myself in the morning light,

take the clean waters of Jesus.

Walk to the Hallowstell,

past the lepers’ huts,

for drops of holy blood,

strip away with bare hands

this ugly scorbutic humour.

Clean the beaches,

clean Spittal,

clean my weary soul.

I will launch myself

into a seawater bath

and blow hot and cold

with the seasoning.

Calybeate waters of Spittal,

salts of pure iron,

you have me

chained to your heavy drinking cup.

Let my lovely heart sing

with children and larks.

Let me go plodging

in daffodils.

GIRL IN A SPITTAL WINDOW

Glancing moment,

chance look.

I was wondering

where to go,

what to do

in the seaside fret.

I am growing 

misty with dreams:

welcome to my Spittal World.

I am little in this universe,

the sun is falling,

the stars are poised.

The window cleaner

will come in the morning

and wipe yesterday 

away.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

 

 

 

 

 

 

The coastal scenery around Berwick is very fine, with rocks and cliffs, only occasionally interrupted by small bays and harbours. The nearest bathing beach to the town is in the little seaside resort of Spittal, to the south.

I was very impressed by the picture you and Tony created of Spittal.

It struck me that it was in the very best traditions of photo-journalism -

Picture Post recreated for the electronic age.   I thought images and text 

showed great respect and sensibility.

JOHN MAPPLEBECK (Bewick Films)

THE SUN ON DANBY GARDENS

The sun on Danby Gardens
smells of roast beef,
tastes of my youth.
The flying cinders of a steam train
spark in my dreams.
Across the old field,
a miner breaks his back
and lovers roll in the ditches,
off beaten tracks.
Off Bigges Main,
my grandad taps his stick,
reaches for the braille of long-dead strikes.
The nights
fair draw in
and I recall Joyce Esthella Antoinette Giles
and her legs that reached for miles,
tripping over the stiles
in red high heels.
It was her and blonde Annie Walker
who took me in the stacks
and taught me how to read
the signs
that led inside their thighs.
Those Ravenswood girls
would dance into your life
and dance though all the snow drops
of those freezing winters,
in the playground of young scars.
And I remember freckled Pete
who taught me Jazz,
who pointed me to Charlie Parker
and the edgy bitterness of Brown Ale.
Mrs Todd next door
was forever sweeping
leaves along the garden path
her fallen husband loved to tread.
Such days:
the smoke of A4 Pacifics in the aftermath of war,
the trail of local history on the birthmarked street.
And I have loved you all my life
and will no doubt die in Danby Gardens
where all my poems were born,
just after midnight.


KEITH ARMSTRONG

Michael Callaghan:  Absolutely brilliant Keith!
Conrad Atkinson: Another gem Keith Best Conrad 

ALNWICKDOTE

These rough stones,
carried for miles to build
such a Castle,
mounted on fields
of bitter sweet slopes.

Stoned lions,
countrified gargoyles
hunch, unpouncing;
their stiff glares fixed
on us fee paying visitors,
taking a stroll through
the dusty chapters,
the library dungeons.

And I would suppose
this afternoon to be,
for us, some piece of history,
both strolling through
crisis after crisis,
hearts beating heart beats
and blood warm, flowing
through us as we walk between
such cold walls,
older than a Duke,
but never as wise as this love of mine
nor as fragile as
that historic moment inside the Castle
when once you smiled at me
so wonderfully.



KEITH ARMSTRONG

Alnwick Castle, Northumberland

(published in From Both Sides of Hadrian’s Wall.
Contemporary poetry from south Scotland and north England)