TREVOR TEASDEL - TEESSIDE DYNAMO

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MORE TEESSIDE POETRY: ROBERT LONSDALE

Photo by Peter Dixon










Life Through An Elastic Band

Elastic bands young and strong, thick and thin, short or long,

Woven tightly band by band, strand by strand,

Around unknown objects of random sizes,

Carefully laid out on wooden tables for all the world to see;

Precisely placed before changing seasons raging wrath

Compels each stretching band to wane then snap,

Yielding to the striking of an invisible clock,

Until one by one they reveal the hidden fabric at their heart.

Was I hated or mistrusted?,

Was I loved and did I love?,

Was I honourable or unjust?,

Was I faithful or did I lust?,

If I lived, did I let live?,

Did I believe or hide behind doubt?,

Is it all meaningless at the setting of the Sun?,

Will my Soul rise again?,

What is left when I have gone?

Universal wonder taken to an early grave,

Leaving a half written epitaph that does not tell it well for you.

Only the erosion of restraining bands 

can write those final truths that bound each elastic band

to life’s remorseless clock,

Silently ticking as an owl in flight, compelling remaining bands to wane then snap,

Bringing back, the long dead artist’s dream, Part Two,

To fulfilment and eternal life.

Robert Lonsdale

My Best Friend

Without much fuss,

death's cold hand knocked upon our door,

and took away my Mother.

I who remains am told to be strong, 

move on, shed no tears,

celebrate instead her good life.

Machismo advice, sensible but temporal,

helps cope with her passing,

fond memories too soon become sweet and everlasting,

held together via handshakes and hugs

Until earth becomes earth and ashes become ashes.

Cheerless rhymes accompany her into the icy cold ground

on beloved Christmas Eve

While her adult son plummets headlong into meltdown.

Night night and God bless,

I still miss that goodnight kiss.

I will never get used to this

wretched void

where once my best friend stood.

Robert Lonsdale

Saving The Shannon

The innocent river Shannon ripples along,

minding its own business, blissfully unaware

of the impending threat it has to face

from the unscrupulous corporate fist

that intends to drain so much

of what it’s got.

A sucking siphon, inserted into the river's mass,

ensures a tidy profit when the level drops;

all done in the name of progress.

Another murderous blade stabs into ecology’s heart,

bringing the doomsday prophecy another toxic step closer.

The Shannon cannot defend itself alone

against this planned onslaught,

it needs some friends now, more than ever before.

And the old men along its busy banks say:

“If Che were here today, he would save the Shannon

in the good old revolutionary way.”

But Che has had his day

and the time is now!

Limerick people have to act fast

if the beloved Shannon is to remain intact.

A dreadful fate lies in wait,

No more time to waste,

hesitate or procrastinate:

unite, rise to this fight,

prevent another environmental disaster from taking place I

in this land of emerald green hope.

Robert Lonsdale

(from Anthology for a River, Limerick 2012)

ROBERT LONSDALE:

Robert has had much of his poetry published and also broadcast on local B.B.C. Radio where he was involved with one of their weekly evening programmes for many years featuring local poets.

He set up and organised "The Write Room" on Teesside which provided an opportunity for poets/writers to read, share and perform their work to an audience.

He has also compiled and edited a book of his own poems and performed at many venues across the North East of England.

He has written, produced and directed two short films called, "For Those Who Sit And Wait" and "Ya Joking Aren't Ya?", both of which have been featured in many film festivals including Teesside University’s "Concept" film night.

He recently wrote a stage play which highlighted the closure of the Corus Steel Mill. This was successfully performed by an acting company both at the Arc Arts Centre in Stockton and on stage in Middlesbrough. His latest writing project is an hour long television drama which has been submitted to the B.B.C.

He has performed at the "On the Nail" poetry venue in Limerick, Ireland and a poem of his is featured in the recent River Shannon anthology the launch of which he attended in Limerick.

Revisiting No Return - New From Dave Alton

Revisiting No Return

Carry

This coin of the world

In a purse of lips

While the Great North Road

Runs bothered by an angel

As river wrung from coal seams

As coal seams wrought in candle wax

As candle wax written by brothers

As brothers riven through bridges

As bridges rolled along slipways

As slipways routed with sharp tongues

As sharp tongues wrestled to the Quayside

Drinking of beer

Stinking of beer

In the beaks of kittiwakes

On the feathered backs of promises

Peaked these long-long years passed

Glistering enough to be pecked over

By deluded magpies

Even before the final autumn

Fall from Newcastle

Dave Alton 

I WILL SING OF MY OWN NEWCASTLE

I WILL SING OF MY OWN NEWCASTLE

sing of my home city

sing of a true geordie heart

sing of a river swell in me

sing of a sea of the canny

sing of the newcastle day

sing of a history of poetry

sing of the pudding chare rain 

sing of the puddles and clarts

sing of the bodies of sailors

sing of the golden sea

sing of our childrens’ laughter

sing of the boats in our eyes

sing of the bridges in sunshine

sing of the fish in the tyne

sing of the lost yards and the pits 

sing of the high level railway

sing of the love in my face

sing of the garths and the castle

sing of the screaming lasses

sing of the sad on the side

sing of the battles’ remains

sing of the walls round our dreams

sing of the scribblers and dribblers

sing of the scratchers of livings

sing of the quayside night

sing of the kicks and the kisses

sing of the strays and the chancers

sing of the swiggers of ale

sing of the hammer of memory

sing of the welders’ revenge

sing of a battered townscape

sing of a song underground

sing of a powerless wasteland

sing of a buried bard

sing of the bones of tom spence

sing of the cocky bastards

sing of a black and white tide

sing of the ferry boat leaving

sing of cathedral bells crying

sing of the tyneside skies

sing of my mother and father

sing of my sister’s kindness

sing of the hope in my stride

sing of a people’s passion

sing of the strength of the wind 

KEITH ARMSTRONG

MORE FROM DOMINIC WINDRAM'S PEN

We are floating in cyberspace

We are floating in cyber space

We are liberated from

The weight of the past

And its rigid tribal claims

We are floating in cyber space

We are dazzled by advertising

As we surf over chaos

We no longer need to decipher

Ancient symbols and signs

We are floating in cyberspace

Where images chase each other

Like reflections on the water

Illusory worlds glitter like diamonds

We are floating in cyberspace

The endless transmission of ideas

Across oceans and borders

And back ought to unite us

We are floating in cyberspace

Free to dream forever

Free to construct new identities

As the omniscient eyes of surveillance

Chart our progress under the stars

From Eden To Las Vegas

The world began in Eden

And ended in Las Vegas

From beautiful garden

To dazzling morgue

The world began

Snug in the soft feathers

Of holy innocence

Now it hides its needle marks

The world began

With Adam the first poet

Naming the animals

Now words are used

To sanctify advertising

And other disreputable arts

As the old order evaporates

New symbols sneer and snarl

Now gadgets and pills

Have replaced the profound peace

Of the paraclete

And love is only ripe for a season

The world began

With waves of hope

Now there is only a pinprick

Of light in the darkness

As we caress our smart phones

Like rosary beads

The world began in Eden

And ended in Las Vegas

Another world

Another world

Lies beyond the horizon

It is just a matter

Of striving for it

Another world

Is not only possible

She is on her way

On a quiet day

I can hear her breathing

I can smell her sweet perfume

Spring similies

It’s like a ghost

Entering my soul

When I recall

A nursery lullaby

It’s like a light

Railing against

The starless night

When I look into your eyes

It’s like a birth

In the midst of death

When I scratch

Black marks on white paper

It will be like a rainbow

After the hard rain

When I create

My masterpiece

For now I am content

I’d love to write a poem

Of such translucent beauty

That it would melt the stars

And make the moon bleed

I’d love to discover imagery

That would make the gods weep

But for now I am content

To carry on with my craft

In the hope that a slither of sun

Can be caught in my net

In this shifting world where

Ideal form is so elusive

Dear Old Blighty

They claim a bit of pomp & ceremony

Brightens up our little lives for a while

Some people get their kicks when they’re waving flags

At some gilded Jubilee or lavish Wedding

And the media magnifies the general mood

Of proper, patriotic sentiment

Whilst real events that affect real lives

Remain largely unreported it seems

I’m tired of modern bread and circuses

I’m truly bored of cardboard commentators

We may think we’re so middle class and free now

But deep down we’re still peasants in brand new guise

Mere subjects of the Crown not citizens

Passive observers of the general malaise

So lie back and dream whilst knowing your place

As for me I’ll be emigrating soon

Acedia

It’s a kind of hell when innocence dies

To dread the coming of the morning sun

When once childhood dreams were wrapped around it

Prozac always dulls the pain but kills the joy

Catholic heaven seems so far removed

From this modern age of twilight idols

And love’s sweet promise turns bitter & ugly

In the black mirror of the simulacrum

Where flesh prevails utterly over spirit

Where teeming nature becomes a brazen whore

Conformists versus creators

Everyone’s an A* student nowadays

But how many possess true wisdom?

It seems information has far exceeded

The rare fruits of knowledge that make a culture

And those crude school league tables don’t impress me

It’s really just a mad race to the bottom

How many are there who can think critically?

Or, better still, engage in nuanced debate?

How many can spin a telling turn of phrase?

Or create a monumental work of art?

Sometimes I despair of this maddening world

There are too many ‘Yes’ men chasing carrots

Believing that they can climb the golden ladder

But there are so few creators blessed with Vision