From 1979:
'Since its foundation in 1973, the Tyneside Poets has stayed together as a group with a clear commitment to encouraging hitherto unknown writers in the region and in developing a wider interest in literature.
Performances have been staged in many of the less usual places e.g. Haltwhistle, Hexham, Newburn, Morpeth, Ashington, Cramlington, Wallsend, Scotswood, in schools, in colleges, pubs, car parks and town centres.
Members have visited Sweden, Germany, Austria, Denmark and Iceland; shows have been presented on a number of local themes. This and more.
Where most literary organisations have simply featured readings by established names to largely student audiences, the Tyneside Poets have tried to go beyond this, including our open workshops on varied themes from the local translators' forum to an evening of Indian poetry, well attended by poets and other members of the local Indian community.'
FORD CHURCH
"Kiss of the sun for pardon
and birds for mirth."
(INSCRIPTION IN FORD CHURCH)
Coming in from wind and bright light, into
another sort of space, to listen....
To the rustle of feet on floors,
echoed in stone with the dust of centuries past.
How many churches like this one?
With bright light diffused into blue-yellow, soft against black plaques.
Wan Saints against artificial poppies and the remembrance of Rectors.
Yet this is different in spirit.
Arced in tree and overawed by a castle,
sun-drenched and bird-hung, no simple rise of
stones, filled with the smell of grass and dead flowers -
But vibrant with rough stone and polished wood.
Calling a solace and quiet comfort to those
still seeking peace.
Now steadied in a pattern of living, it remains,
unchanged for centuries.
Demelza Marrack
THE TRAIN
Nine hours of boredom in the darkness,
humming the only Hebrew song we know as the
crippled express rocks us into Austria. In
the thick fog of our carriage, shabby families
doze; the children fight and scuffle down
crowded corridors or listen to the bristles
sprouting on their father's chins.
Nora's dream is a blurred travelogue of tattered
maps and orange groves, summer rotting the bright
globes of fruit.
We travel lighter than the rest, rolling to the
monotonous pant of steam as the engine strains
towards Bernau.
I strech out wet fingers to touch her lips,
stifling a groan; blood has caked on this steamy
pane/brown against the blinding glare of frost.
I ask one guard our time of arrival, he looks up
from his grimy clockface of playing cards and
stamps 'Who needs to know?' on the back of my wrist.
In all the confusion we've forgotten the name of
our destination.
Nora still sleeps under my grey trenchcoat,
her skirt is melting against her thigh.
Vince Morrison
