Malawi Poem

On the road in Malawi pupils walk to school

Cyclists transport family livestock and furniture

Lorries fight with the dust while monkeys meander

Branches worn of a funeral

Women walk for water

By the roadside girls sit and knit boys pull wired cars

Women work and wash babies play in the dust

Men sit in the shade and watch

Piles of stone and wood wait

Thirsty folk dig in dry river beds

Children chew cane wear white smiles and wave

At the market stalls sell all ;eggs sit side by side with soap

Everyone welcomes with beaming mouths

They have so little yet smile so much

By the lake bourgainvillea blossoms eagles dive men  and  

kingfishers fish

All wallow in waterA lone canoeist paddled a coffin across 

the lake

Lots of coffin shops on the roadside

Heaven Bound Funeral Parlour

A lone canoeist paddled a coffin across the lake

Zikoma Thankyou for coming to my country said an old man.

The sun set in the ochre dust sky

Mary Atkinson

(Winner of the Warkworth Show Poetry Competition, 2013)

THE MELLY-BELLY SONGS!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JACK COMMON (1903-1968)

'The one faculty with which school infallibly endures its pupils, that of being bored. It is very important, of course, that every child should, in the course of time, become fitted with this negative capability. If they didn't have it, they'd never put up with the jobs they are going to get, most of them, on leaving school. Boredom or the ability to endure it, is the hub on which the whole universe of work turns.' Jack Common.

GEOFF HOLLAND - NEW POEMS

DECEMBER DAY

Drab December day,

Wooler sleepwalks through half-lit dawn.

Alone in north Northumberland,

silent beside giggling burn & primed.

The easy track leads on.

Reastead revisited

& bullocks eyeing with suspicion,

Hart Heugh, stone-strewn & ancient,

drifts in & out of sight.

Pheasants shriek at Switcherdown,

a single tree & tumbled stones.

Little remains, only a witches ghost.

Cold Law, head in the clouds,

feet in the bare winter valley,

a reluctant, retiring host.

A red grouse warns, `go-back, back, back`,

but up past boundary stone to summit cairn,

drenched to its own skin, sullen.

Carling Crag, shrouded & mysterious,

dissolves once seen

& then to Carey Burn

bristling, scurrying downstream. Pell-mell.

The linn, grey, flood-washed rock,

white beard reminding me

it is Christmas time.

But, first, the Hellpath,

tree-lined & saturated,

strength-sapping as it angles skywards.

The sting in the long tail home.

EIGHTY YEARS ON

(In memory of W. Ford Robertson)

Wooler, up with the larks

& the 9:25 train to Kirknewton

steaming beneath Yeavering.

Bowmont seeping into Glendale

& the sky blossoming with summer.

August, honey-sweet, brushes past,

the day still young.

Comfortable with your long stride,

boots glide over ancient rocks.

A bag, packed for the day,

slung over broad shoulders,

two yards of strong twine

& a kettle ready for the boil.

A stout stick, swings in tune,

a countryside concerto.

A grouse breaks cover, startles,

flies free over Commonburn.

Quiet on Tom Tallon`s Crag,

clouds build over Cheviot

& on over Black Law, Gains Law,

Drythropple basking in sunlight,

then Humbleton`s pond, reflective,

& the village green.

Wooler waits your whistling return

& a meal fit for a king.

Eighty years on

& I struggle to keep pace.

THE ROSE & THISTLE

A cool breeze

and dappled light over Alwinton,

Coquetdale`s last,

an English rose, sleeps on.

A fox slips behind blackthorn,

snowdrops break rank

and daffodils bow their heads.

Songbirds

and the naked limbs of hawthorn.

Spring stirs

beneath hills brushed with snow.

Footsteps quicken,

Clennell Street draws breath,

climbs past Castle Hills

and Yarnspath Law to Hexpethgate.

Then down to Cocklawfoot

where burns collide.

Here the thistle thrives

and an old road strikes north.

Community of Poets

The Tyneside Poets of the 1970s have left two legacies. Latterly, this blog which, as well as forging international links, is a platform for new writing as well as an archive of poems from Poetry North East.

The more active component though is Northern Voices Community Projects, guided by Keith Armstrong and Pete Dixon, with a mission to promote poetry in the north east and beyond: www.northernvoicescommunityprojects.co.uk

The beyond part is presently being realised by a fledgling poetry group and its blog – www.barnsleyvoice.wordpress.con – founded in conjunction with the U3A. South Yorkshire may seem some way from Tyneside, but, way back the Barnsley area was part of the Kingdom of Northumbria.

Rather more important than tenuous links is the emergence of a small but growing kernel of poets finding their voices, many for the first time. Beth Rudkin had not written poetry previously to joining the group, but is beginning to develop her own style.

Today I Went to Gordale Scar

The approach to it is charming:

Rippling waters, celandines, primroses,

Grasses, trees

And bumble bees.

Thriving, wonderful life.

Then you turn the corner.

Huge cliffs blend together

Conspiring, sides pleated,

Grey and overwhelming.

They are the Ancient of Days,

Water falls with vicious force,

But there is no life.

Life. It is pretty, joyful,

Sometimes sad, always short.

Is it significant?

“No!” say the cliffs,

“We have been here for millennia.

We will be here for ever.

We are significant.”

I retrace my steps.

                                                                             Beth Rudkin

Using his pen-name Shaun Adam, a former journalist from Pakistan is keen to expand his writing from his natural tongue, Urdu, and become a bilingual poet.

I and Morning-star

Burning sky turned black

And night fell

Stars set in shining

Laying down at the roof-top

Gazing and counting them

Knowing they are countless

In melancholy looking for my luck-star

I have done this for ages

Sleep on the shoulders of thoughts

Descended down the eyes

Ascending hope resisted the invaders

The fight continued

Till the morning-star saluted the darkness

Faraway in the Milky-way

Broke a star silently

Drawing a glowing ray behind

On its course to earth

Stunned but confident

The falling star was mine

The hope yielded to intruders

I and morning-star succumbed to sleep

                                                                                            Shaun Adam

These are only two of the Barnsley Voice group and it is perhaps unfair on the others to highlight this couple. However, as the group was founded by a Northern Voices Community Projects associate, who also remains associate editor of Poetry Tyneside despite his move south, there will be future opportunities for other group members to contribute their work to this blog.

Dave Alton