YOU'VE GOT TO BE JOKING

if you think this is democracy,

this quango land

insult to our history,

this emptiness

of false celebrity,

this wretched shallowness,

this shattered ignorance

of all that shines from our fought-for heritage,

this media connivence

and bone idleness,

this following of the fast buck,

this grovelling to the greed of capital,

this sickening homage to materialism,

this lack of human spirit

in our city centres,

this brutal selfishness

encouraged by a government

that denies our European roots,

that scans the wonder of the vast Atlantic

for feeble ideas to run with,

this rat race of a society

that puts self above solidarity,

these feeble careerist substitutes for activism

who have lost any real will for change,

who have become corrupted by a power-lust,

who lack any passion

other than to climb grimly up their greasy poles,

clinging on to their self-delusion,

ignoring, in their centrist way,

the true beauty of community,

handing out their gongs to the servile

and rubbishing the selfless folk

who work their little miracles every breathing day.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

TYNE COAL

Cargoes

By John Masefield

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,

Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,

With a cargo of ivory,

And apes and peacocks,

Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

      

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,

Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,

With a cargo of diamonds,

Emeralds, amethysts,

Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

        

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke-stack,

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,

With a cargo of Tyne coal,

Road-rails, pig-lead,

Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

DURHAM: AN ANONYMOUS POEM

This city is celebrated
In the whole empire of the Britons.
The road to it is steep.
It is surrounded with rocks,
And with curious plants.
The Wear flows round it,
A river of rapid waves;
And there live in it
Fishes of various kinds,
Mingling with the floods.
And there grow
Great forests;
There Hide in the recesses
Wild animals of many sorts;
In the deep valleys
Deer innumerable.
There is in this city
Also well known to men
The venerable St. Cudberth;
And the head of the chaste King
Oswald, the lion of the Angli;
And Aiden, the Bishop:
Aedbert and Aedfrid,
The noble associates.
There is in it also
Aethelwold, the Bishop;
And the celebrated writer Bede;
And the Abbot Boisil,
By whom the chaste Cudberth
Was in his youth gratis instructed;
Who also well received the instructions,
There rest with these saints,
In the inner part of the Minster,
Relicks innumerable,
Which perform many miracles,
As the chronicles tell us,
And which await with them
The judgment of the Lord.

This is an Anglo-Saxon poem.

COLLIER LAD BY JOSEPH SKIPSEY - PERFORMED BY DRIVE THE BOGIES

A NEW POEM BY DAVE ALTON

Haunting

It is the living who haunt the dead,

Being pale and silent in graveyards and on

The scattering grounds, by ash-salted sea,

Flitting between somber saplings planted

By humanists in set aside fields. Our dead

Are possessed by us, their rot scented

With unsolicited flowers, names incised

Into stone as petrified memory

Over dates and doggerel as if

Of some significance. But, the deceased

Remain reserved, thoroughly undisturbed

By our pestering, about their business

Of death without any untoward show,

Utterly dedicated to absence,

Unrelenting in determined pursuit

Of their true vocation. For all that we

Pester them, demanding their attention,

Angered by their seeming indifference

To us, they keep a dignified silence:

And by that, and that alone, are we haunted.

Dave Alton

THE VIEW FROM THE RED HOUSE!

THE COLLIER LAD BY JOSEPH SKIPSEY (1832-1903)

poet joseph skipsey

MY lad he is a Collier Lad,     And ere the lark awakes, He's up and away to spend the day     Where daylight never breaks; But when at last the day has pass'd,     Clean washed and cleanly clad, He courts his Nell who loveth well     Her handsome Collier Lad. Chorus—There's not his match in smoky Shields;                     Newcastle never had                 A lad more tight, more trim, nor bright                     Than is my Collier Lad. Tho' doomed to labour under ground,     A merry lad is be; And when a holiday comes round,     He'll spend that day in glee; He'll tell his tale o'er a pint of ale,     And crack his joke, and bad Must be the heart who loveth not     To hear the Collier Lad. At bowling matches on the green     He ever takes the lead, For none can swing his arm and fling     With such a pith and speed: His bowl is seen to skim the green,     And bound as if right glad To hear the cry of victory     Salute the Collier Lad. When 'gainst the wall they play the ball,     He's never known to lag, But up and down he gars it bound,     Till all his rivals fag; When deftly—lo! he strikes a blow     Which gars them all look sad, And wonder how it came to pass     They play'd the Collier Lad. The quoits are out, the hobs are fix'd,     The first round quoit he flings Enrings the hob; and lo! the next     The hob again enrings; And thus he'll play the summer day,     The theme of those who gad; And youngsters shrink to bet their brass     Against the Collier Lad. When in the dance he doth advance,     The rest all sigh to see How he can spring and kick his heels,     When they a-wearied be; Your one-two-three, with either knee     He'll beat, and then, glee-mad, A heel-o'er-head leap crowns the dance     Danced by the Collier Lad. Besides a will and pith and skill,     My laddie owns a heart That never once would suffer him     To act a cruel part; That to the poor would ope the door     To share the last he had; And many a secret blessing's pour'd     Upon my Collier Lad. He seldom goes to church, I own,     And when he does, why then, He with a leer will sit and hear,     And doubt the holy men; This very much annoys my heart;     But soon as we are wed, To please the priest, I'll do my best     To tame my Collier Lad.

FROM A SWAHILI PHRASEBOOK