Silence Does Most To Impress

Just what, exactly, is a life?
Mere accumulated years,
Or no more than a single day?
An hour of laughter and tears


Might well be sufficient, enough
To satisfy appetites
That are, mostly, easily sated.
Although some would prefer nights,


Most would choose to enjoy their days,
However many or few,
In sun rather than moonlight.
But, how to be sure what’s true.


Teachers proved so disappointing;
In the past they would have known
But, the curriculum stops them
Having answers of their own,


As ministers of state decree
Which lessons have to be learned,
Which improving books must be read,
Which libraries must be burned,


Using carbon capture, of course,
To prevent harming the earth.
Bankers were worse. They had no way
Of calculating the worth


Of a minute, or agreeing
A common conversion rate
By which financial exchanges,
With weighting, could calculate


The precise value of an hour.
Perhaps a soul lodged inside
A life might have intrinsic worth:
But, priests remained mystified,


Mumbling vague prayers and platitudes,
Quite unable to mention
Fabulous realms beyond theirs or
Anyone’s comprehension.


As for the physicists, they were,
It appeared, quite overjoyed.
The well of everything, they said,
Was nothing, a fecund void


In which time began to tick. Good!
There was a watch after all,
Though no watchmaker. Better ask
The sextons, those who install


Cold clay in measured pits of clay.
They aren’t fooled by fancy words,
Watching even marble crumble.
The worst for them are the turds


Dog walkers leave behind amongst
Sad sentiments set in stones,
Where they must carefully excavate
For the next skin-bag of bones.


So, on their recommendation,
Prostitutes are consulted,
They know the price of flesh at least,
If not its value. It’s said


By most, there’s no correlation
Between cash and the spending,
Or the time taken for either.
Yet, there’s pleasure in blending


Good whiskies, in grand-fathering,
In choosing a politics
Deliberately out of step,
In a bag of pick and mix


Selected just to stop the mouth
With sweetness, sickly sweetness,
Knowing each day there is less to say,
Silence does most to impress.



Dave Alton

Brief Encounter in the Centurion Bar

She’s no Celia Johnson and he’s not
Trevor Howard.
(Is it actually
Possible to be adulterous
While wearing a trilby?) 
And where’s the smoke?
Great sooty billows from grimy funnels,
A monochrome miasma making eyes
Of parting lovers, tearful with regret
And irritation, while spinning steel wheels
Screech for purchase on slick rails.
Of course,
There is only the efficient hum as
Electric locomotion whispers
Through the station almost unnoticed.
Now, liaisons end at the barriers;
Only one has a ticket.
Until then
They stare across unquaffed glasses, utterly
Oblivious to magnificence
Of ceramic clad walls, to the lagers
Going flat between them, to breaking news
Newcastle United might be signing
Trevor Celia and Howard Johnson
According to Sky Sports report glaring down
From the big screen by the modest mezzanine
Where a poet’s declaiming his peon
To the Centurion Bar’s glazed splendour
And the table with two halves abandoned.


                                                        


Dave Alton

Little Self

Little Self is insistent, determined to be heard, shouting from hilltop, echoing along the valley. Too often the church is concerned for its roof.


Little Self sees only its own reflection in mirrors, watching with suspicion, blind to all other possibilities. A bench in a garden at midnight does nothing to obscure constellations.


Little Self is never satisfied, not even with total victory, nor recognition and honours. Unexpected snowfall means the bird-table needs replenishing.


Little Self claims ownership of the house in which it lives, the land on which it stands, the world through which it moves. A moment’s love is the pearl beyond price.


Little Self is certain about God, wants to be certain about God, needs to be certain about God. A flat battery is a chance on a winter’s morning.


Little Self consults timetables, makes detailed plans, sets the alarm to be absolutely sure. A book is only the beginning as reading goes way beyond it.


Little Self is easily slighted, considers creation to be a conspiracy, insists malice is merely concealed when none is apparent. The singer needs music as well as the lyrics.


Little Self can be so comfortable, settled and warm behind drawn curtains, quietly thrilled by the storm raging outside. Commandments are enduring but the stones were soon broken.


Little Self is fearful, seeks safety in not doing, negates risk by denying its own possibilities. A single cell once sought out another.


Little Self may find no recognition, despite being sovereign, while seeking immortality. As the very beginning is a fecund absence so must the end be.


                                                                                                                                  


Dave Alton

When the Time Comes

Galaxies are fermenting in soup tins,


Where one shuttle ends another begins


While wyrd systers start weaving red banners,


Removal of hearts requires cold spanners


And a surgical spoon woven from grass.


Owners of property contrive to pass


Through helium smiles as if the broad moon


Is only significant as a rune,


Explaining how rocks may be defeated,


How oceans may have to be deleted,


How mountains shall be humbled, how a gorge


Might well be remembered as the last forge


Whereat Vulcan clattered and Wayland Smith


Hammered intricate lattice-work of myth.


Speaking nothing of history, rather


Telling the future it’s always farther


Away than is usually suggested,


As it’s there hypotheses are tested


And one magnificent monument raised


On a plinth of ice, on a weak day praised


For the observation of lassitude,


While what is wrong is the right attitude.


Which is sad, of course, and joyful, of course,


When the book is written and yet the source


Is not even mentioned, despite the sound


Of weeping becoming ever profound


Amongst atheists who learn to insist


The nothing they are sure of does not exist.


So bring sandwich bags for the parapets


To keep certain revolutionaries


Unsure of what the latest wind carries,


Now doctors are consulting flights of birds,


Letting ministers explain why huge herds


Of pint glasses dashed against cobblestones,


Is final confirmation no one owns


A single garden statue worth coaching,


And that stars are just headlamps approaching






Dave Alton

Keith Armstrong: Under the Fantastic Sky

Event name: Lunchtime Lecture: Keith Armstrong – Under the Fantastic Sky

Date and time: Wednesday 1 June, 12.30 – 13.30

Venue: The Laing Art Gallery

Description: Poet and performer Keith Armstrong will speak about John Martin and his brothers and their relationship to regional culture. Armstrong will also perform a sequence of his own poems inspired by Martin and his family.

Admission: Free – no need to book.

Contact: For more info about this and other events at The Laing, call (0191) 232 7734 or visit the official site.

ANGELS PLAYING FOOTBALL

NEW FROM NORTHERN VOICES

KEITH ARMSTRONG

ANGELS PLAYING FOOTBALL: NEWCASTLE POEMS

Keith Armstrong was born & bred in Heaton, Newcastle upon Tyne, where he has worked as a community development worker, poet, librarian & publisher. As an industrial librarian at I.R.D. in Newcastle, he was christened 'Arts & Darts', organising an events programme in the firm including poetry readings, theatrical productions, & art exhibitions by his fellow workers, as well as launching Ostrich poetry magazine using the firm's copying facilities & arranging darts matches between departments! 

This selection of his poems on his beloved home city reveals both its sunny and dark sides.

Keith is a noted Geordie wordsmith, a bloke whose musings were always radical, though of their place. (Folk Roots magazine).

In another part of the field, another field, let's face it, sits Keith Armstrong's rakish gaff. (His)poems are rooted in the Tyneside music-hall tradition, closely behind which was the august balladry of the Borders. Throughout the collection, the authentic lyrical note of this northern poet is struck. (Michael Standen, Other Poetry).

PRICE £6.50         ISBN 1 871536 19 7       

*ORDERS (ADD £1.50 POSTAGE PER COPY) TO: NORTHERN VOICES, 

93 WOODBURN SQUARE, WHITLEY LODGE, WHITLEY BAY, TYNE & WEAR NE26 3JD, ENGLAND. TEL 0191 2529531.

I DON’T MIX WITH POETS

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re so boring.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re too self-adoring.

I mix with drunk Magpies,

I mix with no lies,

I mix with a bit on The Side.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re parasitic.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re soporific.

I mix with nice girls,

I mix with dumb animals,

I mix with wild birds on The Wall.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re stand-offish.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re too foppish.

I mix with my fantasies,

I mix with realities,

I mix with the maids of the seas.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re just sycophants.

I don’t mix with poets,

They get Arts Council grants!

Keith Armstrong

Commissioned by BBC Radio Newcastle for National Poetry Day 

Las Vegas

It’s glass ‘n’ steel reared in desert,
It’s neon gas burning so brightly
Stars are extinguished, It’s standing
On the walkover by Harman
Watching the life blood of traffic
Flowing vitally vivid red
One way, diamond white the other.
It’s darkness, yet The Boulevard
Blares and glares, sidewalks are seething
As the hour strikes up novelties:
Spumes of crystallized water dance,
Monumental Olympians,
Sculptured in faux stone, creak and groan
Into brief life; a volcano erupts,
And the gawping mob interrupts
Its promenade. All done by five past.
Then the huge slug of a crowd heaves
Into motion, oozing along
The silver trail towards the next
Stun-their-eyes gewgaw. It’s clicks
At every intersection, flick-
Flicking business cards to attract
Attention. Their business? Pimping!
In soiled T shirts brazenly bearing
“GIRLS4YOU”, a dumb show performed
In a city that’s dumb enough
To believe if no one speaks out
There’s no soliciting. It’s not
Bread and circuses anymore,
But sex and illusion, tacit
Collusion with an unspoken
Conspiracy to defraud
The willing and gullible.
Gambling is certainty disguised
As chance, the slots and deals and dice
Unremitting devices for
Dipping of wallets and purses.
It’s rock ‘n’ roll and too many
Elvi – deceiver Las Vegas.
It’s burlesque and stripper bars, it’s
Song and dance and rat-pack still
Packing ‘em in. It’s hypnosis,
It’s psychosis, it’s not saying,
“Enough! Enough! I’ve had enough!”
The only fear here is ennui,
Guilt at being caught not enjoying
A moment: howl and yowl is case
There’s slight suspicion of boredom.
Laugh and the whirl laughs with you,
Cry and there’s the Samaritans
On your cell phone singing, “Only
The Lonely…” It’s dreams and nightmares,
It’s cashing your paycheck at six
And broke for a month by half past.
It’s baby-boom of Superman
Born beyond Good and Evil,
It’s paradise synthesised, where
People pick accessible fruit
From the Knowledge Tree’s lowest branch.
It’s an avenue of sky-rise,
Vertical lily ponds in which
This city is drowning through its
Own reflection. And it’s cola,
Cold beer, iced tea.
It’s half-yards of margaritas,
It’s basques and baggies, stilettos
And trainers. It’s never sleeping,
But closing eyes to waking up.
It’s a galaxy of lights making
Beyond city limits so much
Darker. It’s electric guitars,
Chords and discords. It’s pretence,
A real sense that nothing is real.
It’s the compass abolished, it’s
The Strip as the sole direction,
Strip-stripping away refusal.
It’s bought! It’s sold! It’s Las Vegas.
It’s vague! It’s vain! And it’s Vegas.






Dave Alton

PRIZE WINNER GORDON

The winner of this year's Northern Voices Award is Gordon Frank Phillips. It was presented to Gordon at a special event, including a Thomas Spence book launch, in Newcastle's Red House on Burns Night 25th January in the presence of the Sheriff of Newcastle, with readings from Gordon and others including Katrina Porteous, Paul Summers, Dr Keith Armstrong, Trevor Leonard, Brian Hall, Catherine Graham, Robert Lonsdale, Dominic Windram, Trevor Teasdel, Dave Alton with Ann Sessoms (pipes) and songs from Gary Miller. 

Gordon Phillips has been a writer ever since he came second in a National Schools Association Poetry Competition when he lived in St Albans.  He could have gone into the print trade like his father but ‘he was never any good with his hands’.  He was educated at Newcastle University where he specialised in writing, memory and culture.  Over the years he has written articles, book and theatre reviews for various magazines including Education Review, The Good Book Guide and Theatre.  His poems and fiction have been published nationally and internationally, in particular, Australia and the USA, in school textbooks and anthologies like New Angles by Oxford University Press and Enjoying English by Macmillan.  His other work has been as a librettist and lyricist, writing King Taor, a cantata for Gateshead Schools, Five Songs in Wansbeck Settings for a 20000 Voices project in Northumberland and writing some of the text as part of Five Operas, a multi-media project for schoolchildren in Essex.  At the moment, he is busy writing a folksong cycle, The Square and Compass about St Mary's Island in North Tyneside and a satire The Bull and Bear Song Cycle with a North American composer.  When he is not involved in creative projects he is tutoring in Creative Writing, Literature and running a Writers’ Workshop.

Other winners of the award have been William Martin, Alan C. Brown, Katrina Porteous, Catherine Graham, Gordon Hodgeon, Paul Summers and Trevor Teasdel.

More information from Northern Voices tel 0191 2529531

Driving Route 66

Graphite underscore drawn hard across desert,
Along the rule of palefaced men pencilling
In a way they thought people should travel,
Definitive grey line in the sand. For
Tarmac’s the black mark civilisation
Makes when imposing upon chaotic
Wilderness slithering just beyond, through
Parched bush, over seared and desiccated
Yellowstone grit persisting mile on mile,
Either side of this narrow highway, out
To forbidding red mountains, severe slopes
So loosely strewn with boulders a tremor
Of the heart might bring them cascading down,
Overwhelming those unfortunate souls
Driving by, sound systems rocking, windows
Wound down, elbows jutting, looking ahead
Towards no particular place, passing by
Aboriginals with reservations
About their land divided and returned
In part, as a gift from their patrons,
Unsettled by settlers who brought the wheel
And then broke them on it. Adolescence,
That gauche hackneyed acned rebellion,
Erupted along this road well travelled,
These days, by the silver haired and balding,
Hot rodding along in purring hatchbacks,
Having cruised, it seems, from zits to liver spots,
Looking for kicks in comfort-fit jeans
And shades which are tinted spectacles: there’s
A few more miles yet before their final reservation,
With bored teenagers in the backseat
For now, wondering just what gran and gramps
See in all this, what are they looking for?
While the road goes on and on through neon
Nostalgia of Seligman and Williams,
Barely a curve or turning it seems.
So, look ahead and keep on cruising, don’t
Glance too often in the rear view mirror
Where sand is gathering on the shoulders
Of this thin highway to soon sweep over
From both sides to centre line; dust to dust.

Dave Alton

BOOK LAUNCH EVENT

THOMAS SPENCE BOOK LAUNCH

come to the red house on newcastle's quayside for a burns night social and book launch on tuesday 25th january 2011 7.30pm with readings from spence, poetry and song, haggis/neeps/tatties - plus northern voices annual literary award

Two new poems

IMPRESSIONS

1. ST. ALBAN`S CHURCHYARD

It is January,   

St. Alban`s bells cry out.

A single shaft of light

cuts through the trees.

The snow lies thin.

In this thread-bare corner

names are carved in stone,

Armstrong, Duffy,

Ford and Young.

The north wind blows

and barren fields stretch out.

On this bleak winter`s day

a shadow`s cast

to Hartley and beyond.

(Beneath a broken beam

two shifts collide,

Hindmarch, Hodge and

Gallagher

entwined in death)

The light begins to fade.

A hooded crow descends,

black as coal,

death resurrects the past.

2. NEW HARTLEY

Crocuses grow

and Hartley hides its grief.

Traffic flows

where waggons hauled

and black dust filled the air.

The children play

where miners worked the seam.

(The Blyth & Tyne slips past.

Bewick, Brown

and Nicholson,

a shift too far.)

Death demanded change.

The pit has gone,

king coal dethroned,

laid quietly to rest.

The dappled light

and birdsong on the breeze.

A hint of spring

wanders across the fields.

Hartley thrives.

Geoff Holland

I DON’T MIX WITH POETS

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re so boring.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re too self-adoring.

I mix with drunk Magpies,

I mix with no lies,

I mix with a bit on The Side.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re parasitic.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re soporific.

I mix with nice girls,

I mix with dumb animals,

I mix with wild birds on The Wall.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re stand-offish.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re too foppish.

I mix with my fantasies,

I mix with realities,

I mix with the maids of the seas.

I don’t mix with poets,

They’re just sycophants.

I don’t mix with poets,

They get Arts Council grants!

Keith Armstrong

Commissioned by BBC Radio Newcastle for National Poetry Day 2002

FAREWELL, AAD TREE!

‘Farewell, aad tree!

where once the craws

in times gyen bye

did nest an’ build; 

ne mair ye’ll feel

thor dusty claws

cling te yor branch,

for noo yor kill’d.’

(written in 1889 after the felling of a large elm tree on Barras Bridge, Haymarket, Newcastle, from which the old ‘Crow’s Nest’ pub took its name)

NORTHERN VOICES COMMUNITY PROJECTS

HARTLEY PIT CALAMITY 150TH ANNIVERSARY PROPOSALS

1. A commemorative book, with the Hartley Calamity history and creative writing from young and old, together with a selection from the poetry of Pitman Poet Joseph Skipsey, poems by Dr Keith Armstrong and a Skipsey biography, with an insert CD to the book featuring Keith and others performing their Hartley poems and those of Skipsey, together with folk musicians. Photos of memorial, church and churchyard, new photos of colliery site and contributors in situ plus historical images and engravings. 

2. A series of performances in Earsdon/New Hartley/North Shields etc, featuring folk music and poetry, including poems by Joseph Skipsey (with a special performance of his long ballad on Hartley) and Hartley creative writing (poems and lyrics) from young and old.

3. A number of stimulus sessions in schools/community centres etc led by Keith Armstrong to encourage Hartley creative writing from young and old.

4. A touring display created by Peter Dixon. 

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