TYNESIDE POETS!

TYNESIDE POETS!

Tuesday, 14 May 2013

Durham University Special Collection


Keith Armstrong Collection


Collection name: Keith Armstrong Collection
Collection code: GB 033 ARM
Date range: 1967-2010
Extent: 2 metres
Language: English, some German, Dutch and Swedish
Created by: Keith Armstrong, poet and writer
Held by: Durham University Library, Archives and Special Collections

Contents: 
The Collection contains much of Armstrong's work, not just in published form such as volumes of poetry, anthologies, magazine articles and interviews but also recording his long-running and varied performance work with material like posters, programmes, recordings and reviews. It also records his far-ranging collaborative work, both with other artists and notably as a facilitator for others in themed or local writing groups.
The formats of the material reflect the changing means and media in self-financed publishing in the later 20th century, from the co-operative local newspapers such as the Gateshead Street Press through all the changing technologies of copying, printing and publishing to the computer and the internet.
About the creator: 
Keith Armstrong was born and bred in Heaton, Newcastle upon Tyne, where he has worked as a community development worker, poet, librarian & publisher. He has been a self-employed writer since 1986 and completed a doctorate on Newcastle writer Jack Common at the University of Durham in 2007, where he received a BA Honours Degree in Sociology in 1995 and Masters Degree in 1998 for his studies on regional culture in the North East of England. He was Year of the Artist 2000 poet-in-residence at Hexham Races, working with painter Kathleen Sisterson. He was Community Arts Development Worker (1980-6) with Peterlee Community Arts (later East Durham Community Arts). He has compiled and edited books on the Durham Miners' Gala and on the former mining communities of County Durham, the market town of Hexham and the heritage of North Tyneside.
His poetry has been extensively published in magazines such as New Statesman, Poetry Review, Dream Catcher, Other Poetry, Aesthetica, Iron, Salzburg Poetry Review and Poetry Scotland, as well as in the collections The Jingling Geordie, Dreaming North, Pains of Class and Imagined Corners, on cassette, LP & CD, and on radio & TV. He has also written for music-theatre productions and has performed his poetry on several occasions at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and at Festivals in Aberdeen, Bradford, Cardiff, Cheltenham (twice at the Festival of Literature - with Liz Lochhead and with "Sounds North"), Durham, Newcastle upon Tyne, Greenwich, Lancaster, and throughout the land. In 2004-5, with the support of Arts Council England, North Tyneside Council and Northumberland Coast Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, he worked with Berlin artist Rolf Wojciechowski on a text sculpture which involved readings on the beaches along the Northumbrian coast from Marsden to Cullercoats and from Druridge Bay to Berwick. In 2007 he collaborated on the touring play "The Making of Saint Cuthbert" for which he wrote and performed his poetry including shows in local churches. He appeared again at the Hexham Abbey Festival in 2008, at the Durham Book Festival and at the Cork International Jazz Festival Fringe. His biography of Jack Common was published by the University of Sunderland Press in 2009.
He has toured to Russia, Georgia, Bulgaria, Poland, Iceland (including readings with Peter Mortimer during the Cod War), Denmark, France, Germany (including readings at the Universities of Hamburg, Kiel, Oldenburg, Trier and Tuebingen), Hungary, Italy, Ireland, Spain, Sweden, Czech Republic, The Netherlands, the United States, Cuba, Jamaica and Kenya. His poetry has been translated into Dutch, German, Russian, Italian, Icelandic and Czech.
He has long pioneered cultural exchanges with Durham's twinning partners, particularly Tübingen and Nordenham in Germany and Ivry-sur-Seine and Amiens in France, as well as with Newcastle's Dutch twin-city of Groningen. He has also won Northern Arts Awards to visit Berlin in 1990, in 2001 to pursue his studies of Dutch regional culture, in 2002 to visit New York, and in 2003 to visit Prague (with poet Paul Summers). His travels to Denmark, Germany, Holland and Sweden have also been supported by the British Council. By way of cultural exchange, he has arranged for visits to North East England by poets from Scotland, Germany, The Netherlands, the Czech Republic, America and Russia.
Arrangement: 
The collection has been listed in the following categories, although many of the items overlap across more than one group. A few pieces of general biography and bibliography; publications by Armstrong, starting with individually published volumes, Ostrich, and then work with various groups: the Tyneside Poets, Strong Words, Durham Voices & Northern Voices, East Durham Community Arts and Dreaming North. This is followed by a section of material from festivals, performances and exhibitions; periodicals and magazines containing work and reviews; anthologies, creative writing and other books and finally a small separate group of correspondence and items that could not easily be fitted into any of the above.
Provenance: 
Presented by Keith Armstrong, January 2007 (Accession Misc.2006/7:91).
Access: 
Open for consultation.
Usage: 
Permission to make any published use of material from the collection must be sought in advance from the Sub-Librarian, Special Collections (e-mail PG.Library@durham.ac.uk) and, where appropriate, from the copyright owner. The Library will assist where possible with identifying copyright owners, but responsibility for ensuring copyright clearance rests with the user of the material.
Catalogues: 
Catalogue
Printed material is also included on the library catalogue http://library.dur.ac.uk/search/?searchtype=c&searcharg=ARM%2FA&submit=Search

Index terms

Armstrong, Keith.
Arts -- England, North East.
Creative writing -- Great Britain.
Literature -- England, North East.
Poets -- 20th century.
Literary manuscripts and papers.
Sound recordings.

Date last modified: 14 June 2010

Monday, 13 May 2013

J. B. PRIESTLEY


‘In Gateshead, we passed some little streets named after the poets, Chaucer and Spenser and Tennyson Streets; and I wondered if any poets were growing up in those streets. We could do with one from such streets; not one of our frigid complicated sniggering rhymers, but a lad with such a flame in his heart and mouth that he could set the Tyne on fire.’ 

(J. B. Priestley, English Journey, 1934).

Saturday, 4 May 2013

POETRY & PIPES


I have worked with local poet, Keith Armstrong, off-and-on for a number of years, playing at poetry festivals, for visitors from foreign parts, at launches of Keith’s publications, and on occasions where he had been asked to read his poetry. Early on we experimented with combining pipes with Keith’s poetry; one project was to find tunes for Keith’s poems about Jamie Allen. I also realised that Keith’s “Song for Northumberland” could be sung to the official Northumberland County tune, “Northumberland Air”. The Jamie Allen poems were originally written for a touring show, O’er the Hills, by Northumberland Touring Company. Original music was written by Rick Taylor and played by Kathryn Tickell. Keith and I performed the poems at The Maltings in Berwick and recorded them for his CD, Out to Sea. Poetry and Music from Northumbria, produced by Northern Voices. More recently I have provided musical interludes during poetry events rather than play along with the poems.
These events have mostly taken place in and around Newcastle – The Red House on Newcastle Quayside, St James’ Park, The Lit and Phil, The Centurion Bar at Central Station, St Mary’s Lighthouse in Whitley Bay, The Grand Hotel in Tynemouth, The Oak in Edinburgh, and the University of Durham, among others. Twice I have been abroad with Keith. At the end of April 2012 Keith and I travelled to Ireland to help launch the Fermoy International Poetry Competition. We were made very welcome in Fermoy at Murphy’s, otherwise known as the Elbow Lane Inn, and Keith made the short list. I was unable to accept an invitation to return for the finals of the competition at the beginning of August. I have also not been in a position to accept invitations to Prague.
An invitation that I did accept was to the Netherlands in December 1998. We flew from Newcastle to Amsterdam and then caught a train to Groningen, which is twinned with Newcastle upon Tyne. There we took part in Nachtspraak at Muziekcafé Koekkoek. The following day we visited two schools and then headed for Den Helder and De Blicksem pub. The other performances were at Studentencafé Nobel in Delft and de Koos in The Hague, in which the décor included stuffed swans. Accommodation was in homes of the organisers and of a fellow poet, who had the most interesting home. He lived in an official squat in a former government building in The Hague. He was in Newcastle reading his poems, and I was provided with a mattress in his office – Keith stayed on a houseboat in Amsterdam and travelled down for the gig. It was a very interesting experience, and I certainly saw places that I wouldn’t have visited as a tourist.
I like to play my pipes for different audiences and also enjoy listening to poetry, so I hope to continue participating in Keith’s events and taking Northumbrian small pipes to new audiences.

Ann Sessoms

(Northumbrian Pipers' Society Newsletter 2012)

Friday, 3 May 2013

TELL ME LIES ABOUT NORTHUMBERLAND



(in honour of Adrian Mitchell)

Say this land is ours, 
these pipe-tunes do not cry. 
The birds all sing in dialect,
old miners breathe like dukes.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.

Tell me it isn’t feudal,
that castles were built for us.
We never touch the forelock,
bend to scrape up dust.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.

Your pretty girls don’t stink of slaughter,
your eyes don’t blur with myth.
You’re as equal as a duchess,
saints never smell of piss.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.

Your roots are in this valley,
you were never from doon south.
You never hide your birthplace,
you’re a real poet of the north.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.

The churches are not crumbling,
the congregations glow with hope.
We are different from the foreigner,
our poetry rhymes with wine. 

Tell me lies about Northumberland. 

There is no landed gentry,
no homes locals can’t afford.
There’s no army on the moors,
the Romans freed us all.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.

That the hurt is in the past,
the future holds no war.
Home rule is at our fingertips,
the Coquet swims with love.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.  

‘The Garden’ is our children’s,
Hotspur spurs us on.
The seagulls are not soaked in oil,
the cows are not diseased.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.
This Kingdom is United,
‘Culture’ is our God. 
Everyone’s a Basil Bunting freak,
there’s music everywhere.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.

We will have our independence,
we’ll get the Gospels back.
We live off museums and tourists,
we don’t need boats or trades.

Tell me lies about Northumberland.

We’re in charge of our own futures,
we have north east citizens here.
In this autonomous republic,
we’re free as dicky birds.

So shut your eyes.

And tell me lies 

about Northumberland.




KEITH ARMSTRONG
  

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES


Written At Tinemouth, Northumberland, After A Tempestuous Voyage

As slow I climb the cliff’s ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past
When o’er the dark wave rode the howling blast
Pleas’d I look back, and view the tranquil tide,
That laves the pebbled shore; and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the grey battlement,
And yon forsaken tow’r, that time has rent.
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam
Is touch’d and the hush’d billows seem to sleep.
Sooth’d by the scene, ev’n thus on sorrow’s breast
A kindred stillness steals and bids her rest;
Whilst the weak winds that sigh along the deep,
The ear, like lullabies of pity, meet,
Singing the saddest notes of farewell sweet.
From Sonnets, Written Chiefly On Picturesque Spots During A Tour | 1789

William Lisle Bowles

1762–1850
William Lisle  Bowles
Descended from a long line of clergymen, poet William Lisle Bowles grew up in Somerset, England. Unappreciated even in his lifetime, Bowles is best remembered as an early influence on Wordsworth and Coleridge. Bowles was an ardent defender of his own work and opinions, and engaged in literary feuds with some of the leading poets of his day, including Lord Byron. Though Bowles remains a minor figure in English literary history, his sonnets are an important link between the classical formalism of the 18th century and the radical individualism of the Romantic period.

Saturday, 27 April 2013

KATRINA PORTEOUS: NEW CD


KATRINA PORTEOUS

Events Diary
2013
April



Demo CD of

The Melly-Belly Songs / Five Sea Songs
by Jakub Zahradnik

to poems by Katrina Porteous and Keith Armstrong
Produced by Pagat Ultimo Musical Productions, s.r.o in Prague.



A few years ago, Dr Keith Armstrong, a well-known poet from Newcastle, travelled through Europe and met Czech composer and poet Jakub Zahradnik in Prague. Keith introduced Katrina to Jakub, and they performed together at Poetic Cafe Obratnik, where Jakub worked as a programme manager. The encounter resulted in a friendship, further reciprocal visits, and joint performances in Prague and Newcastle.
 Jakub was inspired to make a setting of Katrina's 'Five Sea Songs' written in the Northumbrian Dialect – five duets dealing with the lives of men and women, connected by the sea and the uneasy lot of fishermen. He has also worked with Keith Armstrong's poems to create 'The Melly-Belly Songs', characterized by the typical span of Keith's style – tender lyricism and nostalgia, blended with blistering humour and provocative satire.

 For more information about Jakub Zahradnik and his music, please see:
www.jakubzahradnik.com For copies of the demo CD please contact:
info@katrinaporteous.co.uk

Friday, 26 April 2013

SWARLEY'S CLUB



























Original water colour by Ronald Embleton depicting wood engraver Thomas Bewick and some of his friends at the ‘Black Boy Inn’, Groat Market, Newcastle, where ‘Swarley's Club’ held regular meetings.


Around 1790, Bewick was elected a member of 'Swarley's Club'. Gentlemen's clubs in the late eighteenth century provided opportunity for political or religious debate. Swarley's weekly meetings, however, were more of a social nature.

Tuesday, 23 April 2013

OLD TYNE



And if believing love can read
His better omens in her eye,
Then shall my fears, O charming maid,
And every pain of absence die:
Then shall my jocund harp, attuned
To thy true ear, with sweeter sound
Pursue the free Horatian song:
Old Tyne shall listen to my tale,
And Echo, down the bordering vale,
The liquid melody prolong.



Final verse from Mark Akenside's poem: On The Winter-Solstice

Saturday, 20 April 2013

TYNE AND WANSBECK



WOULD I again were with you, O ye dales
Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands! where,
Oft as the giant flood obliquely strides,
And his banks open, and his lawns extend,
Stops short the pleased traveller to view,
Presiding o’er the scene, some rustic tower
Founded by Norman or by Saxon hands;
O ye Northumbrian shades! which overlook
The rocky pavement and the mossy falls
Of solitary Wansbeck’s limpid stream,
How gladly I recall your well-known seats
Beloved of old; and that delightful time
When, all alone, for many a summer’s day
I wandered through your calm recesses, fed
In silence by some powerful hand unseen.


Mark Akenside

Thursday, 18 April 2013

DURHAM



Cobbled webs of my thoughts
hang around your lanes.
A brass band nestles in my head,
cosy as a bed bug.
I’m reading from a balcony
poems of Revolution.
It’s Gala Day and the words are lost
in the coal dust of your lungs.

Your dark satanic brooding Gaol
throws a blanket over blankness:
a grim era of second hand visions
aches like a scab in a cell.
And rowing a punt up your Bishop’s arse
a shaft of sunlight on the river
strikes me only as true,
shining into the eyes of all the prisoners
swinging from Cathedral bells.

Old Durham Town, you imprison me
like a scream in a Salvation Army song,
release me soon:

someone 
get ready to hug me.



KEITH ARMSTRONG


Wednesday, 17 April 2013

PAUL SUMMERS




acknowledged land
(coalburn, northumberland.)


weep november cold tears,
make this ford unpassable.


hide us in the mizzle caul of ancient fears,
protect us from this reiver dark.


fox cry, plangent grace,
the wearing lines


of history on her face:
the ghost of static mines,


the broken ribs of rusted ships,
of shoulders laden with flacid chips.


inscribe a legend on your map,
no longer whippet & cloth cap


but totem statuary here & there,
a culture raped, the cupboard bare.


this north, this cold, acknowledged land
where rule is cheap & underhand


where heritage is all the rage
& all our rage now heritage.



paul summers




Tuesday, 9 April 2013

KATRINA PORTEOUS - FROM 'TWO RIVERS MEET' ANTHOLOGY




The Pigeon Men


Three men are leaning on the corrugated iron,
Staring out across the fields at the china blue
Stretch of sky beyond. They are waiting for something.
‘Ye couldn’t buy that view,’

Kit shakes his head. His son John reaches up on tiptoe,
A little apart, on the loft roof, watching. Their backs
Are turned to the hand-stitched patchwork of crees, sheds, fences,
The secret shacks

And small doors cobbled from sleepers and iron sheeting
Hauled up from underground. It was pit-work
That made them ache to be out here in the sunshine
Among the birds.

‘See yon green fields? Yonder’s where Horden pit was ‘
The biggest pit in Europe, that. Nowt there now. Gone.’
John bites his tab, says nothing: glares into the distance.
Then he throws up his white dove like a flag: ‘Come on!’

And suddenly the sky is full of pigeons.
Over Blackhills Dene and Paradise they fly
Places that are names on the map now only:
Warren House, Whiteside,

And Clifton, Coxon, Cuba Streets, the vanished
Homes of vanished men who never dreamed
How much of themselves they nailed in the crees and gardens.
Home the birds stream,

While John, on the stock-loft roof, waves the frantic fantail.
‘Come on!’ he yells to the open sky; ‘Howway!’
And the white wings beat at the end of his outstretched fingers,
As if he too was ready to fly away.



Borderers


Are ye one of us?
Are ye for us or agin us?
Are ye one of us?
Are ye for us or agin us?
Are ye one of us?
Are ye for us or agin us?
Are ye for us or agin us?
Are ye one of us?

Are ye Armstrong, are ye Johnstone,
Are ye Hall or Reed or Heron,
Are ye Henderson or Graham,
Are ye Beattie, Bell or Potts,
Are ye Musgrave, are ye Dixon,
Are ye Widderington or Nixon,
Are ye Charlton, are ye Robson,
Are ye wi us, or ye not?

Are ye Elliott or Maxwell,
Are ye Milburn, Tait or Turnbull,
Are ye Rutherford or Pringle,
Are ye friend or are ye foe?
Are ye Kerr or Hume or Little,
Are ye Laidler or Liddle,
Are ye Storey, are ye Ridley,
Are ye one of us or no?

Are ye Dodd or are ye Trotter,
Are ye Selby, Gray or Forster,
Are ye Davison or Pringle,
Are ye Collingwood or Scott,
Are ye Douglas, are ye Dixon,
Are ye Heatherington or Nixon,
Are ye Charlton, are ye Robson,
Are ye wi us, or ye not?

Wool on the whin’s barb marks the track.

The violence of molten rock
Stretches before you like the sea.

From Eildon’s summit you look out
On frozen time. For miles, the black

Impenetrable, speechless hills
Of Liddesdale and Teviotdale,

Redesdale, Coquetdale, North Tyne
Rucked and buckled, patched with pine,

Cold, embattled, acid-green
Moorland, blackland, carved between
Floes of ice and tides of men,

Fastnesses of bracken, slopes
And gullies fold their secrets close,

While the searchlight of the sun
Sweeps across them, one by one.

Three things have no end:
Fear, hunger and the wind.

They blast the open heathland where
A single strand of wire runs.
Such a fine thread holds the peace.

Bold,Tear like promises, it keeps
Its stony word upon the hill,

Unmoved, untouched, unblinking eye
Outstares the armies of the sky,
Time its only enemy.

Yarrow Water, Ettrick, Tweed:
A ruckle of stones and a nettle-bed,

Grey-boned hawthorn, flecked with blood,
Almost turned itself to stone,

Lichened trunk and strangled root -
Braid their shadows by the burn

In the places they belong.
Stone and tree-root, make us strong

Where the wind blows on the fell,
Where the track runs up the hill.

Who cares where you came from now? 
Every ditch and fold and knowe

And the white grass that swallows down
Arrow-head and carved stone,

Becomes a place to watch and hide.
The wide land bristles, sharp with eyes.

            
 *       *      *


Where Tweed and Teviot’s waters meet,
They carry all away: the gates,

The fences, signposts. Pine trees sway
Like ships at mooring on their slopes.

Tree-root, picket, branch, black loam -
The flood unfastens all; its broom

Sweeps the living and the dead
Towards a place that has no borders.

South and north, the colours drain
From drowned fields as night falls

On far, unfathomable hills
That sink their differences in sleep;

One ocean, darkening. Who knows
Where the fence runs on the fell?

The fading light, equivocal
As quicksilver, the cloud, the rain
The water singing in its veins,

Leave the earth to dark and wind.




Foula, Auld Yule
6th January


Shut the door and pass the bottle
Round the circle of light.
One by one let us drink to the days
The sun makes ripe,

And join in your riddle, Aggie Jean, in the ring
Of the stove’s peat reek,
While, long past midnight, the child in my lap is falling
Into sleep;

Into widening circles of sleep, that will carry her
Who knows where.
Let us drink to the fire within. We know too well
The dark out there.



THE HOT HEADED GENIUSES OF SANDGATE*

























The hot headed geniuses of Sandgate are leaping round town tonight
but the place is drunk and the walkways stagger
and there seems no sense in historic streets.
Where old sailors lamented and hand carts rested
and ships grew up on the river,
the times merge in the swaying crowds
and fancy dress keelmen swig in the night.
Here's the 'hot headed geniuses'
gannin doon with the tide
to plant bites on fresh lasses' necks,
and the hours keel over
and the days rock on,
as the love-bitten 'Lass of Byker Hill'
falls in the Keelman's Arms.
So let the pipers play
this Tyneside story
all over again.
It's a Geordie nightmare,
a black and white dream
all for you,
with knobs on.


Keith Armstrong and Trevor Teasdel

* John Wesley was rescued by fishwife Mrs Bailes from what he termed 'the hot-headed geniuses of Sandgate' when he preached from the steps of Newcastle's Guildhall

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

fog on the tyne!


UKULELE GIRL



Down by the river when the moon’s above
It sent me crazy and it got me love,
I’m crazy for my ukulele girl.

Down by the river all through the night
I’ll keep my girl if I play it right,
I’m crazy for my ukulele girl.

She’s so irresistible,
But now to go and top it all
She’s a girl who loves to play it cool
That’s my ukulele girl.

Down by the river as I play along
I love a girl with a sense of fun,
That’s my baby ukulele girl.

Down by the river is the place to be,
I hold her tight; she’s safe with me,
That’s my baby ukulele girl.

She’s so irresistible, etc.
Down by the river when the moon’s above, etc…
Down by the river all through the night, etc…



G.F. Phillips






  



Monday, 1 April 2013

LINDISFARNE!


THE WATER OF TYNE

click to play
















I cannot get to my love if I would dee,
The water of Tyne runs between him and me;
And here I must stand with the tear in my e'e,
Both sighing and sickly my sweetheart to see.

O where is the boatman? my bonny hinny!
O where is the boatman? bring him to me, -
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
And I will remember the boatman and thee.

O bring me a boatman, I'll give any money,
And you for your trouble rewarded shall be,
To ferry me over the Tyne to my honey,
Or scull him across that rough river to me.