the jingling geordie!

A QUIET PINT (IN A TYNESIDE PUB)

There was a time when this bar was busy

Even at two on a Tuesday afternoon,

Tongues bloating with beer, talk nicotine stained

And perhaps rather louder than needs be.

Racing on the telly, of course, sound down,

No one watching apparently, except

A snort and the careless, but accurate,

Toss of a scrunched slip into an ashtray.

In the backroom, just passed the pungent bogs,

Over pints of scotch and shared roll ups, young

Republicans plotted revolution

Or their latest schism into factions

Over whose turn it was to get the next round.

At that very table in the corner,

Fancy that still here after all these years,

Sat the bloke, brown ale and schooner, reading

Marcus Aurelius or Epictetus,

In Latin. Always wore a tweed sports jacket,

Pockets torn from being the side saddles

Of his second hand library, and that

Ridiculous comb-over, but not from

Vanity, more disdain. He never smoked.

Then the Tuesday he wasn’t there, nor the next

And never again. For many a week

His chair stayed empty, no one would sit there

No matter how busy the bar, until

The lassie who, nearly paralytic,

Flopped down into it one Friday evening

And slept the night away across the table.

A few days later council workmen came

And daubed double yellow lines all along

By the kerb just outside. From then, it seems,

The sun never again managed to shine

Directly through the Victorian stained glass

That is still, nonetheless, quite a feature

Of the upper casement of the front window. 

                                                  Dave Alton

Fathers’ Day

Curlews have a little recognised competence

For rendering themselves invisible

All the while soaring to warble

From the full height of the sky. While

Along the old earth laid wagonway,

Where mountain bikes now pass

Where once laden kibbles of coal

Trundled on behind labouring locos,

Through cuttings between Japanese knotweed,

Cow parsley and unscented wild roses

I pursue my constitutional, lost

In thought in familiar surroundings.

Those roses I recently heeled in were

Deep yellow, Hybrid Teas, pungent,

Almost ostentatious as memory

Needs be, not to be forgotten,

With this being the very first Father’s Day

I could not send a card.

                                          Dave Alton

STREETS OF TYNE

I kicked out in Half Moon Yard,

bucked a rotten system.

Fell out with fools in All Hallows Lane

and grew up feeling loved.

She dragged my hand down Rabbit Banks Road,

there seemed nowhere else to take it.

We mucked about in Plummer Chare,

soaked up the painful rain.

I wanted to control my life,

shout songs on Amen Corner.

I’d carry bags of modern ballads,

hawk pamphlets on Dog Bank.

Wild girls who blazed through Pipewell Gate

taught my veins to thrill.

I caught her heart on Pandon Bank,

my eyes filled up with fear.

Wanted to carve out a poem,

inspire the Garth Heads dreamers.

A lad grew up to dance along 

the length of Pilgrim Street.

I take my wild hopes now to chance

the slope of Dog Leap Stairs.

Follow the pulse of my Tyneside days,

burn passion down The Side. 

KEITH ARMSTRONG   

'A beautifully crafted  piece.'

Darren Carlaw,

Editor,

Stepaway Magazine

GREY’S MONUMENT

Grey –

this man and his brain’s conception,

clasped in stone.

Disdainful figure

raised

on a firm dry finger;

proud-stiff

above a time-bent avenue of dwindling lights.

The Earl’s pale forehead is cool and cloudy;

unblinking,

he views us all (as we view him)

in the same old, cold, way –

through the wrong end of a battered telescope,

through the dusty lens of history.

Strip away the tinsel

And this city’s heart is stone.

Keith Armstrong

MR FOOTER’S

FOOTLOOSE WANDERERS VERSES

  

THEIR BACK FOUR

Their back four have kick-off nerves,

Their back four haven’t played for awhile;

Their back four have no tank reserves -

Too many nights spent on the tiles.

Their back four must keep it tight,

Their back four must hold their patch;

They’ll get stuck in and battle all right,

They’ll curse and swear all through the match.

Their back four look tired and lazy

Their back four must watch for threats

Like CY AWOMM-BA he went crazy

The ball hit him and went in their net.

Their back four are not pursuing

An eager forward who’s well offside;

Their back four have gum for chewing,

A stack their sponsors have supplied.

Their back four are big and tall,

Their back four are tough as bricks;

Their back four have nerves of steel,

Their back four know all the tricks

For all of them they fear that fumble,

But MICK Mc GOVERN knows his stuff;

He fakes a push, he stays down, grumbles,

So long as the ref doesn’t call his bluff.

Their back four have wives and girlfriends,

And big AL CHAPMAN likes it hot

That now he has to make amends

With Baines’ girl he does a swap.

Then RONNIE BAINES is much aggrieved,

His number’s up, given the boot;

And from the cut-up pitch he leaves

Now the spare has his fling our substitute.

G.F. Phillips

PABLO LORENZO:  THE FRONTMAN

‘Pab is the man – he’s fab.’

PABLO LORENZO he loves to turn solo,

He thinks the play revolves around him;

I don’t have to mention he loves the attention,

It’s a centre forward’s old thing.

He’s the one they most cheer when he’s called to appear

For the number 9 shirt claims respect,

And to lead from the front and be a great hunk,

It’s everything the fans expect.

And him they will flatter, buy the one shirt that matters

And the kudos he’ll get from it,

For he loves all this fuss and he can’t get enough

And his goals are all riding on it.

And then on occasions comes the art of persuasion

In close season, whenever he can;

He’s the number one pet for an ad man’s choice set

For this booked in Adonis man’s man.

So whatever he’s selling he’s utter compelling,

Which he sells from his head to his toes,

Like he takes a big swig of a sugar-free fib

From a health drink his fans buy in droves;

And he’ll open his armpits the bad smell he sprays it,

And the tin he must leave on parade.

So his earning potential is something quite special

Meaning twice that he’s got it made.

But no one will quibble so long as his dribbles

Are most un-mistakenly sound;

But the training regime is not just the team

For it’s all built round him so they’ve found.

Now he’s the Messiah you cannot get higher;

But then when he’s gone to ground

There’s a chance there’s a sniff there’s no but or if

His trajectory must go at least goal-bound.

But under his charge things are often enlarged

Much more than reality;

And though he works wonders there’s many a blunder

That’s forgotten with the ecstasy.

G. F. Phillips

 JOHNNY SPRY:  GOALKEEPER FOR FOOTLOOSE WANDERERS

Johnny Spry’s between the sticks, his second name’s The Lynx,

He’ll prowl around the six-yard box then stares out like The Sphinx.

He’s great at making hefty kicks the ball he belts quite far

And when there’s nothing doing he’ll swing along the bar

Until he’s out to grab the ball that’s spinning through the air,

The way he leaps and soars is more than high jumpers would dare.

Oh, Johnny Spry! Oh, Johnny Spry!  He mustn’t let the ball pass by.

He loves to roll in all the mud; he loves to do it on the sly;

And how his fingertips they stretch beating a ballet dancer’s

While everyone agrees that his knee blocking’s the answer.

He may have clumsy legs; his bald head hard as plaster –

Whatever else he may be there’s no one brave or dafter.

He’s last to hear his players cheer, the first to take the flak

When things go wrong he’s put upon what’s said it gets passed back.

So out of spite, try as he might, he’ll do what they hate most,

That easy ball slips from his grasp to push it round the post.

Yet everyone has need of him, they’re shouting one and all,

But then he’ll keep them waiting as he juggles with the ball.

So when his wall is lining up, the free kick’s taking ages,

He’d like to count the kicker’s time and dock it off his wages.

But, hey, he does no better as his kick goes into touch;

Though it frees him from those corners where he’s crowded in so much,

He’s our big stopper our big he - he needs a rest does he -

And when the trainer sprays his foot he’ll plan his scrumptious tea.

Oh, Johnny Spry!  Oh, Johnny Spry!  There’s no one here who now denies

He looks the part; he does excel.  But soon the ending of his spell

When he retires or quits the game they’ll put him in the Hall of Fame

Along with others plied in wax who died and stashed away their tax,

The first in town who has been set for keeping balls out of a net

For here he’s treated like a God a saviour from the firing squad.

(from Mr Footer’s Footloose Wanderers Verses)

G.F. Phillips

OLAF FINNEGAN:  THE MAN FOR BOTH FLANKS

This winger is schizoid, but only in name,

He’s Olaf and Finnegan, half Celt and half Dane;

He’s blonde and his blue-eyed and he knows about rain.

And he’s nimble and speedy, he goes like the wind

And he’s known to most fans as The Flying Finn.

He’s a man on a mission when the ball comes to him,

And then

                It’s RUN and CROSS, RUN and CROSS

                When he can:  if he can.

How he loves open spaces and all that fresh air,

And that’s how he stands out, on his own, the fans stare

For his foot’s on the ball; he’ll hold his head in the air.

Now he’ll cheer all the hacks on the Daily Depress

When he takes on the full back, he’s out to impress

And leaves the man sitting on his bottom, at rest,

And the mud on his shorts is a mark of the test.

And now he has started he can’t seem to end

For he’s giving a lesson in how not to defend

As he takes on that full back and does it again.

And then

                 It’s RUN and CROSS, RUN and CROSS,

                 When he can:  if he can.

Now he’s on the back pages, it brings fans to the ground,

He’s mighty superior; his position’s safe and sound;

He’s young and he’s restless, but there’s things he can do

For the girls dig his looks and they dig for gold too.

So it’s all a bit hectic; Olaf’s contract is up,

And that’s why this agent will spice it all up;

For he’ll do a good job and the girls bring him luck -

So he says - and now Olaf’s wanted on both flanks and set

Where they’re shooting his looks in some new fangled specs -

How he loves all the extras; he’s an extra himself;

And they’ll pay him each word he spouts from his mouth.

And at Christmas he’s booked in for Babes in the Wood

When he’ll step on the stage in his strip, he’ll look good;

He’ll go round (I’m sure, in a faultless display),

As if trees were the players who stood in his way

And he’ll do it for real when it comes to match day.

And then

                It’s RUN and CROSS, RUN and CROSS.

               Or he’ll do it on his own.

And here is the clue – when he jinks to the left,

He’s gone past their sweeper; his path has been swept;

There’s a good chance The Flying Finn will have the ball kept

A little while longer at his big happy feet,

It’s all one way traffic; it’s his one way street.

And two players behind him were both easy meat.

And the men at the front they have all gone tongue-tied

He won’t give them the ball; well, it’s no big surprise

Till he’s tripped it’s a free kick and also his demise.

And now in conclusion he must pass the ball

But not the one desperate who’s shouting who calls;

Now he’s back on the left flank and free of disgrace

For the free kick he took was him saving face.

(from Mr Footer’s Footloose Wanderers Verses)

 

G.F. Phillips

More from 'Poetry North East'

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

TIDELINE

We are breathers of water

take sea air

We waltz in breezes

dream of waves

We break voices on shores

sink in the deep

We swim with sea horses

drink the ocean

We are poets of surf

skim on tides

We are dancers in sand 

dip toes in sun

We soak poems in North Sea

rock with the roll of it

We are fishes flying

scream with seagulls

We walk on coral streets

awash with words

We are sharks at the seaside

laugh with dolphins

We hear echoes of foghorns

lonely in dunes

We are singers of shanties

roar with ships                                






KEITH ARMSTRONG 

World View

Cussedly, the old communist

Shuns the lift and, pausing on each

Landing to drag rare oxygen

Into clenched lungs, takes the stairs step

By step, finally struggling out

On the plateau of his tower block.

A rasping rattle in his throat

Becoming so desiccated,

From where once his radical voice

Sounded loudly for the future,

Confirmed the presence of his being,

Now the notion of his not-being,

That concurrence of particles,

Granting him the privilege of life,

Are silently dissipating.

Just one last look along the Tyne

To the rim of his world wherein

Ideas as well as ships were drawn

And welded into new vessels,

Carrying visions of his class

Beyond shipyards and iron foundries,

Glass works and pits, further even

Than St. James Park. All gone now,

Of course, except for the football

Though even that is being consumed,

Swallowed by the esurient

Maw of finance. Perhaps ideas

Lie abandoned in breakers’ yards,

Rusting or dismantled piecemeal,

Some precious or popular parts

Recycled, once rendered quite safe.

From this elevated platform

The old communist banishes

Diabolical conjectures,

However tempting they might seem.

Unfurled beneath him, Newcastle

Appears a testament in stone,

Tinted glass and dark metalled roads,

Concrete, brick and uPVC,

To labour, to co-operation

And to the collective striving

To do ever better next time.

This is how he can mount these flights,

This is how he isn’t defeated.

                                    Dave Alton 

Man of the Cloth

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,

It’s all too much for a preacher man;

And it’s new to him and it’s all for him,

But what’s money to an Eton man?

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,

It’s all too much for angelic lads;

And the two of them who did pretend

How his praying hands turned bad.

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,

It’s all too much for the single life;

How the single women would run after him,

But he’s not looking for a wife.

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,

It’s all too much it’s a heavy load;

And the thief and tramp he would put them up,

They could stay till they hit the road.

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass

It’s all too much for these low life men

Of whom the papers they reported on

And his place they called Fagin’s den.

This man of the cloth has his brick and brass,

It’s all too much for what was claimed;

And the law could never do him down

So he got back his once good name.

This man of the cloth had his brick and brass,

It’s all too much for a man of ease;

And he’d always stood by what he said,

No, he’d not do things just to please.

G. F. Phillips

SONGBIRD

If I had been a really professional poet,

I would be still rewriting this,

poring over the umpteenth draft,

burning the midnight quill.

As it is, all I want to say again is this:

that a songbird does not need an Arts Council grant

to sing.

Keith Armstrong

I WANT MY POEMS IN A BIG PRESS

So you’re in print with a small press

a little press for a short arse

Well I want my poems in a big press

a large press with big breasts

with poems that talk to the world

with spirit in every word

KEITH ARMSTRONG 

From the New Zealand Poetry Society

Short Bio for Kristina Jensen:

Kristina is a ‘poet afloat’, freelance writer, musician and home school mum living on a boat with her family in the stunning Marlborough Sounds of New Zealand. Her inspiration is greatly enhanced by the presence of wilderness, and she definitely prefers spending most of her time in nature at this point in time.
Her poetry has been published in Bravado, Valley Micropress, Eclecticism, Shotglass, Granny Smith, One Smile magazine and A Fine Line.


Sacred Confusion

Muddy mind,

stirring tidal flow,

swirling clutter of

where I’ve been

what I should

what I could

why I don’t.

How I’m not and

I don’t got

whatever

it takes to be

what they want.

The sea does not care though

about any of that, it whispers

OK OK OK hush

OK OK OK hush

OK OK OK hush

little baby don’t say a word

Do your duty.

Look after the earth.

Hold everything gently in

the palm of your hand:

don’t try to

‘get’ it.

Digging Potatoes in The Pouring Rain

Please remind me why I am

here: earth clogging my fingers,

dirty water running down my sleeves,

the rain of heavenly bodies

sheeting down, washing me, washing

dirt from round white earth starchy bodies:

ah yes, I will eat of your flesh tonight.

In The City

Here I am in a stuffy grey

box, addictive grey,

city with grey

snakes hungry to take me

anywhere I desire.

Inside my mouth is a

dense greenness of tree, a

mystery of water, a

coral sunrise hue.

An invisible wall no-thing

stealthily tries to invade

my mind-memory sanctuary.

Even dogs are infected.

DO NOT CONNECT.

Look friendly.

Practice ritualized

detachment.

The check-out girl,

she’s from Malaysia,

maybe she hasn’t been

infected yet:

her smile reminds me

that I know where I belong.

ALNWICKDOTE

(for Jenny)

These rough stones,

carried for miles to build

such a Castle,

mounted on fields

of bittersweet slopes.

Stoned lions,

countrified gargoyles

hunch, unpouncing;

their stiff glares fixed

on us fee-paying visitors,

taking a stroll through

the dusty chapters,

the library dungeons.

And I would suppose

this afternoon to be,

for us, some piece of history,

both strolling through

crisis after crisis,

hearts beating heart beats

and blood warm, flowing

through us as we walk between

such cold walls,

older than a Duke,

but never as wise as this love of mine

nor as fragile as

that historic moment inside the Castle

when once you smiled at me

so wonderfully.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Alnwick Castle, Northumberland