TYNESIDE POETS!

TYNESIDE POETS!

Thursday, 3 January 2019

‘WIBSON’ - HEXHAM’S ‘PEOPLE’S POET’: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878-1962)























































‘WIBSON’

HEXHAM’S ‘PEOPLE’S POET’: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson (1878-1962)

‘Heather land and bent-land,
Black land and white,
God bring me to Northumberland,
The land of my delight.

Land of singing waters,
And winds from off the sea,
God bring me to Northumberland,
The land where I would be.

Heather land and bent-land,
And valleys rich with corn,
God bring me to Northumberland,
The land where I was born.’


2018 marks the 140th anniversary of the birth in Hexham of Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, author of poems like ‘Flannan Isle’, ‘The Ice Cart’, and ‘The Drover’s Road’. Born in Battle Hill House on October 2nd 1878, his mother was Elizabeth Judith Frances Gibson (née Walton) and his father, John Pattison Gibson, was a pharmacist with his own small business. Wilfrid was the youngest of seven children in a somewhat unhappy home. As he grew up, he helped out in the family shop, and assisted with his father’s photographic and antiquarian interests.
He was educated at private schools, all of which went bankrupt, and brought up under the wing of an elder sister, Elizabeth, who had published poetry and who took responsibility for much of his education.
Wilfrid penned his first poem aged 10 about a school bully. At 13, he started to have his work published in the local newspapers. In February 1901 one of his poems was inscribed on the fountain in Hexham Market Place.
His father, an expert on the Franco-Prussian War, added to the boy's education by taking him abroad several times to visit battlefields and historical sites so that Gibson saw Ypres and Gallipoli before the war.
A chance meeting in 1898 between Wilfrid, his elder sister and Sydney Cockerell, a friend of many literary figures, gave Wilfid introductions to W.B. Yeats, Laurence Binyon and others during occasional visits to London.
In 1902, his mother died, and he dedicated his book of poems, 'Urlyn the Harper' to her.
Not much is known about his early years except for a gift for language and a real desire to be a poet. An early poem of his appeared in ‘The Spectator’ in 1897 and his first book of poetry was published at the age of 24 under the title of‘The Golden Helm’.
This was followed, in 1907, by 'On the Threshold' and ‘Stonefields’ which depicted the strength and atmosphere of Northumberland and the Borders, and then ‘Daily Bread’, issued in 1910, which went into a third printing partly because of its down to earth style proving that there was a market for poems on everyday life which people could relate to. The subject matter of the urban poor caught the eye of a northern reviwwer who christened him the 'People's Poet'.
Gibson confessed that he had a 'horror of ultra-poetic words', believing that it was 'the poet's business to make poetry out of the life of his day'. He had once eaten 'confectionary', he felt, but was now a 'bread and cheese' poet.
He was also a bit of a playwright whose verse dialogues were frequently performed. His play ‘Womankind’ was staged in Birmingham and Glasgow, as well as at the Chicago Little Theatre.
He was not without his critics, like the poet Edward Thomas who said in 1906 that ‘Wilfrid Wilson Gibson had long ago swamped his small delightful gift by his abundance. He is essentially a minor poet in the bad sense, for he is continually treating subjects poetically, writing about things instead of creating them'. Of Gibson’s later verse narratives, Thomas was equally scathing: ‘Gibson has merely been embellishing what would have been more effective as pieces of rough prose. The verse has added nothing except unreality, not even brevity.’

Gibson first left the relative middle class security of his home in Hexham at the age of 34, living briefly in Glasgow where he reviewed books for the ‘Glasgow Herald’. He experienced life in the slums and visted mines and factories and was troubled by what he witnessed there.
He finally left his native Northumberland and moved to London in the summer of 1912 to work as an assistant editor for ’Rhythm’, a poetry magazine edited by John Middleton Murry and Katherine Mansfield. His small wage was paid anonymously by arts patron Eddie Marsh and Marsh introduced him to poet Rupert Brooke on September 17,1912. Just three days later Gibson, at Brooke's invitation, attended the first meeting to discuss the publication of ’Georgian Poetry’. In November 1912 he moved into a little room over Harold Monro's Poetry Bookshop, two months before its official opening. It was there that he met his wife, Geraldine Townshend, who worked as Monro’s secretary. In December 1913 Gibson was married in Dublin. He moved to Dymock in Gloucestershire in 1914 to join a group of poets and his new bride went with him.
The Gibsons spent their honeymoon at 'The Gallows', while fellow poet Lascelles Abercrombie was away, and soon afterwards they moved to a thatched cottage called ‘The Old Nailshop’, two miles west of Abercrombie's cottage, on the road from Dymock to Ledbury.
‘The Old Nail-Shop', published in ’New Numbers 4’, is one of several poems referring to the cottage and shows Gibson's feel for history and a genuine concern for the poor. However, the most significant poem about the cottage is 'The Golden Room'. It gives a strong sense of the atmosphere inside the house on a night when five of the six Dymock Poets (not John Drinkwater) met up. It was dedicated to his wife.
The evening the poets met was probably June 24, 1914 and the poem expresses Gibson’s anguished feelings about how war had destroyed so much.
Dymock's famous daffodils are featured strongly in another Gibson’s poem ‘Daffodils’ and in 'To John Drinkwater'. As with 'The Golden Room', war is blamed for bringing an end to their peaceful sense of community.
One of the Dymock Poets, the American Robert Frost, said of Gibson that ‘he is much talked of in America at the present time. He’s just one of the plain folks with none of the marks of the literary poseur about him'. The poet Rupert Brooke affectionately nicknamed him ‘Wibson’. Two volumes of Gibson's poems - ’Daily Bread’ (1910) and ’Fires’ (1912) - impressed Frost by showing that there was a market for poems about ordinary people and everydaylife.
After Frost had an awkward encounter with a gamekeeper in the woods behind Abercrombie's house, Frost wrote to a friend that he now had a better claim than Gibson 'to the title of the People's Poet'. D.H. Lawrence wrote to Eddie Marsh in November 1913 that 'I think Gibson is one of the clearest and most lovable personalities I know'.

By the start of the first world war, Gibson was seen as one of the most talented younger poets and more famous even than his friend and fellow poet Rupert Brooke. Gibson’s poems ‘Breakfast’, and ‘The Messages’ first published in October 1914, were among 32 poems about the war in his 1915 book ’Battle’.
He often criticised his own work as shown in a letter to Frost about ’Battle’: 'I had to publish it as I felt I must make my little protest, however feeble and ineffectual - so don't be too hard on me.'
News of the outbreak of war came to him 'like a thunderclap'. Yet he still believed that it was important to continue with poetry, to 'keep the flag flying in this triumph of barbarism' as he said, adding: 'I cannot think of war in terms of armies of contending nations: it it is to me a business of innumerable personal tragedies.'

During the winter of 1915-16 he was in ill health and down in spirits. He was greatly moved by the war deaths that year of his friends Rupert Brooke and Denis Browne and in November he attempted to volunteer for the army but was turned down three times because of poor health and bad eyesight. This allowed him in late 1916 and early 1917 to embark upon a successful two month reading tour of America.
However, he was finally accepted in October 1917, for duties in England only, and joined the army in January 1918 to work as a packer and loader and medical clerk in the Army Service Corps in south London. Later he was transferred to a clerkship in Sydenham and worked in the Medical Card Registry. He served until February 1919 and was glad to leave after a dispiriting experience when he discovered how 'hideously squalid' army life was which rendered him exhausted, with minor ailments and finding writing difficult.  

Rupert Brooke had left a share in the income from copyright of his poems to Gibson which helped to ease the financially difficult post-war years. During the 1920s and after, Gibson continued to write, supplementing the family income with book reviewing and broadcasting.

The Gibsons had three children: Audrey, born in 1916; Michael, born in 1918, and Jocelyn, born in 1920. They also cared for their grandson, Roland, after Audrey was killed in an accident in 1939.

In 1920 the family moved to Saundersfoot in Wales, with subsequent moves to Letchworth in Hertfordshire, followed by London, Berkshire, and the Isle of Wight. After Geraldine died in 1950, Wilfrid  moved with Roland to live with his son and daughter-in-law in Surrey.
Gibson averaged almost a book a year for all his adult life until 1950. He continued with lecture and reading tours around Britain but his work declined in popularity.
In his old age he becae something of a recluse and destroyed all of his papers.  'I am one of those unlucky writers whose books have predeceased him.... ‘I have no faith that posterity… will be likely to resuscitate them,’ he wrote to Robert Frost in 1939.

He was included in Edward Marsh's 'Georgian Poetry', had his poem 'Breakfast' in W.B.Yeats's 'The Oxford Book of Modern Verse' and featured six times in Philip Larkin's 'Oxford Book of Twentieth Century Verse' and was an influence on the young Auden.

As Gibson said himself: ‘We shall always have poets while we have lovers.’
In war and in peace, he tried to celebrate the lives of ordinary people and what he called ‘the heartbreak in the heart of things’.
‘Wibson’ continued to publish a selection of poems every two years or so until 1950, despite money problems and the aches and pains of rheumatism and fibrositis. However, his work declined greatly in popularity.
He died at Virginia Water in Surrey in a nursing home on May 26th 1962, aged 83. He had written to Robert Frost in 1939 that ‘I am one of those unlucky writers whose books have predeceased him.’


KEITH ARMSTRONG

(as published in Hexham Historian, August 2018)



O YOU WHO DRINK MY COOLING WATERS CLEAR
FORGET NOT THE FAR HILLS FROM WHENCE THEY FLOW
WHERE OVER FELL AND MOORLAND YEAR BY YEAR
SPRING SUMMER AUTUMN WINTER COME AND GO
WITH SHOWERING SUN AND RAIN AND STORM AND SNOW
WHERE OVER THE GREEN BENTS FOREVER BLOW
THE FOUR FREE WINDS OF HEAVEN; WHERE TIME FALLS

IN SOLITARY PLACES CALM AND SLOW.
WHERE PIPES THE CURLEW AND THE PLOVER CALLS,
BENEATH THE OPEN SKY MY WATERS SPRING
BENEATH THE CLEAR SKY WELLING FAIR AND SWEET,
A DRAUGHT OF COOLNESS FOR YOUR THIRST TO BRING,
A SOUND OF COOLNESS IN THE BUSY STREET.

WILFRED WILSON GIBSON                    HEXHAM FEB -1901



Inscription on north side of Memorial Fountain in Hexham Market Place
N.B. ‘Wilfrid’ misspelt on Memorial!


THE GOLDEN ROOM


‘Was it for nothing that the little room,
All golden in the lamplight, thrilled with golden
Laughter from hearts of friends that summer night?’ (Wilfrid Gibson)

I’m as happy as a daffodil
this day;
sunshine flows around me
over fences,
leaping
with the joy of my poetry.

I am Lord Pretty Field,
a tipsy aristocrat of verse,
become full of myself
and country booze
in the Beauchamp Arms.

Under branches frothy with blossom,
I carry a torch from Northumberland
for Wilfrid Gibson
and his old mates;
for Geraldine
I bear
my Cheviot heart
in Gloucester ciderlight.

We can only catch
a petal from the slaughter,
a bloom
to ease the melancholy
of a Dymock dusk;
hear laughter
over the gloomy murmurs
of distant wars.

A swirling rook cries out
across St Mary’s spire
in dialect
as I climb
back to my White House room
to dream of an England gone,
and a flash of whisky
with Abercrombie.

For Wilfrid you are still
‘a singing star’,
drenched in balladry;
and this I know:
I will keep your little songs alive
in this Golden Room in my heart
and, in my Hexham’s market place,
rant for you
and cover
all our love
with streaming daffodils.


KEITH ARMSTRONG
(written after a visit to Dymock in 2003 as a guest of the Dymock Poets).



BOOKS REFERRED TO:

Keith Armstrong. The Town of Old Hexham, The People's History 2002.
Keith Clark. The Muse Colony, Redcliffe Press 1992.
Wilfrid Gibson. Homecoming, Wagtail Press 2004.
Linda Hart. Once They Lived in Gloucestershire: A Dymock Poets Anthology, Green Branch Press, 2011 reprint.
Dominc Hibberd. Harold Monro and Wilfrid Gibson: The Pioneers. Cecil Woolf, The War Poets Series 7, 2006.
Roger Hogg. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson : people's poet ; a critical and biographical study of W.W. Gibson 1878-1962, Newcastle University PhD thesis 1989
Sean Street. The Dymock Poets, Seren 1994.




FROM DOCTOR KEITH ARMSTRONG'S OWN WILFRID GIBSON ARCHIVE:

Wilfrid Gibson. Battle, The Cyder Press reprint 1999.
Wilfrid Gibson. Collected Poems 1902-1925, MacMillan 1926.
Wilfrid Gibson. The Golden Room, Poems 1925-1927. Macmillan 1928.
Wilfid Gibson. Whin, Leopold Classic reprint, undated.




Tyneside writer Dr Keith Armstrong was Year of the Artist 2000 poet in residence at Hexham Races.
Other commissioned work by Keith includes ‘Fire & Brimstone’ the story of Tynedale artist John Martin, and ‘The Hexham Celebration’, both for the Hexham Abbey Festival, and The Hexham Riot (publication and outdoor performance).

He also has also compiled and edited a local history book ‘The Town of Old Hexham’ and organised a mini-festival celebrating the life and work of Hexham born poet Wilfrid Gibson in 2003. He appeared again at the Hexham Abbey Festival in 2008 reciting the poetry of Gibson.
His poetry book ‘The Darkness Seeping’, based on the Prior Leschman Chantry Chapel in Hexham Abbey, was published in 1997.

Sunday, 9 December 2018

SEASONAL GREETINGS FROM POETRY TYNESIDE!

 



SEASONAL GREETINGS

FROM POETRY TYNESIDE!


























MARSDEN ROCK


Sensational Rock,
swimming in light.
Bird cries clinging to ancient ledges,
Kittiwakes smashing against time.
What tales you could tell.

Your face is so moody,
flickers with breezes,
crumbles in a hot afternoon.

Climbing your powdery steps,
we look down on the sea
thrashing at you.

We join a choir of birds at your peak,
cry out to the sky
in good spirits.

Nesting for the sake of it,
our lyrics are remnants on the shore.

We keep chipping away,
do we not?

We slip
through the pebbles,
splashing
with babies.

We leave our mark,
a grain
on the ancient landscape.

We go.

We dance like the sunlight
on your scarred body:

tripping,
falling,
singing

away.




KEITH ARMSTRONG

Sunday, 2 December 2018

LOCKERBIE























 



‘Futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.’


(Patricia Coyle)




In Lockerbie,
the sky is red
and the clouds are banked like grieving hills.
In this curled up sleeping town,
humble in its sandstone walls,
you can hear
the hooves of history
clipping the soaking streets
and the high heeled girls
clattering on a Saturday night
with the cutting wind
ripping up their thin skirts
as they bleed into town,
past the sheep feeding on the ancient land
by Rosebank Crescent
where ‘The Maid of the Seas’,
Pan Am 103,
exploded on a sunk estate.


And life throws strangers together,
throws a suitcase of junk together.
And all our memories are ashes,
all our fantasies smoke.
And no one but the simple bending vicar knows
why The News dropped through our roof that night,
crashed onto our TVs that night.
Only the God in the angry sky has a glimmer,
only the groaning tombstones of Lockerbie have an idea,
the silent sandstone
and the biting rain;
only the old Scots lady knitting
for the refugees,
ducking her head under a leaden sky
for fear
the future lands on her.
And, in a field not far away,
someone’s diary lies rotting;
a love letter
scattered in the wind;
the wind
that won’t leave Lockerbie
alone:
the red dust on a broken past;
this town’s historic wound
aching on the map.











KEITH ARMSTRONG









Your poem 'Lockerbie' was published by the Scottish Review and it impressed me so much (I was a journalist at the time of the Lockerbie incident) that I introduced my Higher English students to it. They too found it very powerful. I would now like to incorporate it into the course work material I am working on but need your permission to do that.




I look forward to hearing from you - and having looked at other work on your website, can I say how much I admire your style.



Best wishes



Marian

Tuesday, 20 November 2018

OUR SPITTAL - POEMS: KEITH ARMSTRONG PHOTOS: TONY WHITTLE








































































Tammy Spence he had no sense,
he bought a fiddle for eighteen pence
and all the tunes that he could play
was ‘O’er the Hills and Far Away’.
From Cow Road to Hud’s Head,
Toppye Knowe Stone and Spittal Point,
we have dredged the coal
and snapped up fish
with ‘Lovely Polly’ and all.
We have ground the corn and bone,
found the iron and cured and smoked.
We have worshipped Bart and lifeboats
and prayed to Paul and John.
We have staggered on in rain and nonconformity.
We have lurched along old shores,
drowned the thirst of sailors
with the rattling old Town Bell and the tunes of jolly Jack,
whistled and fiddled away
in the bright Red Lion light.
Jesus Light of the World,
we are the history in the barrel,
in the soaring wind
and in the foaming waves:
it is our blood,
it is our bread,
it is our Spittal,
our mirrored past.


TALES OF SPITTAL

This small space
for tall tales,
the leprous tongues of centuries,
hospitalised gossips,
words drifting out of ward windows
on a dripping wet afternoon.
Church reduced to a hung silence,
closed hearts
ready for a drink.
And there’s this man
like a tea leaf in the corners
of the Blenheim or the Red Lion or The Albion.
He’s gagging for a chat about the old days,
it’s on the lips of driftwood,
swirling in the blown down days.
Tug the fruit machine,
wallop down a pie-eyed dream.
The ghosts of Victorian ladies
hiss along the promenade
as we are hit in the face
with sepia breezes.
They come from North Sea places
and from Kelso,
Selkirk and Hawick,
they ripple the surface of the sea
and the leaves in the border forests.
Take the ancient waters,
sips of iron and sulphur,
bathe yourself in history and grime.
Pellets of sleet,
hail a watery charabanc drive,
run a hot bath
down the prom prom prom.
And let the keen and callous wind
whip up the skirts of the Tweedside girls,
so you can dance for your lives.
We are the Spittal folk,
the old Pierrots,
our songs are shattered
on ancient rocks.
Our children skip through the clutter of news.
Bless them,
bless young hearts.
Splash in Bishop’s Water,
in fishing places,
songs of herring and of salmon.
Spittal Rovers
sing again.
Leap for breath
in the ways of Spring.
RICHARD MENDHAM’S SPITTAL TIPPLE
Yon tippling illiterate Spittaler,
that smuggler of drunkenness,
thief and copier of the night.
Across the lines of sobriety,
you lurched,
carving a living
from rich streams
of whisky.
Dodging water bailiffs across rooftops,
creeping down trap stairs,
you and your gang
of fleetfooted drunks
shifted illicit dreams.
Eyes glinting in hidie-holes,
disguised in black cloth and gowns,
you sparked like bar-flies in the dark.
Dancing round brightly,
skipping school lightly,
laughed in your dens of warm cackle.
Shook the village with laughter,
gave the rude sign to Berwick,
pranced till they caught you,
hung you high
from your rafter
for daring to test
the stone-sober law.

*Richard Mendham - 1830s Spittal smuggler and counterfeiter who was tried and executed at Jedburgh in the presence of Sir Walter Scott, Sheriff of Selkirkshire.


DRINKING IN SPITTAL
See me fall out of The Elephant bar,
where I’ve been drinking with salmon.
Spittal foaming from my open mouth.
Lame, maimed, drunken,
dissolute, boisterous and poor,
I have become intoxicated by parties of pleasure.
I have strayed from the Holy Island to Brandy Well,
become awash in luggers of boozers,
staggering on smugglers’ sand.
Gin, brandy, tobacco and silk,
let me cleanse myself in the morning light,
take the clean waters of Jesus.
Walk to the Hallowstell,
past the lepers’ huts,
for drops of holy blood,
strip away with bare hands
this ugly scorbutic humour.
Clean the beaches,
clean Spittal,
clean my weary soul.
I will launch myself
into a seawater bath
and blow hot and cold
with the seasoning.
Calybeate waters of Spittal,
salts of pure iron,
you have me
chained to your heavy drinking cup.
Let my lovely heart sing
with children and larks.
Let me go plodging
in daffodils.


GIRL IN A SPITTAL WINDOW


Glancing moment,
chance look.

I was wondering
where to go,
what to do
in the seaside fret.
I am growing 
misty with dreams:
welcome to my Spittal World.
I am little in this universe,
the sun is falling,
the stars are poised.
The window cleaner
will come in the morning
and wipe yesterday 
away.



KEITH ARMSTRONG












 
 
 
 
 
 
The coastal scenery around Berwick is very fine, with rocks and cliffs, only occasionally interrupted by small bays and harbours. The nearest bathing beach to the town is in the little seaside resort of Spittal, to the south.



I was very impressed by the picture you and Tony created of Spittal.

It struck me that it was in the very best traditions of photo-journalism -

Picture Post recreated for the electronic age.   I thought images and text 

showed great respect and sensibility.





JOHN MAPPLEBECK (Bewick Films)