THE LINCOLN IMP

THE LINCOLN IMP

I fear the devilry in my poetry,

that impish urge

to home in on your fat cathedral

across all those bleak and wasted fields.

Tonight, I want

to ransack your city’s brains,

throw out pathetic gargoyles

from The Jolly Brewer,

beat up the landlord

of the Dog & Bone

with a good dose

of love poems.

I must admit

I am prone to heckle.

Bouts of doubt

infect my lines

and I am frequently inclined

to disrupt

your tedious tales;

for, unlike your buxom church,

they do not ring

with any bleeding sense of history,

just the shallow trivia

of an alien High Street,

the cloistered emptiness

of a bad poet’s soul.

Out here,

in the light of your cock spire,

I leap to twin with the Lincoln Imp

so that no choirboy

need be safe

from our wicked songs

and dodgy rhymes.

Twilight it is, and we zoom

from church to prison,

spreading our evil,

high as lords.

We set up our cheek

at terrible literary gatherings,

bloodstain the floors

of icy classrooms.

This is what imps do -

close down arts centres,

ignite recitals,

slink around alleyways

for bad girls to spank,

hurl abuse at the vicar’s cloth ears.

We imps do believe that

in Lincoln,

or any other northern dreamworld,

you might as well be totally unfeeling

as stay stone sober

in all the daytime’s lovelight.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO DURHAM & KOSTROMA!

Doctor Keith Armstrong is currently taking part in a poetry exchange with Durham's twin city Kostroma in Russia with the support of Durham County Council's International Relations Office. On the morning of Friday January 16th, he discussed his poetry in a live video exchange with the Russian twin. Kostroma is one of the oldest Russian cities. It is located 330 km to the North East of Moscow on the confluence of the 

Volga and Kostroma rivers. Its population is c270,000.

The following are the poems he read and discussed in the video exchange:

TWIN THE WEAR WITH THE VOLGA

Twin the Wear with the Volga,

let salmon jump in Red Square.

Join in a Durham Revolution,

let a peaceful breeze blow here.

There’s this comrade in the Market Tavern,

looks like Nikita Khrushchev.

There’s a Moscow moon on top of his head,

his face is all ruddy and red.

Back in Russia, 

there’s a border reiver,

a wild vodka look in his eye,

he’s riding a horse like a cossack

from Kostroma to Crook Town and back.

Reach across water me darling,

it’s worth it.

Spread out your nets and your arms.

You might get a hot Russian lover

and Igor a sweet Wearside lass. 

So twin the Wear with the Volga,

let salmon jump in Red Square.

Join in a Durham Revolution,

let a peaceful breeze blow here.

There’s this strapping lad in the Kremlin,

he’s from an Easington back lane.

He’s wearing old Lenin’s disused fur hat,

there’s a Marxist tattoo on his chest.

Back in Durham,

there’s a soviet cosmonaut,

with a fishing rod in his hand,

he’s trying for a catch in the gathering dusk

as the river slides from yellow to black.  

Share a strong jar with me sweetheart, 

it’s warm now.

Hold the smile on your face.

You can sail light on the Baltic

and fly to the Urals with me.   

So twin the Wear with the Volga,

let salmon jump in Red Square.

Join in a Durham Revolution,

let a peaceful breeze blow here.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

NOTES TOWARDS A POEM ON RUSSIA

1

Red star night.

A badge in the sky.

Banners at the cross-roads.

Oh Mother Russia,

your past bleeding,

we are driving to the future

in a black limousine.

2

Rubbing hearts

in the lift

with travellers,

an atlas in microcosm,

all telling us,

by their accents,

the rooms

that they were born in.

In the Ukraine Hotel,

the bathrooms drip

with voices

and many tongues

sleep,

with the last words of the day

melting away on their lips.

3

Vodka is as warm

as a kiss.

It thrusts a burning finger

down your throat.

After a few,

we embrace.

Our arms surround

the World.

Warm Russian that he is,

Igor kisses me.

After fish and caviar,

the kiss

tastes good!

He signs away his writing:

To Keith,

who is both happy and sad.'

Another night

spurts into a dream.

In and out of trouble,

people will always

dance.

4

TO A FELLOW WRITER IN RUSTAVI

Last night we swopped our shirts.

They didn't fit our bodies too well

but they fitted our mood exactly.

5

WHITE NIGHTS

The huge spread of Leningrad.

Cold courtyard heart.

The winter is hard,

but the nights are turning,

from black to white,

to red and back again.

6

Circus,

and I'm dazzled;

not by the slender sway

of the supple trapezist

but by the spotlight

of a girl's blonde hair.

Shining from the audience,

she smiles

and all Russia smiles at me.

Such tricks in this moment.

I know I'll never see her again.

7

ZAGORSK

All the wailing

behind fine railings.

The seminary domes like suns

catch the sun

and priests, with long nights in their beards,

harmonize brilliantly.

Their voices,

polished gold,

sound out the walls

as a rocket

glints in the sky.

8

RUSTAVI STEELWORKS

It's hellish hot in here.

Beneath the Earth,

these are

men and women

sweating steel,

forging

futures for

their children.

Steel bars for prisons,

steel bars for playgrounds.

It's hellish hot in here.

Like a heart,

burning.

9

Three swaying silhouettes.

Three bureaucrats.

Along the street,

they joggle towards us.

In their cases,

they carry documents with drink

seeping between the lines.

And now they are laughing,

and now the words are laughing.

They are peace documents.

Messages.

Meant for bottles,

meant for oceans.

Keith Armstrong

Elvet Bridge 

(inspired by Guillaume Apollinaire)

Under Elvet Bridge the rain

flows with our loves.

Must I recall again?

Joy always used to follow after pain.

The days pass, the weeks pass

all in vain.

Neither time spent nor misspent

nor love comes back again.

Under Elvet Bridge the rain

flows with our loves.

Must I recall again?

Joy always used to follow after rain.

Keith Armstrong

SPIDER: A MEMORY

Spider's in

The Half Moon afternoon,

eyes beaming under the peak of his cap;

a drinker's smile

from the salt of the earth.

He's dreaming of the raging sea

and he sups a fretting old pint;

getting ready to walk

over the teeming hill.

A drool in The Shakespeare,

a let-slip of a grin,

academic locals

jawing themselves still

in dark rooms

of a Durham past;

brass bands blessed

on rampant days,

waves tumbling

from a balcony.

Praise be to Spider,

honour his life,

and the days spent

twinkling

through a city of bars.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Reception for Kostroma delegation at Durham Town Hall. 
Photos by Tony Whittle.