Welcome to the Armstrong-Dixon Line where North East England based writer Keith Armstrong and artist Peter Dixon share their views on the world and all that surrounds it. Expect rants, politics, poetry, history, photography and all sorts of........stuff.
Saturday, 13 August 2016
SING OF MY OWN NEWCASTLE - POEM BY KEITH ARMSTRONG, PHOTOS BY PETER DIXON
sing of my home city
sing of a true geordie heart
sing of a river swell in me
sing of a sea of the canny
sing of the newcastle day
sing of a history of poetry
sing of the pudding chare rain
sing of the puddles and clarts
sing of the bodies of sailors
sing of the golden sea
sing of our childrens’ laughter
sing of the boats in our eyes
sing of the bridges in sunshine
sing of the fish in the tyne
sing of the lost yards and the pits
sing of the high level railway
sing of the love in my face
sing of the garths and the castle
sing of the screaming lasses
sing of the sad on the side
sing of the battles’ remains
sing of the walls round our dreams
sing of the scribblers and dribblers
sing of the scratchers of livings
sing of the quayside night
sing of the kicks and the kisses
sing of the strays and the chancers
sing of the swiggers of ale
sing of the hammer of memory
sing of the welders’ revenge
sing of a battered townscape
sing of a song underground
sing of a powerless wasteland
sing of a buried bard
sing of the bones of tom spence
sing of the cocky bastards
sing of a black and white tide
sing of the ferry boat leaving
sing of cathedral bells crying
sing of the tyneside skies
sing of my mother and father
sing of my sister’s kindness
sing of the hope in my stride
sing of a people’s passion
sing of the strength of the wind
KEITH ARMSTRONG
Monday, 8 August 2016
WALLINGTON MORNING
No
power can disinherit:
No
bomb that ever burst
Shatters
the crystal spirit.' (George
Orwell).
I
stood at your door,
knocked
in the English sunshine,
bowed
to greet you
but
could not hear
the
chatter
from
your typewriter
or
the rain pecking
at
the tin roof,
only
the plummet of the leaves
brushing
against my face
and
the birds
falling
over the fields.
Thought
of you and Jack Common,
shaking
hands
in
open debate,
patched
sleeves
damp
on the bar counter,
ploughing
through
tracts
of history,
eyes
on the horizon
looking
for War
and
bombs
over
Datchworth's spire.
This
magic morning,
clear
sky in our hearts.
No
September showers,
only
goats bleating,
a
horse trotting
down
the lane
and,
in the day dream,
St
Mary's bells
glistening
with
Eileen asleep
in
the clouds.
What
should I say?
We
are weak.
I
know you were awkward
but,
like Jack, full of love.
Out
of bullets,
flowers
may grow;
out
of trenches,
seeds.
The
roses
and
acorns of thoughts
you
planted
those
years ago
in
Kits Lane,
nourish
us now
in
these brief minutes,
gifts
from
your writing hand
farming
for words,
the
eggs of essays,
the
jam on your fingers.
You
were scraping a book together,
smoking
the breath
out
of your collapsing lungs,
taking
the world
on
your creaking bent shoulders,
riding
across fields
for
friends,
bones
aching,
fighting
to exist
in
the cold breeze.
Still
the Simpson's Ale
was
good in the Plough,
the
old laughter still
flying
down this Wallington lane,
with
the crackling children
sparkling
on
an idyllic day.
Enjoy
this beauty,
it
will turn to pain.
Sing
your folk songs,
dig
your garden,
dance
in your brain.
Graft
and graft
until
all the breath is gone.
Leave
a brave mark
in
the dust
round
Animal Farm.
What
a good thing
to
be alive
where
songbirds soar
and
daffodils nod.
Over
the slaughter
of
motorways,
we
are following
your
large footprints
into
this bright countryside
where
good people
adopt
another's children
and
still
fall
in love
with
England.
KEITH
ARMSTRONG
Written
after visiting Orwell’s cottage in Wallington, Hertfordshire, where
he lived with Eileen O’Shaughnessy and which was once looked after
for him by fellow writer Jack Common.
'The more I read ‘Wallington Morning’ the more I like it. Very well done, an extremely clever and well written poem!' (Peter Common, son of Jack)
'I love this! Very emotive! Draws pictures in my brain and melts my heart. Thank you.' (Denise Byrne, daughter of Peter).
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