MAP OF THE WORLD

 

We turned its global head as babies,

traced its edges onto paper,

scarcely scratched

the surface

of that old familiar spotted face

shaped up, boiling for a fight.

Hung on walls,

it looked so static

but in its latitudes and longitudes we knew

that people moved,

homes grew,

cities drowned

and cliffs broke.

Later, travelling,

we stepped out

across the sheet,

skipped the Channel,

entered 

new squares.

Then creeping back

at dusk,

we folded up this map,

packed away the ice

and sunny beach,

stuck it all in a small back pocket

and shrunk back

into our own world’s frontiers.

That tiny territory

of our scars.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

STELLA OF ROSE STREET

(in memory of Stella Cartwright, 1937-1985)

“Dear George, it is so strange, our souls seem to fly together joyously over mountains and seas while each of us in our mutual way suffers agonies.”

(Stella Cartwright)

"An orgasm with Miss Cartwright was metaphysical, transcendental, like nothing else you can ever imagine. She seemed built for love."

(Stanley Roger Green)

“You placed me on a pedestal / according to my lights / but what you didn’t know, my dear / I have no head for heights.”

(Norman MacCaig)

It was so much gabble,

fantasies of genius in the Little Kremlin.

Once, I fell for it myself,

tottering along the red carpet,

poetry dribbling into my own vomit,

or maybe it was Hugh’s,

all mixed up

in the whisky of empty promises.

I talked in Milne’s Bar to a shop steward

who’d help build MacDiarmid’s bog.

He said the workmen had their tea in Grieve’s posh wee cups

and saw the reckoning in the leaves.

He yapped as auld poets glowered from their photos

and we downed chilled ale

to drown the memories of a Juniper Green girl

with a pint of that Muse again.

They must have seen joy in you our Stella

to wrench them from their word play,

to take a lovely shag to brighten up their anxious lines.

Och the happiness and the pain

of drinking

that smiler with the knife

come to get us all.

And that lonely honey George

must have driven you nuts

romancing you in the Pentland Hills

and kissing you full on your lips

one damp Saturday afternoon

by the Water of Leith.

They say ‘the best poem is silence’

but you were a shriek in the ecstasy

of loving and of agony,

a naked drunken howl.

The saintly saviour of hurt animals

and a shopper for the sick,

you wanted to wrap yourself around

something you could trust,

wanted a photograph of a true poetry lover

held to your lovely breasts

to make a change from the piss

of Milne’s Bar

and the daily Abbotsford drivel.

What you found was madness in a Zimmer Frame at thirty,

splashes of alcohol and tears lit

by the sudden flashes of beautiful orgasms,

the sunshine today

in all the muck

along Rose Street.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

As published in Scottish Review 16th December 2010 

JAZZ POETRY BY DR KEITH ARMSTRONG

 






























FEATURING:

JAZZ POEMS:
Keith Armstrong and the Don Forbes Trio

FOLK MUSIC:
The Sawdust Jacks
Ann Sessoms (Pipes)

POETRY:
Dave Alton
Robert Lonsdale
Gordon Phillips
Katrina Porteous
Trev Teasdel
Rob Walton
Dominic Windram



THE RED HOUSE, QUAYSIDE, NEWCASTLE WEDNESDAY 25TH JANUARY 2017 7.30PM 

ADMISSION FREE

FURTHER INFO: NORTHERN VOICES COMMUNITY PROJECTS TEL 0191 2529531

from the archive: poetry meets jazz

LAUNCH OF A UNIQUE POETRY & JAZZ COLLABORATION

FEATURING:

THE NEW SAFE SEXTET

WITH NORTH EAST POETS:

KEITH ARMSTRONG,  JOHN EARL ,  IAN HORN ,  MICHAEL STANDEN.

SPECIAL GUESTS:  JACKIE KAY,  FRANK MESSINA.

BRIDGE HOTEL,  NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE , THURSDAY 5TH DECEMBER 2002.

THE BAND:

Trumpet                              Don Forbes
Tenor Saxophone              John Rowland
Alto Saxophone                 Paul Gowland
Baritone Saxophone         Danny Veitch
Guitar                                 Andy Pattinson
Bass Guitar                        Stuart Davies
Piano                                  Alan Laws
Percussion                        Dave Francis

POETRY & MUSIC SET:

1. ‘Because I Drink Too Much’ by Keith Armstrong; music composed by Don Forbes, using ‘Bah Lues For U’s’.
2. ‘Afternoon In Amsterdam Bar’ by Ian Horn; music ‘Little Blue Eyes’ composed by Don Forbes.
3. ‘Sugar Daddy’ by Ian Horn; music composed by Don Forbes.
4. ‘The Poet Of Rain’ by John Earl; music composed by Don Forbes.
5. ‘Drips’ by Michael Standen; music ‘Rollano’ composed by Juan Lazaro Menadas.
6. ‘New Idea’ by Michael Standen; music composed by Don Forbes.
7. ‘The 8.5 Brought Us Ears And Feet’ by John Earl; music ‘Mark Time’ composed by Kenny Wheeler.
8. ‘Lockerbie’ by Keith Armstrong; music composed by Don Forbes. 

MY FATHER WORKED ON SHIPS

 

























My father worked on ships.
They spelked his hands,
dusted his eyes, his face, his lungs.

Those eyes that watered by the Tyne
stared out to sea
to see the world
in a tear of water, at the drop
of an old cloth cap.

For thirty weary winters
he grafted
through the snow and the wild winds
of loose change.

He was proud of those ships he built,
he was proud of the men he built with,
his dreams sailed with them:
the hull was his skull,
the cargo his brains.

His hopes rose and sunk
in the shipwrecked streets
of Wallsend
and I look at him now
this father of mine who worked on ships
and I feel proud
of his skeletal frame, this coastline
that moulded me
and my own sweet dreams.

He sits in his retiring chair,
dozing into the night.
There are storms in his head
and I wish him more love yet.

Sail with me,
breathe in me,
breathe that rough sea air old man,
and cough it up.

Rage, rage
against the dying
of this broken-backed town,
the spirit
of its broken-backed
ships.

 

Keith Armstrong
 


Allan Dennis Brockbank I always did like your poetry how you doing?

Mo Shevis Bought 'Imagined Corners' recently and was pleased to see this poem there, having read it previously online. When I read it last week at my poetry reading group it was very well received.! It is a powerful piece Keith. We are all of an age to remember the old industries,proud of our heritage and those who worked in them. Thankfully we have people like you to record such images and memories for posterity.


Derek Young What a poem. So evocative of those days. I worked at Parsons Marine Turbine Company as an apprentice marine engineer. My girl friend was a trainee tracer at Swan Hunters.

Michael McNally Hi Keith,Thank you for sending this wonderful piece of work in my direction.

JANIS BLOWER:
HAVE YOUR SAY
IT’S gratifying to see that on-line readers have taken an interest in one or two topics recently
One was that smashing poem, My Father Worked on Ships, by Keith Armstrong, in which correspondent, Geordiman, reckons he recognised himself in its depiction of an old shipyard hand.

OLD STATIONS

(for Kathleen Sisterson)

There’s an old station

I keep dreaming of

where I wandered

as a child;

flower baskets

seep with longing

and engines

pant with steam.

It might have been

at Chollerton,

in a summer’s field,

when I realised

how good 

life could be,

in the sunshine

of my songs;

or it might have been

at Falstone

where the roses

smelt of smoke

and I felt

the breath of railwaymen

wafting in my hair.

This little boy,

with his North Tyne lilt

and the dialect

of ancients,

ran up the platform

of his life

and chased

the racing clouds.

It was a first taste

of Kielder Forest

and the light

that skimmed the hills

and the engine

rattled through the day

to drive me 

to my roots:

to Deadwater

and Saughtree,

the hours flew

for miles

and the railway

ran into my veins

and sparked 

history in my soul.

In this album

of a fragile world,

I’d like to leave 

these lines 

for you to find

in Bellingham

or Wark,

a tune to play

in Reedsmouth

in Woodburn 

or in Wall.

Along this route, 

I hope you'll find

a glimpse of me in youth;

the smiling child,

inside the man,

who took the train

by chance

and found his way 

with words

and leaves

to Thorneyburn 

and Riccarton,

along the tracks

of dreams.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Beautiful and evocative. (Conrad Atkinson)

Thanks for your wonderful poem 'Old Stations'. It's a truly moving piece of work, tapping childhood nostalgia but in away that seems naturally to a young imagination being born of the lore and physicality of the trains and railway stations. (Noel Duffy)

Really liked that one, so descriptive, I could see it all in my mind’s eye! (Marie Little)

Wonderfully evocative, Keith. (Sid Smith)

Like it! (Pete Thompson)

It's great Keith! (Peter Common)

As ever, a lovely poem & one I can easily relate to. (Geoff Holland)

(from forthcoming book and film -

written for an exhibition at Bellingham Heritage Centre, June 2013)

SEASONAL GREETINGS FROM ARMSTRONG & DIXON!

A Tuebingen Poetry Stroll with Dr Keith Armstrong - now on YouTube!

photos: peter dixon
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KX4UUfCiO-s

BURNS NIGHT EVENT

BURNS NIGHT: A LITTLE CELEBRATION - WITH POEMS, JAZZ AND FOLK MUSIC!


FEATURING:

JAZZ POEMS:
Keith Armstrong and the Don Forbes Trio

FOLK MUSIC:
The Sawdust Jacks
Ann Sessoms (Pipes)

POETRY:
Dave Alton
Robert Lonsdale
Gordon Phillips
Katrina Porteous
Paul Summers
Trev Teasdel
Rob Walton
Dominic Windram



THE RED HOUSE, QUAYSIDE, NEWCASTLE WEDNESDAY 25TH JANUARY 2017 7.30PM 

ADMISSION FREE

FURTHER INFO: NORTHERN VOICES COMMUNITY PROJECTS TEL 0191 2529531

DREAMING OF JACK COMMON

 







































I dreamt I glimpsed Jack Common on a train.
He had his nose stuck in a book;
the Newcastle rain seeped from his eyes.
Jack looked sad
and I dreamt he sleepwalked across the station bridge
and staggered down The Side;
he’d had a drink,
and couldn’t believe
the things he saw.
He bowled along the corridors through Milburn House
and stalked the nightmare of his past;
all around him fell bulldozed history
and his suit shook with soot.
He sensed a shallowness in the air,
a city with its guts ripped out.
He blinked at the scale of the new Law Courts
and thought of battles the workers lost:
Sons of the Battleaxe,
bands of brass.

The Tyne slid by him
and his big heart
swelled with the agony of years;
a great history swilling in his veins
and the banks of the river cleansed
for millionaires.
We live in hope I would suppose
but how many games must we Geordies lose?
Jack looked down at his shredded roots
and felt his home city shudder with pain.
It was the ache of the starving in an age of plenty,
the shudder of a rudderless future:
the Johnny Riddle trickle of the lonely Ouseburn
running
down the drain.


 
Keith Armstrong