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)

THE SUN ON DANBY GARDENS

The sun on Danby Gardens
smells of roast beef,
tastes of my youth.
The flying cinders of a steam train
spark in my dreams.
Across the old field,
a miner breaks his back
and lovers roll in the ditches,
off beaten tracks.
Off Bigges Main,
my grandad taps his stick,
reaches for the braille of long-dead strikes.
The nights
fair draw in
and I recall Joyce Esthella Antoinette Giles
and her legs that reached for miles,
tripping over the stiles
in red high heels.
It was her and blonde Annie Walker
who took me in the stacks
and taught me how to read
the signs
that led inside their thighs.
Those Ravenswood girls
would dance into your life
and dance though all the snow drops
of those freezing winters,
in the playground of young scars.
And I remember freckled Pete
who taught me Jazz,
who pointed me to Charlie Parker
and the edgy bitterness of Brown Ale.
Mrs Todd next door
was forever sweeping
leaves along the garden path
her fallen husband loved to tread.
Such days:
the smoke of A4 Pacifics in the aftermath of war,
the trail of local history on the birthmarked street.
And I have loved you all my life
and will no doubt die in Danby Gardens
where all my poems were born,
just after midnight.


KEITH ARMSTRONG

Michael Callaghan:  Absolutely brilliant Keith!
Conrad Atkinson: Another gem Keith Best Conrad 

THE CHIEF EXECUTIVE RAT

he’s the chief executive rat
the chief executive of this and that
the chief executive of want and waste
the chief executive of bad taste
the chief executive brat

she’s the chief executive of style
the chief executive bitch of bile
the chief executive of cluster bombs
the chief executive CD Rom
the chief executive of Sieg Heil 

we’re the chief executives of empty culture
the chief executives of soulless sculpture
the chief executives of soundbites
the chief executives of red kites 
the chief executive vultures

chief exective emptiness
chief executive battledress
chief executive cocktails
chief executive entrails
chief executive stress

he’s the chief executive slave employer
the chief executive missile deployer
the chief executive of civilian targets
the chief executive of hypermarkets
the chief executive life destroyer

she’s the chief executive smirker
the chief executive charity worker
the chief executive of state terror
the chief executive of trial and error
the chief executive empty talker

chief executive workfare
chief executive homecare
chief executive meals on wheels
chief executive easy deals
chief executive warfare

chief executive warfare
chief executive war

chief executive war






keith armstrong

WILLIAM BLAKE IN THE BRIDGE HOTEL

A few pints of Deuchars and my spirit is soaring.
The child dances out of me,
goes running down to the Tyne,
while the little man in me wrestles with a lass
and William Blake beams all his innocence in my glass.
And the old experience sweats from a castle’s bricks
as another local prophet takes a jump off the bridge.

It’s the spirit of Pat Foley and the ancient brigade
on the loose down the Quayside stairs
in a futile search,
just a step in the past,
for one last revolutionary song.

All the jars we have supped
in the hope of a change;
all the flirting and courting and chancing downstream;
all the words in the air and the luck pissed away.
It seems we oldies are running back
screaming to the Bewick days,
when a man could down a politicised quip
and craft a civilised chat
before he fed the birds
in the Churchyard.

The cultural ships are fair steaming in
but it’s all stripped of meaning -
the Councillors wade
in the shallow end.

O Blake! buy me a pint in the Bridge again,
let it shiver with sunlight
through all the stained windows,
make my wit sparkle
and my knees buckle.

Set me free of this stifling age
when the bland are back in charge.
Let us grow our golden hair wild once more
and roar like Tygers
down Dog Leap Stairs.

 


KEITH ARMSTRONG

TUEBINGEN/DURHAM LITERARY/ARTS TWINNING - FROM MARGIT ALDINGER:

TUEBINGEN/DURHAM LITERARY/ARTS TWINNING - FROM MARGIT ALDINGER:



  Town twinning, or city partnering, is designed to bring people together. The university towns of Tübingen and County Durham have been doing this since 1969, promoting cultural exchanges by offering financial and organisational support. Initially, the focus was on pupil exchange programmes and musical collaborations. In 1986, Keith Armstrong and Durham County Council opened a new door by suggesting writer’s exchange. This door became a swing door that has been swinging back and forth since 1987. Over the past thirty years, Keith Armstrong has been committed to ensuring that the door continues to swing in both directions. He took the first step by performing his poems in Tübingen to provide a view of the landscape and the people of its partner county in Northern England; a coal mining area experiencing a time of change, and of Britain's role in the world.

What do guests from County Durham find in Tübingen?: a mecca for literature enthusiasts: old and new authors who share a connection with the city; the Tübingen Book Festival, students from across the globe, a poetics lecture series at the university, literary museums (Sara Hauser who was born in 1986 and who read her own work in Durham in 2014, organises literary evenings with young poets in the Hesse Cabinet), a public library in the town centre, a creative writing scene, students at the Literature and Theatre Studio who publish alternative online literature magazines, and the newly established writers’ collective, the ‘Dichterkammer’ (Chamber of poets), which is open to all and was founded and developed by several of the authors featured in the recent anthology 'Word Sharing'. A trip to Durham with the opportunity to present their own texts became an attractive prospect for them.

   The authors from Tübingen have discovered that County Durham offers many writers' workshops and publication opportunities, even for unknown authors. Keith Armstrong provided ever new venues for the guests from Tübingen: at schools throughout the county, in the main Durham library, at Durham and Newcastle Universities and, of course, also in pubs.

   Most of the authors from Durham are globetrotters who are open to experiencing Tübingen – just like their counterparts from Tübingen who are seeking to explore County Durham. Keith Armstrong has documented his particular love for Tübingen and his interest in the city’s poets, philosophers, streets, squares, buildings and history in numerous poems, some published in 2007 in his book “Hermann Hesse in the Gutter”.

    Armstrong also impresses with his performances – speaking rhythmically, almost song-like, in a standing position – winning over audiences, be it in a pub or on a poetic walk through places in the city that are featured in his work, often accompanied by a musician from County Durham, such as guitarist Gary Miller, or his friend, accordionist Peter Weiss from Tübingen. The individual performance skills of his English colleagues are every bit as developed as his own.

    We hope there will be further word sharing opportunities that can overcome any borders.



Margit Aldinger,

Kulturamt, Tuebingen.

NEWCASTLE: A POETIC STROLL

I WILL SING OF MY OWN NEWCASTLE

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
(as featured on BBC Radio 4)

WILLIAM BLAKE IN THE BRIDGE HOTEL


A few pints of Deuchars and my spirit is soaring.

The child dances out of me,

goes running down to the Tyne,

while the little man in me wrestles with a lass

and William Blake beams all his innocence in my glass.

And the old experience sweats from a castle’s bricks

as another local prophet takes a jump off the bridge.

It’s the spirit of Pat Foley and the ancient brigade

on the loose down the Quayside stairs

in a futile search,

just a step in the past,

for one last revolutionary song.

All the jars we have supped

in the hope of a change;

all the flirting and courting and chancing downstream;

all the words in the air and the luck pissed away.

It seems we oldies are running back

screaming to the Bewick days,

when a man could down a politicised quip

and craft a civilised chat

before he fed the birds

in the Churchyard.

The cultural ships are fair steaming in

but it’s all stripped of meaning -

the Councillors wade

in the shallow end.

O Blake! buy me a pint in the Bridge again,

let it shiver with sunlight

through all the stained windows,

make my wit sparkle

and my knees buckle.

Set me free of this stifling age

when the bland are back in charge.

Let us grow our golden hair wild once more

and roar like Tygers

down Dog Leap Stairs.

KEITH ARMSTRONG





GRAINGER MARKET

 
(1)

A city
within a city

light cage

bazaar and blind
these swollen alleys


flow with a teeming life’s blood

Geordie  !

Swim for your life  !




(2)

this is life
the gloss and the flesh
weigh-house of passion and flame

you can get lost in this market’s amazement
but you can never lose yourself

sometimes
a sleep-walk in these grazing crowds
can feel like a stroll through your brain




 
MAUD WATSON, FLORIST

bred in a market arch

a struggle

in a city’s armpit

that flower

in your time-rough hand’s

a beautiful girl in a slum alley

all that kindness in your face

and you’re right

the time are not what they were

this England’s not what it was

flowers shrink in the crumbling vase

dusk creeps in on a cart

and Maud the sun is choking

Maud this island’s sinking

and all that sleeping sea is

the silent majority

waving

Keith Armstrong

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




BLACK GATE


Black Gate,
an oxter of history,
reaches for me
with a stubby finger,
invites me into Old Newcastle,
its vital cast
of craggy characters,
Garth urchins,
dancing blades
and reeling lasses.
Black Gate,
I can read
the lines
on your brow,
the very grit
on your timelined walls,
the furrowed path
down the Geordie lane
where Alexander Stephenson stoops
to let me in
and the merchant Patrick Black
still trades in memories.
Once
there was a tavern
inside you,
that’s why
the bricks cackle
and the windows creak
with the crack of old ale
and the redundant patter
of publican John Pickell.
Black Gate,
you could say
my childhood is in your stones,
my mother and father figures,
my river
of drifting years,
waiting to greet me.
Hoist up your drawbridge,
in the startling chill
of a Tyne dawn,
this boy is with you
and with himself
in this home city
of old bones,
new blood
and dripping dreams.



KEITH ARMSTRONG

*The Black Gate is named after the seventeenth century merchant Patrick Black.




CASTLE KEEP


Keep,
this history by the river.
Keep,
the stairway to the past.
Keep,
the memories singing folk songs.
Keep,
the cobbles wet with blood.
Keep,
those ballads down the centuries.
Keep,
the ancient voices in your head.
Keep,
these stones alive with music.
Keep,
the wind howling in the brick.
Keep
the days that speed our lives.
Keep,
the rails to guide you there.
Keep,
the people that you meet.
Keep,
the children's faces dancing.
Keep,
the devil in your fleeting eyes.
Keep,
the bridges multiplying.
Keep,
the moon upon the Tyne.
Keep,
the flag of lovers flying.
Keep,
your feet still
Geordie hinny.


 
KEITH ARMSTRONG

THE SUN ON DANBY GARDENS


The sun on Danby Gardens
smells of roast beef,
tastes of my youth.
The flying cinders of a steam train
spark in my dreams.
Across the old field,
a miner breaks his back
and lovers roll in the ditches,
off beaten tracks.
Off Bigges Main,
my grandad taps his stick,
reaches for the braille of long-dead strikes.
The nights
fair draw in
and I recall Joyce Esthella Antoinette Giles
and her legs that reached for miles,
tripping over the stiles
in red high heels.
It was her and blonde Annie Walker
who took me in the stacks
and taught me how to read
the signs
that led inside their thighs.
Those Ravenswood girls
would dance into your life
and dance though all the snow drops
of those freezing winters,
in the playground of young scars.
And I remember freckled Pete
who taught me Jazz,
who pointed me to Charlie Parker
and the edgy bitterness of Brown Ale.
Mrs Todd next door
was forever sweeping
leaves along the garden path
her fallen husband loved to tread.
Such days:
the smoke of A4 Pacifics in the aftermath of war,
the trail of local history on the birthmarked street.
And I have loved you all my life
and will no doubt die in Danby Gardens
where all my poems were born,
just after midnight.


 
KEITH ARMSTRONG

NEWCASTLE IS PICARDY

 





Grainger Street hums

and bakes

in the peeling sunshine;

this walled, world weary city

adopts a certain Latin glow:

car drivers swear more brilliantly,

girls giggle louder

and trap my eyes

in the flash

of their hair.

The world is simply

passing us by.

And who cares,

in this haze

of a burning Empire?

So long as

the sunbeams 

swim

in our beer

and the roses

are blooming

in Picardy.


KEITH ARMSTRONG