andy-n - Hello Poetry

In 1996 when the IRA blew up the Arndale I was barely able to leave my house After getting mugged the night before Which left me with a major limp For the next 18 months or so And forced me to ring around friends That I knew would normally be there Praying they would be at home. In 2007 I got led out of my works Viva an underground tunnel I hadn’t known about previously After it was deemed unsafe outside To walk around the corner as normal When a hurricane dragged a bollard Through the Chief Exectuive’s car And other cars onto the next street. In 2010 I ended up leading three women I worked alongside at the Co-operative To Manchester Piccadilly Train Station Like James Bond mixed with the Pier Piper Avoiding all of the bars laced with drunk fans Just before Ranger’s Europa Cup final At Manchester City’s Ethiad Stadium Just before it exploded into chaos. In 2011, I was getting drove back home By a kindly Ambulance Crew Hours after getting registered with Diabetes When we drove into a gang of youths And barely reversed out alive Looting a shop I used to go in for A sandwich nearly every morning On the way into my work. In 2017, I walked past Manchester Victoria Train Station About a half a hour before A terrorist took the lives off 22 people including children And left me barely able To sleep for two days afterwards Laid in complete shock. Each tragedy or event Staining emotions No matter how close I was to the action Cherry-picking memories Into frozen images Across feelings Stuck in time Reprinting each day Over and over Into a compressed version Of Groundhog Day Shooting grief from my heart No matter how close to the front I was Or whispered in braille rain Tapping in shadow like tears Brining my eyes Pushing my grief aside And carrying on Like so so many others. (also blogged at http://onewriterandhispc.blogspot.co.uk/2017/06/from-1996-to-2017-emotional-history-off.html)

0

Jun 1, 2017

Jun 1, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC

andy-n

From 1996 to 2017 (An emotional history off tragedies in Manchester looking at things from the outside)

In 1996 when the IRA blew up the Arndale I was barely able to leave my house After getting mugged the night before Which left me with a major limp For the next 18 months or so And forced me to ring around friends That I knew would normally be there Praying they would be at home. In 2007 I got led out of my works Viva an underground tunnel I hadn’t known about previously After it was deemed unsafe outside To walk around the corner as normal When a hurricane dragged a bollard Through the Chief Exectuive’s car And other cars onto the next street. In 2010 I ended up leading three women I worked alongside at the Co-operative To Manchester Piccadilly Train Station Like James Bond mixed with the Pier Piper Avoiding all of the bars laced with drunk fans Just before Ranger’s Europa Cup final At Manchester City’s Ethiad Stadium Just before it exploded into chaos. In 2011, I was getting drove back home By a kindly Ambulance Crew Hours after getting registered with Diabetes When we drove into a gang of youths And barely reversed out alive Looting a shop I used to go in for A sandwich nearly every morning On the way into my work. In 2017, I walked past Manchester Victoria Train Station About a half a hour before A terrorist took the lives off 22 people including children And left me barely able To sleep for two days afterwards Laid in complete shock. Each tragedy or event Staining emotions No matter how close I was to the action Cherry-picking memories Into frozen images Across feelings Stuck in time Reprinting each day Over and over Into a compressed version Of Groundhog Day Shooting grief from my heart No matter how close to the front I was Or whispered in braille rain Tapping in shadow like tears Brining my eyes Pushing my grief aside And carrying on Like so so many others. (also blogged at http://onewriterandhispc.blogspot.co.uk/2017/06/from-1996-to-2017-emotional-history-off.html)

61

Lost in gutter talk, The history books Suggest it was his two brothers Who took him to the fair At Longford Park Boasting of dead fireflies Instead of fish in little bags, And follicles of lights In the ghost house Almost invisible from The roller coasters Descending from the sky Like space rockets Replacing sledges. Crossing the meadows Blanked in snow With echoing laughter The reports stated Then missing ***** At coconuts stall Then footballs Before proclaiming It was fixed And gave up wandering Over to the roller coaster Leaving Billy stood there Protesting it wasn’t ******* cheap gobsuckers Hiding his tears Turning a perfect illustration Into a pastoral scene Of fireworks Kissing the moon Tying themselves up In his mouth As a attendant said ‘Six shots for two quid, son’ Accompanying over each shot ‘Lower, lower, lower’ Crossing shots over the tins Like pennies in keyholes Wrestling with uneven prayers Chiselling his nerves Over sweatshop erected fingertips ‘Lower, lower, lower’ Knifing through His childhood One shot after The other With each target He shot through.

0

Dec 4, 2016

Dec 4, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC

andy-n

Birth of Evil (aka the Origin of Billy the Kid)

Lost in gutter talk, The history books Suggest it was his two brothers Who took him to the fair At Longford Park Boasting of dead fireflies Instead of fish in little bags, And follicles of lights In the ghost house Almost invisible from The roller coasters Descending from the sky Like space rockets Replacing sledges. Crossing the meadows Blanked in snow With echoing laughter The reports stated Then missing ***** At coconuts stall Then footballs Before proclaiming It was fixed And gave up wandering Over to the roller coaster Leaving Billy stood there Protesting it wasn’t ******* cheap gobsuckers Hiding his tears Turning a perfect illustration Into a pastoral scene Of fireworks Kissing the moon Tying themselves up In his mouth As a attendant said ‘Six shots for two quid, son’ Accompanying over each shot ‘Lower, lower, lower’ Crossing shots over the tins Like pennies in keyholes Wrestling with uneven prayers Chiselling his nerves Over sweatshop erected fingertips ‘Lower, lower, lower’ Knifing through His childhood One shot after The other With each target He shot through.

51

Catching her tears in the breeze From one row of headstones to the next Some days you would see her ghost Walking up and down Like a private on patrol. Entwined with the sun Just before sunrise Creeps over the hill Cascading into a silent film As the shadows sank away Repeating his name over Like a broken tape machine Caught up in a tangle Of half forgotten prayers In at least two different languages Echoing in the wind Butterfly shaped with regrets In a tidal mystery of anger If things had been So very different Over skeletons of feelings Before they turned Into scraps of meanings After the burnt out end of summer Into a willow shaped autumn Following him To the grave Within weeks Filled with nothing But regret.

0

Nov 5, 2016

Nov 5, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC

andy-n

The Ghost of Dukinfield Cemetery

Catching her tears in the breeze From one row of headstones to the next Some days you would see her ghost Walking up and down Like a private on patrol. Entwined with the sun Just before sunrise Creeps over the hill Cascading into a silent film As the shadows sank away Repeating his name over Like a broken tape machine Caught up in a tangle Of half forgotten prayers In at least two different languages Echoing in the wind Butterfly shaped with regrets In a tidal mystery of anger If things had been So very different Over skeletons of feelings Before they turned Into scraps of meanings After the burnt out end of summer Into a willow shaped autumn Following him To the grave Within weeks Filled with nothing But regret.

30

Sometimes I dream of the foghorn near the docks whistling like a forgotten friend in your letterbox walking home from work after I had left for the last time, Remember the ringing of the last tram freezing in the air like a photograph before breathing too quickly ain’t you glad you walked away? Sometimes I dream of the chime of the clock which freezes at mid-day someday weeping under spires and underneath dock boats, Dreaming of my heart tied up in chains instead of knots before I unpicked the lock and walked away without regret stealing inspiration from the sunset. (From the End of Summer - https://www.amazon.co.uk/End-Summer-N-Andy-ebook/dp/B01LY7YR9K/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1475915722&sr;=1-2)

0

Oct 8, 2016

Oct 8, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC

andy-n

Stealing Inspiration

Sometimes I dream of the foghorn near the docks whistling like a forgotten friend in your letterbox walking home from work after I had left for the last time, Remember the ringing of the last tram freezing in the air like a photograph before breathing too quickly ain’t you glad you walked away? Sometimes I dream of the chime of the clock which freezes at mid-day someday weeping under spires and underneath dock boats, Dreaming of my heart tied up in chains instead of knots before I unpicked the lock and walked away without regret stealing inspiration from the sunset. (From the End of Summer - https://www.amazon.co.uk/End-Summer-N-Andy-ebook/dp/B01LY7YR9K/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1475915722&sr;=1-2)

27

18 Herding screams like crocheted baubles He plucked each target from the rooftops With the grace of a fishermen Slicing hairs off heads And coke cans from hands With a skill most of his ex army mates Would have been proud off, Piercing dreams with hard earned sweat Flicking art with each bullet Ripping policemen in half And people running to his rescue Into splots of paint, Slowly drowning in his own happiness With each **** Unaware you can’t **** ghosts With bullets Until it was too late. *** 19 Swollen with nerves Scaled around the outskirts Of what he had just reported The police inspector Spent the next 10 minutes After his interview with the press Panting with breath, Fathomless in his guilt Covered in a paused sweat Lighting cigarette after cigarette Like a stale perfume Fragile in increasing nerves Out wearied across the stars Until a colleague joined him saying ‘Did they buy it, sir? To which he answered 'I know I wouldn't.'

0

Apr 19, 2015

Apr 19, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC

andy-n

Ghost story II Part 18 and 19

18 Herding screams like crocheted baubles He plucked each target from the rooftops With the grace of a fishermen Slicing hairs off heads And coke cans from hands With a skill most of his ex army mates Would have been proud off, Piercing dreams with hard earned sweat Flicking art with each bullet Ripping policemen in half And people running to his rescue Into splots of paint, Slowly drowning in his own happiness With each **** Unaware you can’t **** ghosts With bullets Until it was too late. *** 19 Swollen with nerves Scaled around the outskirts Of what he had just reported The police inspector Spent the next 10 minutes After his interview with the press Panting with breath, Fathomless in his guilt Covered in a paused sweat Lighting cigarette after cigarette Like a stale perfume Fragile in increasing nerves Out wearied across the stars Until a colleague joined him saying ‘Did they buy it, sir? To which he answered 'I know I wouldn't.'

36

Drumming across windows In both of the toilets Banging could frequently be heard Dragging chairs under the stairs In the entrance hall Thawed in the cheesy music Leading to the main bar Twitching across your back Like a whistle blower Drowned out by the noise Over the sticky floors And watered down lager Curving into a maze of bodies Aglow in a series of frantic lights Sweeping diamonds in their dreams Caged with the TV Screen Dangling half drunk from the ceiling Scrunched with a frightening rage Held back by invisible hands Wishing for the carnage to end Over the top of a sign that always said Drinking, dancing, cavorting While the revernd sits there unseen Constantly spitting feathers Throwing toilet paper in the air And attempting to push staff Down the stairs as if to say They weren’t getting out of there Anywhere near quick enough For his liking. (Brannigans is a now closed Bar in the centre of Manchester which was reportingly haunted by Reverend Collier, a fierce anti alcohol revernald at the start of the 20th Century of which his church, Albert Halls became Brannigans at one point).

0

Feb 22, 2015

Feb 22, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC

andy-n

The Sermon of Reverend Collier

Drumming across windows In both of the toilets Banging could frequently be heard Dragging chairs under the stairs In the entrance hall Thawed in the cheesy music Leading to the main bar Twitching across your back Like a whistle blower Drowned out by the noise Over the sticky floors And watered down lager Curving into a maze of bodies Aglow in a series of frantic lights Sweeping diamonds in their dreams Caged with the TV Screen Dangling half drunk from the ceiling Scrunched with a frightening rage Held back by invisible hands Wishing for the carnage to end Over the top of a sign that always said Drinking, dancing, cavorting While the revernd sits there unseen Constantly spitting feathers Throwing toilet paper in the air And attempting to push staff Down the stairs as if to say They weren’t getting out of there Anywhere near quick enough For his liking. (Brannigans is a now closed Bar in the centre of Manchester which was reportingly haunted by Reverend Collier, a fierce anti alcohol revernald at the start of the 20th Century of which his church, Albert Halls became Brannigans at one point).

31

Shrink wrapped in a breath-riled panic, The violence was over Before a word could be splattered Blood covered like a trail of chalk Unbranded up and down the waiting area With broken glass slumped on seats Drenched in split skin and broken nails All the way down the escalators And back onto the main concourse Lining the ceiling in screams As the rifle opened fire over and over Concealed in warnings You had warned me about Half an hour before Which I had stupidly ignored Dismissing it as a gust of wind Instead of a warning that History was going to repeat itself. (A Short Prologue of a epic Poem to start as part of NapWrimo in April. There will be a second Prologue in March. Get in touch if interested in getting involved)

0

Feb 22, 2015

Feb 22, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC

andy-n

Ghost Story II - Prologue

Shrink wrapped in a breath-riled panic, The violence was over Before a word could be splattered Blood covered like a trail of chalk Unbranded up and down the waiting area With broken glass slumped on seats Drenched in split skin and broken nails All the way down the escalators And back onto the main concourse Lining the ceiling in screams As the rifle opened fire over and over Concealed in warnings You had warned me about Half an hour before Which I had stupidly ignored Dismissing it as a gust of wind Instead of a warning that History was going to repeat itself. (A Short Prologue of a epic Poem to start as part of NapWrimo in April. There will be a second Prologue in March. Get in touch if interested in getting involved)

20

Abandoned like an unloved pet just outside the outskirts of Rio underneath some of the white washed slums you told me to wait there while you went for help, But of course you never returned discarding all responsibility glistening in the moonlight returning to your car and driving off like a panic led sprinter before I realised, Flying through the night across Copacabana beach pressing your hands on the wheels like Excalibur rising from the ground before freezing halfway, Cut and pasting your fear with each mile unsure which way next across the sea front towards the edge of the Sugarloaf Mountain, Then hiding in the shadows of the Art Museum in Sao Paulo, before then running to the booths of the Se Church in Sao Luis, Among the Market sellers of the Porto Allegra Public Market in Rio Grande do Sol trading monies for blankets and hats, in a vein attempt to disguise yourself To smaller, less known places Like all the way down To Boa Vista Where your car finally died, And the Wreck of the Santa Maria Where you was tempted to hide in Or hide in the now dis-used lighthouse on Morro ***** and watch the sunrise go up and down each morning until you went stir crazy, Full well knowing I would caught up with you sooner or later no matter which way you ran Eventually.

0

Nov 1, 2014

Nov 1, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC

andy-n

Frankenstein in Rio

Abandoned like an unloved pet just outside the outskirts of Rio underneath some of the white washed slums you told me to wait there while you went for help, But of course you never returned discarding all responsibility glistening in the moonlight returning to your car and driving off like a panic led sprinter before I realised, Flying through the night across Copacabana beach pressing your hands on the wheels like Excalibur rising from the ground before freezing halfway, Cut and pasting your fear with each mile unsure which way next across the sea front towards the edge of the Sugarloaf Mountain, Then hiding in the shadows of the Art Museum in Sao Paulo, before then running to the booths of the Se Church in Sao Luis, Among the Market sellers of the Porto Allegra Public Market in Rio Grande do Sol trading monies for blankets and hats, in a vein attempt to disguise yourself To smaller, less known places Like all the way down To Boa Vista Where your car finally died, And the Wreck of the Santa Maria Where you was tempted to hide in Or hide in the now dis-used lighthouse on Morro ***** and watch the sunrise go up and down each morning until you went stir crazy, Full well knowing I would caught up with you sooner or later no matter which way you ran Eventually.

54

And always the silent smell Of music follows Each time his name is mentioned Never justice, Covered in ignored pleadings With pinpointed accuracy Constantly kicking The ladder away From his freedom Evidence suppressed and misplaced For 16 years In cross currents Of ignored medical reports Miscarrying justice And innocence Constantly brushed Under the carpets Drawn back on curtains Across hospitals And your bedroom upon release Which eventually killed you A terrible crime With two victims.

0

Aug 24, 2014

Aug 24, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC

andy-n

For Stefan Kiszko

And always the silent smell Of music follows Each time his name is mentioned Never justice, Covered in ignored pleadings With pinpointed accuracy Constantly kicking The ladder away From his freedom Evidence suppressed and misplaced For 16 years In cross currents Of ignored medical reports Miscarrying justice And innocence Constantly brushed Under the carpets Drawn back on curtains Across hospitals And your bedroom upon release Which eventually killed you A terrible crime With two victims.

23

After the blast of lightning from the east A dismal fog hoarse siren howled at dawn Bent double, like old beggars under sacks Whispering in my hearth Sojourning through a southern realm Halted against the shade of a lost hill Charged with beauty as a cloud With bright darkling glows. (A Poem made up of lines from various Wilfred Own poems, mostly just first lines and published just a day or two before Britain declared war on Germany on 4 August 1914 in tribute to Wilfred Owen, one of the greatest First World War Poets)

0

Aug 3, 2014

Aug 3, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC

andy-n

Wilfred Owen Montage

After the blast of lightning from the east A dismal fog hoarse siren howled at dawn Bent double, like old beggars under sacks Whispering in my hearth Sojourning through a southern realm Halted against the shade of a lost hill Charged with beauty as a cloud With bright darkling glows. (A Poem made up of lines from various Wilfred Own poems, mostly just first lines and published just a day or two before Britain declared war on Germany on 4 August 1914 in tribute to Wilfred Owen, one of the greatest First World War Poets)

13