"durham" poems
Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
Wanting our sleep and our food,
After a day and a night --
God, shall we ever forget!
Beaten and broke in the fight,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Trying to hold the line,
Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
Always the yell of the ***
Northumerland, Lancaster, York,
Durham and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Never a message of hope!
Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,
With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
As waiting and wincing we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the Boche,
When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!"
And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"
And the Guards came through.
Our throats they were parched and hot,
But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,
Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Two brigades, if you please,
Dressing as straight as a hem,
We -- we were down on our knees,
Praying for us and for them!
Lord, I could speak for a week,
But how could you understand!
How should your cheeks be wet,
Such feelin's don't come to you.
But when can me or my mates forget,
When the Guards came through?
"Five yards left extend!"
It passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank and dash,
Cool as a home parade,
Twinkle and glitter and flash,
Flinching never a shade,
With the shrapnel right in their face
Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace,
Arms at the trail, eyes front!
Man, it was great to see!
Man, it was fine to do!
It's a cot and a hospital ward for me,
But I'll tell'em in Blighty, whereever I be,
How the Guards came through.
3.1k
With trembling knees, I took my position. The stage was set.
Before me sat a school of eyes: transfixed, gazing with anticipation. Piercing the silence with an unfurling of paper, I stepped forwards, my mouth pressed to the microphone.
A kick of adrenaline, engaging of breath and I began.
“My inspiration.”
Humble Houghton MBE; centre-half, captain, Man City.
A lioness leader, Durham born and raised.
With writing and wit, I’ll heap the praise.
England debut at just 17.
Free-kick expert, living the dream.
Old-school-gritty-no-nonsense defender.
An accurate passer - return to sender.
A right-footed shot to burst the net.
Dedicating her life, she doesn’t forget: school teams, amateur level, Sunderland weekends.
A cup final beckons: the star of the show, the women’s game - she’s watched it grow.
Now girls put on their boots, their shinnies and smile.
Aiming to go that extra mile.
The right to play football, the right to be free,
Raising awareness of MND,
Best of the best, who can it be?
Stephanie Jayne Houghton MBE.
Stepping away from the microphone the applause raining down, I knew I’d made an impression on people. Just like Steph had on me.
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 3:31 PM UTC
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
2.9k
1542
Come show thy Durham Breast
To her who loves thee best,
Delicious Robin—
And if it be not me
At least within my Tree
Do the avowing—
Thy Nuptial so minute
Perhaps is more astute
Than vaster suing—
For so to soar away
Is our propensity
The Day ensuing—
2.7k
A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
He went out to bat,
NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.
On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
He bats with aplomb,
Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.
From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
He'll be there for a while,
All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.
Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
Sixes so great,
They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!
A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
Gritty and tough,
We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.
No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
His batting is slick,
Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.
Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
If he holds each catch,
We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.
Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
His batting is great,
Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.
Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
He can oft' bowl too short,
Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.
James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
Please bowl nice and full,
Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.
Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
He makes them play,
While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
There's some pain in this. There's some growing up and moving on.
There's letting life go. There's endless cyclical comparison, I want to be like you, I don't want to be like you.
Here at the edge of the future there's fear so thick you can touch it.
There's a life borrowed. A bed borrowed. Friends. A bathroom, a towel, toothpaste.
There's a river and a racecourse and rowers and jealousy biting at the bone. Luck in sprinkles and saturation.
There's meeting the boyfriend, the housemates, the puzzle pieces of the past and the potential.
Somewhere there's regret. Of not being good enough, smart enough, rich enough, pretty enough, skinny enough.
There's some missing home and some glad to get away.
A deep breath and a scuba dive into a life that was only an expanse of water in the distance.
There's some letting me in, some sharing of stories, some secrets kept.
There's recollection, backward pedaling, basking in past experience in the invisible, unbearable weight of the years that brought us here.
Names remembered. Nights we'd rather forget. There's a newness brewing, promises of something else beyond this, just around the weeks that hold us back.
This year, plus this year plus these hours equals a key, opening doors, company cars and apartments.
There's a sinking. Right back to sixteen, to sleepovers and sleeplessness.
Look at us. We've wound our way here. There's pride. We made it from there to here, from somewhere to somewhere else.
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 12:48 PM UTC
Pastel blue sky longing to
Hang over wheat;
There is only grass.
Green.
Green with envy at white clouds as
They pass.
(A different journey)
Poplars strive to touch
Shrunken, grey clouds that
Recoil at the very sight.
Ah, the plight of an
Innocent gesture.
(Nowhere else to go)
Wind snears:
My train moves it so.
Grass is merely in the past
As I am slung
To and fro.
*
The seat next to me is empty. A passenger of invisibility kindly agrees for my bag to rest on their featherlight lap. Reservations elsewhere have been made.
Durham can wait.
*
In my lecture, there were four empty seats next to me. All other rows were full.
*
Last Monday, I got ****** at Stone Roses Bar. Stumbled along to ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor.’
Hands were all over me:
Creeping and
Touching.
Why is it that when
I want company, it flees?
When I embrace
Loneliness,
It molests me.
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 5:06 PM UTC
There is moonlight on the mountains on a
cold December night, behind the glass
On my way to Raleigh-Durham like a
bullet, six miles high, and fading fast
I know that in a year or so your
little broken heart will surely mend
Loving you was heavenly but
leaving you will **** me in the end
I can lose myself reflecting on that
moment of the day that we first met
Drinking from a rocks glass full of
bourbon, with a chaser of regret
Tonight I've got raise the strength to
face an empty hotel room alone
The time we spent together was the
sweetest thing that I have ever known
I am trapped within - all that might have been
I know in time your memory will fade
Better bitter tears than all your wasted years
So I'll live with all the choices I have made
Like a teardrop in the ocean,
our love is lost and gone beneath the waves
And our old, romantic notions lie in
pieces, while the memories remain
The pain that lives inside me like a
devil is no more than I deserve
But hearing that you loved me was the
sweetest thing a man has ever heard
There is no fool like an old fool
And when you're in the autumn of your days
I'll be done and gone, and you'll have long moved on
And you will struggle to recall my very name
If I had been a better man, I
never would have kissed you on that day
But the days roll ever onward, and there's
really nothing left for us to say
Baby, I'm afraid that I'm too old
To try to change the way I am
But Loving you may be the only thing
I've ever done that's worth a ****
And when you lie awake in bed
I hope you know I tried to do what's right
and remember how I loved you when
I left you on that cold December night.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
He pointed to the 4'' by 7'' framework
with two teenage girls faces pressed
against hers, an overbearing smile in the background
of a boy caught in the mist of poor lighting
and ****** drunken photography.
She told him about the field
laid green and black blades wet
from central PA rain and smashed,
meshed clumps of mud sticking to the rubber mazes
on the undersides of old work boots.
How the fire billowed over hazy introductions
and pressured joy of seeing someone no one
really ever wanted to see again.
She told him about the drive with two girls,
how many stops
it took to reach the county party
and how many times she counted the circles
on her thumbs before she was distracted
by another person wanting a picture or another beg
for a beer.
She laughed as she reflected, glancing up at the photo
then back at him as his hand
lay between the crease of her *** and thigh.
He was from Durham and didn't get it.
But she painted it so vividly with her tongue
as it danced over the summer memory
that he felt he could be there
if he let himself.
She unwound for him like a yo-yo
to which only he could pull her back up again.
Unaware that she mindlessly
let him control all the strings.
As she talked, jumping from picture to picture,
he noticed her leap frog
from each. She skipped three or four in the middle,
and even thought it seemed
as if she could open with the press of the right button
there were still some things she wouldn't let him
really see.
She held her breath when the story turned bad.
He saw her eyes balance on the phrase,
he now noticed, she carefully chose next.
She was no outburst. This was no plea.
She had a plan and undoubtedly knew
all that she wanted him to know.
As she flipped to the next page
he counted the seconds between the pauses
and moved his hand to her shoulderblade.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
Jingle click
keys, hinge
squeak;
step on five
gallon bucket,
hoist out
window, disappear
Durham Avenue,
walk.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 7:35 AM UTC
He sat on the old board fence, his chair of state
All spiffy in his Sunday-pressed khakis
Though he wasn't much for going to church
And his Other Hat, still a farmer’s hat
With his teeth and his workworn, sunburnt hand
(The other hand somehow mislaid in France)
He played the paper and ‘baccy and tag
Into a censer of sacred sweet smoke
And all us little boys watched him in awe
And hoped for the bag with its little string draw
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 10:33 AM UTC
sprints on the university track,
January chill causes steam to
rise from my head and arms.
my leggings feel too small now and
the Gatorade tastes like chaser,
I'm getting the hang of it
finally.
you push me, telling me "Durham's got the hills"
you've got the calves, you get the girls,
and I'm the one who runs with you
I'm the one who tries keeping up.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
For did you know oh man of Durham isles, that this land was once wild? Storming of naturalist beauty!
Didst thou perfect your machines? As your greed comes pouring out of your pockets...
You turned bombs into rockets, and mind control among the crowd!
For the beast you worship, as secretive ceremonies you make Illuminati artwork in drag,
Cloaked as fad!
Glossal Intention's, sinful inventions you bring to your bilderberg tables, glochidiate your fable's!
Huzza your followers give you, clapping hands get's you turned on, trade your flags for guns oh nation bound to be buried, unashamed, untamed, lavished, not married!!!
Bandmen ride their red horses, as death draws her sword, boys turning to girls, and girls turning boys?
White noise!!!
You Judas of two thousand generation, for your **** and Penetration's you've made your own commandment!!!
Abandonment.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
I cannot tell you the way the ocean sounds, but
it is not the the wind roaring in waves
or
the sunset over durham, north carolina
because i fell asleep, in the back seat
with a face burnt through the glass.
a night blinks,
starless.
chattering and according.
in night, I listen to the freckles
across your face.
here I am again, touching an echo.
I want to hold you the way
the trees do, the leaves
fall to be
caught
by grass.
the way you blink
makes me miss the
eyelashes
which fell selfishly
for wishes--
--take them back
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
Est-ce que tu aimes les mots?
The words which
drip-drop, pitter patter,
tonguing like teens in
a Durham movie theater. Sticky summer
sweetness,
Doucement My Desire, my tender
needing, who nods along,
rocks away,
hands gripping thighs and clinging thoughts.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
Your voice haunts me.
My aching for you is like a hint of perfume on a stranger's neck that sends me -for a moment- back to childhood to my mother's arms, her humming in my hair -
a half-remembered dream slipping through the window into the night.
Will I ever know the taste of the air? I imagine it tastes like honeysuckle and laughter.
Will I ever dip my feet into your star-drenched skies?
Will I ever watch the sun setting to the sound of cicadas singing their wild hymns?
Will I ever wake to mornings heavy-laden with mist clinging to the pines, dense and fragrant?
Will my feet ever wear the mountain paths in prayer and wonder?
Will I ever call you home?
---
Thank you so much for reading.
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 11:19 PM UTC
Long, long ago,
Like the Lord of the Rings,
An epic tragedy formed,
At this start of all things.
Many moons have now passed,
Since I was asked by a friend,
"Write a poem about Covid",
"To look back at the end"
Government guidance unclear,
Shambolic, inept,
"Stay at home" oft they cried,
As alone in their homes, many thousands they died.
They dillied, they dallied,
From their safe ivory towers,
As the funerals passed by,
With no grieving or flowers.
Many suns have now set,
Countless days have since past,
With families left absent,
As dear relatives breathed their last.
Staying away must be tough,
But it's what you must do,
Harsh they appear, but these are the rules,
Tho not meant for me, they apply just to you.
This Europe we've left,
With our death rate immense,
Now this Europe we lead,
Our leaders bereft of simple common sense.
Then there's that bloke called Cummings,
And his car trip while blind,
On his wee jaunt to Durham,
Tho if you or I, we'd be heavily fined.
But we're not all angels, we must share some blame,
Being "all about me", so selfish our goals,
Stocking up on pasta and hand sanitiser too,
Oh and of course, we can't forget bog rolls.
Basic hygiene was lacking, or so it appears,
Like being back at school,
Wash your hands all the time,
20 seconds the rule.
Simple instructions we were given,
So easy to follow,
Delivered by leaders,
With emotions so hollow.
On how poorly it's been managed,
So much could be said,
But the one thing that matters,
Is tens of thousands lie dead.
So! My feelings on Johnson?
If you ask I'll be blunt,
But to fit with my rhyming,
This poem "is to be cont..."
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 11:02 PM UTC
Evlu olenis Durham
Evlu olenus
Compterel Tersa soronis
Nerse
Onsut esr tinagra
Estara
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC