Fitzroy poems on Hello Poetry

George Krokos Dec 2010

Aborigines and kangaroos
boomerangs and didjeridoos.
Leafy gum tree branch and koala bear
black stump in the middle of nowhere.
Jolly swagman camped by a billabong
in 'Waltzing Matilda' a favourite song.
The wild brumbies roaming free in the outback
a scruffy hobo living alone in a country shack.
Aboriginal myths called their dreamtime
the native Australians regard as sublime.
Ring-tailed possum and wombat
aussie bloke wearing akubra hat.
Alice Springs and Ayers Rock
outback stations and livestock.
Ned Kelly bushranger and his law brushes
the Eureka stockade during the gold rushes.
Laughing kookaburra and old man emu
platypus swimming in underwater view.
Banjo Patterson’s poem ‘The Man from Snowy River’
who went riding down mountain side without a quiver.
Surfers paradise and the Great Barrier reef
sixties rock ‘n roll legend: Johnny O’Keefe.
Anzac marches and the land of the Southern cross
old Cobb & Co. stagecoach used to travel across.
Glorious summer sunshine and winter rains
severe country drought and the desert plains.
Eucalyptus scent and Tea-tree oil
good health remedies from the soil.
Fresh water yabbies and the witchety grub
all make good tucker in the bush or scrub.
Crocodiles in the Kakadu national park
Burrumundi and the great white shark.
Sydney harbour bridge and the Opera House
Daintree rain forest and the kangaroo mouse.
Sheep wool farming and old shearing sheds
Melbourne Cup horse race for thoroughbreds.
Riverboat cruising up and down the Murray
passing border country towns not in a hurry.
Cradle mountain and the Tasmanian Devil
saying ‘fair dinkum’ means it’s on the level.
AFL rules football and big crowds at the MCG
playing one day cricket there is exciting to see.
The Fitzroy Gardens and Captain Cook’s cottage
are there for all to see as symbols of our heritage.
The Twelve Apostles standing along a rugged stretch of coast
a Ninety-Mile beach is something about which we can also boast.
The Glass House mountains are a sight to see and even to climb
by those who consider themselves fit enough and in their prime.
The great Australian Bight and the road on the Nullarbor plain
is a great feat to drive across and be able to come back again.
The local native wild dog known by name as the Dingo
has nothing to do with a game people play called Bingo.
There’s also a game called two-up that some people play
by which they gamble most of their weeks wages away.
Luna Park in St.Kilda and the annual Royal Melbourne Show
are places where you can take the kids to have fun people know.
There’s the local pub where you can go and have a drink with your mates
and is what many do all day long having a few too many in all the States.
This great southern land of Australia has so much to see and to offer
it would be a ****** shame if one didn’t give a **** or was a scoffer.
_________

Private Collection - written in 2002

#australia #sydney #kookaburra #kangaroo #boomerang #melbourne #koalabear #aborigine #gumtree #alicesprings

John F McCullagh Nov 2011

23 Fitzroy Road

In the flat where William Butler Yeats
had ridden the Gyre of mind,
Sylvia, with son and daughter,
came to spend the last of her time.
An angel, Ariel, visited
and spoke such lovely lines.
Sylvia hastened to write them down
though her pen froze at times.
Her doctor was concerned for her:
Her depression was profound
Despite the drugs that he prescribed
Her soul gyrated down.
Her husband had abandoned her
and their two babes besides.
A darker angel came to her
and whispered “suicide.”
Three days before St. Valentines
in Nineteen sixty three.
Her nurse received no answer
there at number twenty Three.
Fearful for the children,
the nurse had to get inside
Police where called and
the door was forced, but
sadly, not in time.
The smell of gas, pervasive,
in the room where Sylvia died.
Her two little ones were rescued-
Her death ruled a suicide.

The death of Sylvia Plath ( Hughes) February 11, 1963 at 23 Fitzroy road, London England.

Reece AJ Chambers Apr 2013

Fitzroy Road

I think he wrote
while you baked,
made fairy cakes
or something of the sort
while the young ones
whizzed around
like balloons
released from your fingers.

I think he was
your applicant,
not a bad fit,
frothing with wit,
a kiss made you giddy
like a girl
on their first date
in the heaving city.

On a red day
I think you sighed
when hearing boots
in the hallway but beamed
on a blue day
when he strode
through the door, a tie,
another rough wool jumper.

When he rode
those capsules home
I think perhaps you
wished to nick
your thumb again,
see the crimson seep
and weep as a child
over their father.

I think you wore
the smile of accomplishment
on day forty-two,
enough had bruised you,
pinched your skin
so it hurt and burnt pink,
stung a cheek
and left a tender spot.

I think you didn't want to
but did anyway,
felt all your words
had charred and bled black
so inhaled the haze,
swam under the jar
for the last time, before it fell
and cracked on his floor.

Written: April 2013 and April 2014.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time regarding Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. Fitzroy Road is the name of the location she lived at at the time of her death in February of 1963. The poem contains references to some of her work - 'The Applicant', 'A Birthday Present', 'Kindness', 'Cut', 'Daddy', 'Balloons' and 'Edge', as well as her novel The Bell Jar and Hughes's poem 'Red.' This piece took much longer to write than a normal poem. Also uploaded as a Facebook status.

GitacharYa VedaLa Dec 2013

Last Letter by Ted Hughes

What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later—-you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
For me.
Repeated over and over, all weekend,
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?

Your note reached me too soon—-that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone-number.
                                                 My escape
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world,
Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
With its two mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their ****** tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel,
Treading that morass of emblazon,
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures,

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.

                                       That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
                                                  Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.

What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen,
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver—-
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of ***** sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
****** awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

Birthday Letters, published in 1998, is a collection of poetry by English poet and children's writer Ted Hughes. Released only months before Hughes's death, This collection of eighty-eight poems is widely considered to be Hughes' most explicit response to the suicide of his estranged wife Sylvia Plath in 1963, and to their widely discussed, politicized and "explosive" marriage. (From Wikipedia)

This is one of my favorite poems. Coldly emotional, gripping, and much more

johnny georgy brown Sep 2015

brian at vinnies

Brian the cool vinnies bloke

you see brian allan was looking for something to do, to get him from being street trash

and a very nice lady named rowena said why don’t you work for vinnies, and brian said why not

and the next day, he was given an interview with helen, who was the boss at vinnies, and

she thought it would be great to have someone to do the bins and vacuum the floor before the start

and after 4 weeks of being there, brian thought he would like to be santa claus, and had to make uo

a proper reason for doing it, so brian said, i like the idea of giving the kids, who hate shopping with parents

a treat and helen thought she will make gingerbread men, to tickle the childs taste buds a lot,but helen was

in a bind, because i haven’t got a beard and she suggested i spray paint my real beard, but my parents were against that

because it would go against everything that santa stood for, but brian got angry with his parents and told them

that if they spray painted his beard, there will be no smart alek of a kid to pull his beard off, and as brian said that

his father yelled out, THAT’S ENOUGH, thinking i cared nothing about the kids of this city but that offended brian a lot

and made him hit his father, and this got brian really hyped up on being the best santa claus in canberra, and then

when brian explained to helen that it was causing a stir with the family to spray paint the beard, helen decided to

get a fake beard for me to use, and on the first day i played santa, i offered some of the adults gingerbread men

and they said, save them for the kids, and one little girl, who had the same resemblance to my eldest niece, said

i was a fake santa, and the santa at the mall was more real than i was, and some of the vinnies ladies brought their

own grandchildren in to get their gift from santa and i did my first year of santa, despite some smart a lek of a kid

attemptng to pull my beard off, but i was too smart for him, and after christmas was over packed my santa suit away for the first time

and then i met david who did the shoes, and i found him very good to talk too, you see i said when he dies he will be the

shoe shine man in heaven, but he sounded like he hated the idea, and he liked to joke around with stephen and mable and

i vacuumed the floor and then went outside to empty the clothing bin, and i did this all the time, ya know every day, and i had ken and brian

to help me, but brian thought it would be cool to bang on the clothing bin, while i was still in it and i told helen and she said

you should speak up for yourself, because i seem to let people walk all over me, and really i can’t be bullied by this so called brian

character, and then i started something new, you see i thought, it would be nice to to cook lunches 3 days a week at the new mental health

building, called the rainbow and i learnt how to do creative writing as well as meeting the messiah and a man named barry, who was a

really cool poet, sort of reminded me of my father, mainly because of his poem sounding like banjo patterson and henry lawson, and barry

was a lover of fitzroy, and supported the brisbane lions afl club, and i went to the club i do the bbq for, to watch the game with him and

he left before the end of the match and, i continued to go about my merry way, cooking meals at the rainbow and going on trips with the rainbow

having sing-a=longs and one man, warwick, swam 45 km at once and helen got a fire engine and i sat in it, and a star canberra raiders star

came to vinnies and signed a ball for me and my second year of santa claus went well also, i wrote fly burgers also that year, which was

funny and when i read it out, everyone was laughing along with it and they clapped it, and i read out the fact i missed scott macdonald also

and i went to queensland that year also, and when i got in my santa suit, i was visioning i will tell the kids i am an australian santa and instead of

living on the north pole, i lived right here in canberra but my parents who were strict on keeping kids imaginations flowing, hated me disillusioning

the kids minds, you see here is a poem about the aussie santa

ya see g’day mate i am the real santa

i don’t live at the north pole

i live in canberra australia, ya know the hot place, around christmas day

ya see ya know christmas is great as i do my gigs at vinnies

and as a treat i give out gingerbread men and lollies

you see christmas is fun for all ages dudes, yeah it’s fun oh yeah that’s right mate

i hope you don’t do ya santa gig way to ****** late

you see i thought i was given this gig, to bring the cool into santa

and one year i was doing my gig with an orange soda

who loves orange soda, i love orange soda

is it true, oh yeah it’s true ooh ooh ooh oh yeah

and in the following year, i was feeling fine, and my psychiatrist reduced my medication and that pushed me straight to the psych ward, where i thought

i died, and the psych ward was the gate to heaven and that ended the cool vinnies kid reign but i came back and i was more interested talking with david

and doing santa claus and that year i was checking tapes, but that only lasted 5 months, because there were getting more tapes coming in, i couldn’t keep it up

and santa was the thing, and because i was a good worker, suddenly everyone wanted me, but that was because of my manly charm, and helen left and glenn

came in and he had this little jingle, brian brian brian everything is fine, brian brian brian he’s a friend of mine brian brian brian makes the carpet shine?

you see his name is brian brian brian, and glenn sang that song to me every time i did the vacuuming at the shop and then after a few more santa gigs, glenn left and

paul s came in after vinnies had no boss, but i was still santa claus there and paul s was the official photographer for my santa claus gig, and that made me feel cool

and now, i am not santa anymore, but i really enjoyed the attention.

johnny georgy brown Jun 2015

barry loughton killed himself, and his next life is on neighbours

Barry loughton was a great bloke

you see he liked Aussie Rules and Fitzroy was his team

he had a hobby farm as well and i liked the idea of when he told me that

actually Barry was the man that changed me

you see he liked watching the FAT and he liked writing his poems

he liked the old style cricket and we joked about seeing the other half live

I liked Barry loughton, he was little but he was nice

you see when i watch TV at home and a show like the Glasshouse

or ***** laundry comes on, i think of him

Ir was hard when i found our he was dead

he fucken hung himself, WHY WHY WHY

since then I went backward because seeing his happy face and knowledge mind

was all i liked, we went to the war memorial him and my mate Dan

but i am searching for him, what me being Cronus and all

and i found him

Barry Loughton is now Darcy Tadich age 10, who is the latest inclusion to the Neighbours cast

I liked Barru loughton’s stone in the shoe poem

have you ever gone through life with a stone in my shoe, I do,

well Darcy has that stone now

can i tell you one thing, barry was a very happy choppy when i rang him up

we talked about his trip to the Bradman Museum and trips with his son

now, i wish 10 year old darcy all the best after his last life was a terrible suicide

John Edward Smallshaw Apr 2016

Delirium.

If the Sun doesn't get you
the scorpions will.

There were four of us in a half track and a little way back lay the fifth.

The Sun got him good
roasted and peeled him like a spud.

Tannoy, the radio man was the next one to go, slow like a withering vine,
sounded like static on the line
then he went dead.

Fitzroy, the Sepoy, more of a boy than a man
prayed for a day and then went on his way to whatever heaven it is that Sepoys go.

Bill, a bull of a man from Mill Hill and who spoke with a permanent stutter
uttered his last and I travelled on at half mast
cursing the Sun and the Sand and the hand I'd been dealt.

Felt the scorpion sting as I pulled up and funny thing too
I could swear that the scorpion looked like
Frank Sinatra.

Donall Dempsey Sep 2019

AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF  ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

F**k  all
(hand over fist)
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie

AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

**** all
(hand over fist)
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie

*******

THE SHIPPING FORECAST...

An aural nautical weather map of an imaginary cut-up sea where the naming enters our nation’s consciousness....becomes part of the British psyche through its radio recitation... a litany... a rosary...mantra... a prayer of various here and theres that can only be imagined.

An oral/aural concrete poetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE) as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz) and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING NORTH UTSIRE SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES CROMARTY FORTH
TYNE DOGGER FISHER GERMAN BIGHT
HUMBER THAMES DOVER WIGHT
PORTLAND PLYMOUTH BISCAY TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE LUNDY FASTNET
IRISH SEA SHANNON ROCKALL MALIN HEBRIDES
BAILEY FAIR ISLE FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELANDetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE) as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz) and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING NORTH UTSIRE SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES CROMARTY FORTH
TYNE DOGGER FISHER GERMAN BIGHT
HUMBER THAMES DOVER WIGHT
PORTLAND PLYMOUTH BISCAY TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE LUNDY FASTNET
IRISH SEA SHANNON ROCKALL MALIN HEBRIDES
BAILEY FAIR ISLE FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELAND

Donall Dempsey Sep 2018

AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

AND NOW THE RELATIONSHIP CRISIS FORECAST ISSUED BY THE SANE SIDE OF YOUR SELF ON BEHALF OF THE MERRY TIME & KEEP YOUR GUARD UP AGENCY.

The general synopsis at mid-life is:

Late 40’s
dogged by blighted love life

new all time low
expected by that time.

new all time low
expected by that time.

***
occasionally very poor at first

becoming
moderate or good.

**** all
(hand over fist)
******.

Marriage 3 or 4
becoming a bore.

Blonde mantrap
34-24-34.

**** Mrs. Fitzroy
(formerly Finisterre)

affair deepening rapidly
expected imminent.

Getting carried away
hoisted by one’s own petard.

Chances it will work out alright
moderate becoming decreasing slight.

Fair Isle sweater left
carelessly behind in car

Eh...uh uh!
Big mistake.

Violent storm warning
boyfriend built like Viking.

Gulp...not Dover Wight!
Becoming cyclonic
...moronic.

Severe icing.
Oh *****! Despair. Panic. Flight

What more could go wrong?
Chelsea 2 West Ham 1!

Town gossip Lundy Fastnet
informs wife.

Accused of infidelities
backing off into continual lying

veering towards disbelief
clothes thrown out in street.

Locks. Changed.

Caught fast in net
like trashing fish.

Future visibility
moderate becoming poor

in showers.

Drunk. Again.
Singing in the rain.

What’s it all about
...Alfie

THE SHIPPING FORECAST...

An aural nautical weather map of an imaginary cut-up sea where the naming enters our nation’s consciousness....becomes part of the British psyche through its radio recitation... a litany... a rosary...mantra... a prayer of  various here and theres that can only be imagined.

An oral/aural concrete poetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE)   as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz)   and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING    NORTH UTSIRE    SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES    CROMARTY    FORTH
TYNE    DOGGER    FISHER    GERMAN  BIGHT
HUMBER    THAMES    DOVER    WIGHT
PORTLAND     PLYMOUTH    BISCAY    TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE    LUNDY    FASTNET
IRISH SEA    SHANNON    ROCKALL      MALIN    HEBRIDES
BAILEY    FAIR ISLE    FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELANDetry whose art belongs to Dada... an incantation of sounds and places only imagined...well known unique distinctive soundings and their hypnotic reassuringly ritualistic resonant repetition which is held in the greatest affection...mesmerically obscure...soothingly safe...strangely comforting...a litany of waves coming across the airwaves like a lullaby or a wartime coded message or Cocteau’s Orphée trying to decode death on the radio.

As iconic as the tube map with its elegant geometry of twisted coloured lines...it has become part of our mental landscape that our senses seek out as being quintessentially British.

It scans...it’s got rhythm...who could ask for anything more.

Something rich...and strange.

*******

Especially in its bedtime for Britain broadcast with us all drifting off to the strains of Ronald Binge’s SAILING BY(also the writer of ELIZABETHEAN SERENADE)   as we sip our coca...lock the back door...put the milk bottles out and try to persuade the cat to come in as the day is put to bed and finally laid to rest at precisely 00: 48

And now the Shipping Forecast issued by the Met Office, on behalf of the Maritime and Coastguard Agency, at 1625 utc on Monday 31 May 2010 for the period 1800 utc Monday 31 May to 1800 utc Tuesday 01 June 2010.

The general synopsis at midday:

It is read out on Radio 4 at 0048,0520,1201 and 1754 (local time) . All broadcasts are on LW on 1515m (198 kHz)   and some transmissions are on VHF. It gives a summary of gale warnings in force, a general synopsis and area forecasts for specified sea areas around the UK. The radio bulletin also includes the coastal weather reports (0048 and 0536 only) .

The music played before the Shipping Forecast is 'Sailing By' composed by Ronald Binge.

The mystical marine areas are as follows:

VIKING    NORTH UTSIRE    SOUTH UTSIRE
FORTIES    CROMARTY    FORTH
TYNE    DOGGER    FISHER    GERMAN  BIGHT
HUMBER    THAMES    DOVER    WIGHT
PORTLAND     PLYMOUTH    BISCAY    TRAFALGAR
FITZROY(FORMERLY FINISTERRE)
SOLE    LUNDY    FASTNET
IRISH SEA    SHANNON    ROCKALL      MALIN    HEBRIDES
BAILEY    FAIR ISLE    FAEROES
SOUTHEAST ICELAND

Ray Miller Sep 2019

A Local History Facebook Group

A Local History Facebook Group

Does anyone know why 17 Borrowdale Road is missing?
Every day I walk past the empty space
and wonder why it’s not there.

No. 13 is missing as well but I suppose that’s just unlucky.

My husband was born at 48 in 1944.
He says there never was a property there.
The plot of land was used as an allotment,
probably to aid the war effort.

I remember a chap once told me
that before the estate was built
a property was there and underneath
there’s a tunnel that goes to Frankley.

My mom moved into Borrowdale Road in 1931 at 125.
She remembers an allotment and a power station.

I’ve heard about that tunnel, it goes all the way back to Cromwell’s days.
When they burnt down the house next door to the church
they hid all the treasure down the tunnel.
I live next door to where your mom lived.

I lived at 36 Norrington Road. Does anyone remember me?

I think the tunnel started at Quinney’s Farm
and went to St Leonard’s Church.
It was used by the monks to store
all their worldly possessions.

Cromwell had a lot of connections to the tunnel.
The bridle path is still in place from the farm to the church.

About 5 years ago a well-dressed lady
knocked at  my front door.
She explained that she’d spent
her childhood in Borrowdale Road
and asked to enter my garden.
She looked around for a big oak tree,
but it was next door and they were out.
I later learnt that the well-dressed lady had passed away.
It just goes to show.

I lived at 36 Norrington Road. Does anyone remember me?

The tunnel was built in Elizabethan times.

The estate was built in the Thirties
to clear the city centre slums.

The house missing in Borrowdale Road
lines up exactly with those missing
in Fitzroy Road, Norrington Road and Masonleys Road.
You’ll find that the water from Elan Valley
is sent in big pipes underground to Birmingham.
That’s why it can’t be built on.

It was funded by Cadburys and Austin
to house their growing workforce.
They must have been palaces
compared to the back to backs.

So why do they miss the numbers out?

I lived at 36 Norrington Road. Does anyone remember me?

What do you think of the estate these days?

It’s alright apart from the dog ****.

There isn’t a 36 Norrington Road.

James Daniel Feb 16

Bio

One of my first jobs was as a waiter in a Thai Restaurant
Run by a scary Malaysian who'd taken a liking to me
We went to a rave once
And he gave me 400 AUD for Chinese New Year
Bless him

But one night a tall Singaporean guy called Sunny came in
He was a musician too
He played in a rock and roll band
The Suns

Sunny lasted one night
But he told me about an open mic run by a girl called Michelle
And we stayed in contact
----

Gom was in the year above me at school
Gom was the only African at our school, he and his brother
Goyte also went to our school, he was in Gom's year. At school I was smart and cool, played bass and was friends with everybody. School was sometimes an escape from home life.

Marcus took me to Gom's place once where he lived with his girlfriend Nikki
I took my guitar and Gom and I jammed in the bedroom
A singer and a rapper
----

The first time I ever played live was at a place called Yah man Rastaraunt
It was a Caribbean Restaurant on Hoddle Street, South Yarra, Melbourne
It had that black feeling, of warmth and mystery. Or maybe that was youth and ****.
But I played, and some of the girls were crying
I'd found my thing
I went back the next week and froze up
----

There was a place called Pure on Smith Street. This was where Sunny said the open mic was run by Michelle. In those years, Smith street had a sacred vibe. Maybe it was the presence of an Aboriginal community or the fact that gentrification hadn't yet taken hold. But things were elemental, exaggerated by the warmth of summer nights.
I loved these open mics, the people I've met. I'd invite my work crew and friends. Sometimes I'd pack that venue out, for 3 songs!
----

Gom and I started a band
Melbourne was hip-hop, music, life and Fitzroy was Mecca
On Monday nights you could go to a place called the Laundry and see B-boys doing backflips on dancefloors!
Open mics, Latin Culture, losing my virginity
I was living and working as a waiter in beautiful Carlton, Melbourne's Italy. I love the parks there.

I flew interstate to study jazz
To smoke more ****
Then less ****
To wander like the wind, to bend like the rain, but always circling music and its hubs

I moved to London in 2015
I worked in a cafe and met a guy called Stefan from Austria. He is still one of the coolest and nicest people you can meet. I'll have to link up with him in Berlin one day soon.
He introduced me to Stefano from Italy who played the drums
We set up a band and had a few gigs
We had Hakan on Trombone and Bahadir on bass
Stefano had all these connections to the Turkish musical community
Because of the fact he plays in the Oddbeats, a psychedelic Turkish Band, one of the long standing hippie bands round these parts

I worked in a cafe called Music and Beans on Green Lanes, London's Istanbul. It was run by a musician who played amazing violin and also ran a music school. I lived in a tiny room above the school for a bit. On Green lanes there was a place called Jam in a Jar where you could see all kinds of music, from Mediterranean to Irish folk. It had a festival feel to it.
----

I go to open mics and jams like I did back in Melbourne,
It's very jazzy and jammy in this city. I like going to blues jams sometimes.
But I do like to remember those first gigs and musical experiences I had back in Melbourne
The meditation and wonder of it

I see Lloyle Carner at the swimming pool sometimes
He comes in with his daughter and wife
There I work as a lifeguard
On the days when I'm not working, I'll be working on my music, playing guitar, piano, writing, listening, learning, humming, singing, reading...
Stefano and I set up a house removed from the noise of traffic, replaced by the sounds of birds. There are trees everywhere and a lake nearby.
I've dedicated myself to being able to sing that great song in great condition, so that keeps the number of joints, beers and cigarettes down and the number of kilometers run and minutes meditated up.

I would cite Stevie Wonder, Bob Marley, Aston “Familyman” Barret, Jimi Hendrix, Nina Simone, Miles Davis, The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Flea, Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, James Jamerson, Donny Hathaway, Lauryn Hill, Sam Cooke, Bill Withers, Frank Sinatra, John Coltrane, Salman Rushdie, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carole King, James Taylor, Norah Jones, Nick Drake, Bjork, Portishead, Radiohead, Aphex Twin, Squarepusher, Burial, Flying Lotus, Fat Freddy’s Drop, Aphrodite, Charlie Parker, Chopin, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Nick Cave, Paul Kelly, Jeff Buckley, Jaco Pastorius, Eric Dolphy, David Bowie, Charles Mingus, Herbie Hancock, J Dilla, Tupac, Juicy the song, Nirvana, Crowded House, Metallica, Black Sabbath, Prince, Parliament, D'Angelo's 3 Albums to date, Blackstar, The Roots, Adele, Beyonce, Aretha Franklin, Eryka Badu, Hiatus Kaiyote, Nai Palm, Muddy Waters, BB King, Ben Harper, Joe Cocker, Cat Stevens, Paul Simon, Van Morrison, The Rolling Stones, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Janis Joplin, Joni Mitchell, Mavis Staples, The Beatles and tapestries more as inspirations and influences

— The End —