"grimsby" poems
When Rome fell down,
Don Newton with his flashing blade
Took over.
He marched the corridors of Table Tennis power
For more than fifty years.
And graced a multitude of committees with his
Presence.
As Mister NALGO, Don constructed
A glorious empire
Of countless teams
At many a venue:
Down Pasture Street,
In Weelsby, Yarra, Knoll,
Electric Club,
Saint James...
To name a few.
Amassing titles and cups
From every division
Of the Grimsby League:
A roll of honour too long to recall,
Now stretching to the horizon.
No fancy sponge, reversed rubber,
Or long-pimples for our Don.
Give him a plain old Barna bat,
Devoid of sponge, short-pimples out,
To give that ball a mighty clout.
The simple things in life
Were all he wished:
A pint of mild,
Or game of chess,
Would always go down well.
This table tennis granddad knows the score,
And takes his leisure now,
Contented as
The sun goes down.
Paul Butters
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
On Christmas Day we wake up
We've no stocking on our bed
We've got a plastic kit box
taking up space there instead
You see, we aren't at home with you
Even though you wish we are
We're celebrating Christmas
Over here in Khandahar
A big Merry Christmas to friends and family
of Cpl. Mike Cannandale of St. Louis, Missouri, USA
We have our turkey dinner too
Stuffing, taters, pumpkin pie
We all sit here telling stories
And it's hard just not to cry
so, we do, because we're not back home
Having Christmas like you all
But, we're over here in Khandahar
Because we all answered the call
Merry Christmas to all friends and family of Liuetenant James Mc Caskill
of Great Grimsby, Lincolnshire, England
We have a snowman by our tent
He's made of plywood, painted white
Thank god, we made no snowballs up
We'd get splinters in a fight
We go to church and pray for peace
And wish we could go home
But, over here at Christmas time
There's just no where to roam
Merry Christmas to friends and family of
Captiain John Watson, PPCLI, in Greenwood, Nova Scotia, Canada
We made our videos last week
To send you our best wishes
We'd all love to be back with you
Washing up those Christmas dishes
For now, we are one family
Joined in heart, and soul and mind
Having a Christmas meal in Khandahar
The best meal of it's kind
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to friends
and family, of Marine Master Sgt. Tim Wilcox, Plano, Texas, USA
Next year we will be home with you
Having Christmas as we should
Praying for peace, hope and prosperity
And all things that are good
for now though, we are over here
missing you this Christmas Day
We just hope you're thinking of us
As we keep the foe at bay
Merry Christmas to all the friends, family, co-workers and supporters
of all the soldiers in War Zones everywhere, who can't be at home this Christmas
May they all get home safe.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
Grimsby, a murky wee northerly town
And lousy with houses of seedy renown
The ladies wear only a loose fitting gown
Transactions are furtive and quick
And every street corner is coated in brass
With a ****** for every discernable class
In a spectrum of hues and selection of mass
All awaiting a dip of the wick
Diseases are spreading and taking a hold
With pimples and blisters and, finally, mould
But just when the punters are starting to fold
A saviour arrives in the nick
Doctor McNaughty, King of the Kink
And his brothel of many surprises
A welcoming smile, a comfortable bed
And some help with whatever arises
The rooms are fantastic, the ropes are elastic
With feathery leather and spikes
It wanders the street on mechanical feet
And it scoops up the punters it likes
There’s something to suit almost every wish
With strawberries and freshly whipped cream in a dish
There’s a bucket of springs and a kettle of fish
And the manacles, shackles and chains
A selection of ******* and optional clamps
There’re pulleys, tackle and half-pipe ramps
A physio suite for reduction of cramps
And the treatment of ****** strains
A marshmallow room with a candyfloss bed
And hookers of platinum, purple and red
And for those who are hankering after the dead
There’s a room full of human remains
Doctor McNaughty, Lord of the *****
A magical, mystical ****
With wonders galore behind every door
And occasional chicken or gimp
His visits are brief, but of major relief
To the multitude often attending
Then he’s off in a flash with a bundle of cash
He so loves a happy ending
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
Jack Cornwell was a Boy, First Class
On the Chester’s forward gun,
There to relay the settings with
A pair of headphones on,
He’d turned sixteen just months before
Was trained for his chosen task,
And hoped for a life of adventure as
He sailed, before the mast.
The Chester sailed to join the Fleet
That had left from Scapa Flow,
The Grand Fleet with its battleships
Sailed under Jellicoe,
They’d intercepted the German codes
And knew that they’d put to sea,
Hoping to split the British Fleet
And gain a victory.
The Chester turned to meet the flash
Of gunfire, far away,
The light was poor before the dawn
And the mist was thick that day,
Three funnels of a German ship
Came gliding through the mist,
And the Chester turned to starboard
Ready to show the British fist.
But the German ship was not alone
And the shells began to rain,
From the following battle cruisers
Shattering decks, in blood and pain,
Jack Cornwell stood at his post while all
His gun crew lay there dead,
Ready to take his orders, though
The Chester turned, and fled.
The medics found him with shrapnel wounds
Steel splinters in his chest,
He wouldn’t desert his post, he was
As brave as all the rest,
The Chester sailed for Immingham
Disembarked the wounded crew,
Put Jack in Grimsby Hospital,
There was nothing they could do.
He died just two days afterwards
Before his mother came,
She’d hurried on up from London
Where she’d caught the fastest train,
They buried Jack in a communal grave
So many men had died,
Fighting for King and country
Steeped in duty, worth and pride.
His name was honoured from lip to lip
How he’d stood beside his gun,
Determined to fight the German ships
‘Til the Chester turned to run,
Such courage born of England
Where it was tempered at the forge,
Was so inspiring in one so young
Said the Navy, to King George.
‘For shame,’ then cried the ‘Daily Sketch’
When they heard of the communal grave,
‘Is this how we treat our heroes,
Jack deserves the nation’s praise!’
The coffin was shortly disinterred
And draped with the Union Jack,
Drawn on an open gun carriage
With the Navy at its back.
His name went down in the history books
As the boy who stuck to his post,
In the midst of dead and dying men
As they made their way to the coast,
King George conferred the highest award
That there was, for bravery,
Awarded him the Victoria Cross,
Jack Cornwell, Boy, V.C.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
From their farms and their villages, they answered the call;
of King and of Country, to the great game of war.
They drilled and they practiced to work as a team,
then were shipped to the Somme, July, Nineteen sixteen.
A film of their training was made to be shown
to their sisters and mothers and lovers back home.
It was screened one time only, to standing acclaim,
for the unwitting widows who carried their names.
Like ripe wheat at the harvest felled by the scythe,
the chums led the assault and half paid with their life.
Lincolnshire wept when the casualties were read.
That first day at the Somme saw twenty Thousand dead.
Those that returned to their village or farm
Thereafter oft woke from their sleep in alarm.
They were changed men and broken, who returned from the fray,
and who bore their survivor guilt to their own dying day.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
Where are you now?
Cairo?
Detroit?
Grimsby or Paris?
What are you thinking?
Finances?
***
Luxuries?
Nothing?
Like a twig
shaking in the cold
winter wind
Like everyone
that ever lived
you haven't.
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 10:23 AM UTC
A fishbone's image on the wire
in the orbital district,
the white coated scientists are embargoing
this news discovery about Mars.
Grimsby is too far from home
MacFisheries here already
Liptons on the Way.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
Public opinion
Confusion reigns until his lordship explains
that our best interests are served by
remaining in service
no education for free for this
subject,
subject to decree from
her highness,
most royal majesty
Informally known as Lizzie.
His lordship is marking our card,
we must work very hard
get little pay
not too much noise
and
no *** on Sunday,
what a way to have to live
they take, take, take
and we try to live on
**** all
they live in a bigger hall
which still means **** all
to me.
I'm voting
one way or another
I'm voting
boring into the dead wood
Breadcrumbs.
I am Hansel and Gretel being
dead good.
Liz gets down to the business of queening,
cleaning the silverware'
getting rid of the peasants who get in her hair
tending to Phil
having her fill of kedgeree
and sod all for the likes of me,
She's off my Christmas list
if we were a republic
A peasant? revolting,
his lordship puts the boot in
but
the fault's in the system
we all need rewiring.
I'm going to Grimsby
that place will suit me
fish, chips and a
mug of tea
bye bye your majesty
don't wait up
I'll be home late.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
Using the art of triangulation
I plot what I think's my position,
the universe thinks differently
and expands my point of view.
The creator,
a failed realtor
or what?
Celestial snooker.
To lose one world is unfortunate
and so on and so on, but it goes on
and in the end it will end
nothing is patently obvious
except the shine in that
new pair of shoes.
On a whimsy
I paint
' made in Grimsby '
on the back of a Leyland bus.
I should shoot by starlight
I might get my position
right.
I sail on into the reach
of the night
and anchor on the dark side
of the Moon.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
lady gaga: i like it rough:
what was ever wrong with being tender, treating a body
opposite to one's own like porcelain?
never mind...
these days i'd rather
be bound to caressing a cat than
touching a woman.
me? gift to women? a don juan?
**** no!
ha ha!
i'm waiting for the comedy
of seeing women age and become
barren due to their cherry-picking
not having entered a harem...
mmm...
what now?!
conversations with your mother?
me? i already told mine: i know
where switzerland is... and i'm thankful
for their competence in discussing euthanasia...
sure, i'll hold your hand, because i'll
take the same route...
i think that's called the serenity
of dignifying something called a: human.
after a while or the years: i just
lost interest with all the ***** bitch-slapping...
i can't remember a ********** wanting
the sort of fetishes these free-women of the western
world want or sing about, or frankly
celebrate...
i must be victorian...
a 21st century jack? he wouldn't be after
the prostitutes...
believe me...
after a while you're
just like: whatever... can't be bothered.
the totem of jealousy dries up
anyway, given enough time for it to do so...
an old bachelor? akin to mr. portillo?
nothing sad about that...
it's actually quiet welcoming that a man
could accomplish being a bachelor at his age...
but with women?
that's just sad... a bit like the fetish
women have with mr. rochester and the madwoman
in the attic... i'm starting to think:
when's edward coming out with
entire circus?
oh right: now they can't handle reality!
but they're still into "loov"; beckoning Grimsby!
this language has as much monetary value
as a penny dropped on the street in Silesia / Śląsk.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 8:39 PM UTC
Young Music
Before spring, near Grimsby, ditches run clean like trout streams,
Our vines are gray. They will be pink next, like flushed, excited skin.
In March there is the flatness that is a big part of trouble.
Anthony's sisters are helping him scrub his apartment.
He was sick all winter. They raise his laughter like neighbours raise a burned out barn.
He had made a good start. The therapy.
He says now, "I wasn't so much sick as sad all the time."
The pills ended the depression. You can wish that life was never mechanical.
Smell of hot vinegar in the coffee-maker, smells of pine oil and beer.
Brock University jackets, damp curly hair, his sisters
Wiping their hands on sweatshirts, the open window,
His bedroom. Anthony clears books from the sills and cleans and shines the windows.
There are wicker baskets for their picnic and for his laundry.
I always wanted to know, what is consecration?
(Here is a scrap of his poetry:
"... ******* the colour of a driftwood campfire.")
His sisters laugh to think of a girl in the apartment.
The ***** clothes are gone. He's got clean denims and hiking boots.
Laughter, beer and young music,
Bread and stew and pickles and heavy brown two liter bottles of beer
On the white wooden kitchen table where he hopes to write.
His father's pickup truck is in the yard, its bed full of garbage.
With cleaning any good thing can happen. The sisters feel it too.
I didn't know what consecration meant. They joked
That he could have a girl up there when they were done.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Brook Trout Press
Grimsby and Toronto, Ontario, Canada
May 21, 2022
May 21, 2022 at 9:55 PM UTC
Vic Davies
That Davies bloke called Vic
He showed he isn't thick.
His table tennis can get bad,
Especially when he gets mad.
Liz Conolly
Mrs. Conolly, first name Liz,
Really, really is the biz.
Loves a seat at the front table,
Always gets there if she’s able.
**** Staples
Ah, here is **** Staples:
Loves his football from Grimsby to Naples.
Could be a pundit on the telly,
Always gives it plenty of welly.
Phil Sharpe
Mister Sharpe, first name Phil:
At table tennis he knows the drill.
Master of defensive ploys,
Wins his matches with lots of poise.
Ron Dawson (added 9\1\23)
Cider and Ale to Ron Dawson known as Rocket.
He has the whole World in his pocket.
Knows the routes of all the trains:
Lots of knowledge (on brewing and trains) fills his brains.
Paul Butters
© PB 6\1\23.
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 3:39 PM UTC
If the BBC...
Knew how we all really do talk in the car,
Of our real opinions,
Our views,
Of what we think of certain people in life,
How our daily chat is embroiled in what they don't report,
Our loves that don't include politics,
A real box to tick,
Who we hate,
Who we really do rate,
And who should go into that next big seat at No.10,
Then the BBC should speak to the man on the street,
The British builder,
The factory worker
The delivery driver
The plumber
The average office worker
The struggling student and not those whose parents have money
The small towns near Grimsby,Bristol and those in Newcastle
The real man
The Nine til Five and then the Seven til' Eleven
The every penny earnt and still they are struggling
If the BBC actually reported on this,
Then this would be the real Britain they would be showing,
Yet,
JJB
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 5:10 PM UTC