"mancunian" poems - Hello Poetry

Trains at the bottom of the garden metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal some compact with tanks affixed others larger, more grand pulling colour matched tenders sometimes bearing shields and names beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City' mostly black, some rusty deep reds or greens with contrasting lines edged in gold Once one came in matt pink and I wondered why it didn't gleam like the others, perhaps pink was a colour not to be given it's equal due with other less feminine shades it had to be denied vibrancy yet I loved the pink one best later I learned somehow that the colour was that of the primer used to inhibit the rust and my pink engine was just an unfinished paint job pressed into service prematurely to give cover for another that was broken I wrote down the numbers regardless it was a ritual that one performed though I didn't understand why yet it was exciting to record a new one that hadn't passed before Behind the business end came carriages laden heavy with the visitors of summer come to fill our beaches and our town with their loudness their raucous laughter with strange accents brummie, scouse, mancunian faces pressed against glass expectant, excited, impatient almost there now anxious that this last delay pass quickly and the half mile remaining be completed We would lurk beneath the bridge like adopted troll children it was cool there in the summer heat darting out from behind pillars or in my case watchfully, cautiously edging my way forward to place pennies on the track or sometimes nails then to retrieve them flattened, thinned, squashed once the train had passed sometimes we'd wait hours or so it seemed sometimes no train would come and we would trail home for tea and bath and bed leaving our offerings to the gods of the rail for rediscovery and inspection the following day. Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13

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Mar 19, 2014

Mar 19, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC

thia-jones

Trains

Trains at the bottom of the garden metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal some compact with tanks affixed others larger, more grand pulling colour matched tenders sometimes bearing shields and names beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City' mostly black, some rusty deep reds or greens with contrasting lines edged in gold Once one came in matt pink and I wondered why it didn't gleam like the others, perhaps pink was a colour not to be given it's equal due with other less feminine shades it had to be denied vibrancy yet I loved the pink one best later I learned somehow that the colour was that of the primer used to inhibit the rust and my pink engine was just an unfinished paint job pressed into service prematurely to give cover for another that was broken I wrote down the numbers regardless it was a ritual that one performed though I didn't understand why yet it was exciting to record a new one that hadn't passed before Behind the business end came carriages laden heavy with the visitors of summer come to fill our beaches and our town with their loudness their raucous laughter with strange accents brummie, scouse, mancunian faces pressed against glass expectant, excited, impatient almost there now anxious that this last delay pass quickly and the half mile remaining be completed We would lurk beneath the bridge like adopted troll children it was cool there in the summer heat darting out from behind pillars or in my case watchfully, cautiously edging my way forward to place pennies on the track or sometimes nails then to retrieve them flattened, thinned, squashed once the train had passed sometimes we'd wait hours or so it seemed sometimes no train would come and we would trail home for tea and bath and bed leaving our offerings to the gods of the rail for rediscovery and inspection the following day. Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13

69

We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams. We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom. We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say. We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt. We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.

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Mar 30, 2018

Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC

kellysavalas

We Are Manchester

We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams. We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom. We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say. We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt. We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.

5

The stars are out and you know the way - Piccadilly, Rusholme, Withington, Wythenshawe. These are names that could freeze your soul in blue and maybe light a candle in the dark if you could only find a spark. Every building is an open door, every street an absent flower that unknown gods collected long ago when it was raining. This is England - a promise. I tell myself - there is a plan. Just follow through, be yourself, smile under this weird constellation and expect the unexpected; what you want will happen, it's just probability and probability is always on your side when you are in Manchester.

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Nov 17, 2017

Nov 17, 2017 at 3:53 AM UTC

gonzalobartleby

Mancunian song II

The stars are out and you know the way - Piccadilly, Rusholme, Withington, Wythenshawe. These are names that could freeze your soul in blue and maybe light a candle in the dark if you could only find a spark. Every building is an open door, every street an absent flower that unknown gods collected long ago when it was raining. This is England - a promise. I tell myself - there is a plan. Just follow through, be yourself, smile under this weird constellation and expect the unexpected; what you want will happen, it's just probability and probability is always on your side when you are in Manchester.

24

On Camera My life is like a movie Seeing that replica Mustang roll in and crash at the airshow My life is like a movie Witnessing an ex dealer who'd just been shot in his home My life is like a movie Viewing Oldham riots on TV that were five minutes away My life is like a movie Gazing down upon Manila Bay at the enduring sunrise from Bataan My life is like a movie Observing different people and cultures in a dozen countries My life is like a movie Glancing at my thigh as the tattooist inks my goth girl tattoo My life is like a movie Noticing the Mancunian drunks fighting on the nightbus home My life is like a movie Gaping in desolation at the coffin that contains my mum My life is like a movie Watching the mad Irish man loop the Grumman Duck in Murphy's Law My life is like a movie Admiring the **** girls I've nailed in the big bakery My life is like a movie Scrutinizing the Asians to see if they'll try to assault me My life is like a movie Eyeballing my soon to be ex friend who's kissing my girlfriend My life is like a movie Focusing on the road ahead as I illegally race the other car My life is like a movie Staring at the men lying by the kerb wondering are they dead? My life is like a movie Studying the vertical cliff above me to find a way up My life is like a movie Peering into the sky to find my dad's ghost that's up there My life is like a movie Scanning at my wage slip to see if my pay will cover my beer and bills My life is like a movie Regarding my mate who just vomited up his kebab and chips My life is like a movie Glimpsing the chavs fighting the teenage couple over the river My life is like a movie Right till my last breath and final vision when my Goddess takes me home

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Apr 18, 2018

Apr 18, 2018 at 12:20 PM UTC

I live in this city alone. It is always cloudy here. It is cold and it rains all the time but you could find love if you wanted. That's what I tell myself when I'm wet and cold on a lonely street, walking home. You could look through the window of an old Victorian house and, seeing a beautiful family in a living room full of books, think “this could be my family”. Or, in another reality, “that could be me, as a child or, maybe one day, as a father”. The city has no limits; take advantage, this could be your land. You could call this city home, bend it to your will if you wanted to. Take this city in your hands and squeeze it. Forge a big heart out of it or some wings. Just give it a chance, it’s not too late and you still need to get home and it's ****** raining again.

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Apr 22, 2017

Apr 22, 2017 at 5:56 AM UTC

gonzalobartleby

Mancunian song

I live in this city alone. It is always cloudy here. It is cold and it rains all the time but you could find love if you wanted. That's what I tell myself when I'm wet and cold on a lonely street, walking home. You could look through the window of an old Victorian house and, seeing a beautiful family in a living room full of books, think “this could be my family”. Or, in another reality, “that could be me, as a child or, maybe one day, as a father”. The city has no limits; take advantage, this could be your land. You could call this city home, bend it to your will if you wanted to. Take this city in your hands and squeeze it. Forge a big heart out of it or some wings. Just give it a chance, it’s not too late and you still need to get home and it's ****** raining again.

30

Off a room of the cloisters I met Dom Andrew bookbinding in silence bearded and white cowled, in silentio sit Deus, Mancunian he said saw picture in book of monastic cell and that were it, I sensed the coldness of the room body shivered ears felt pained, il avait de la neige à l'extérieur the French monk said huddled in his black habit, saw the snow on trees and purity of it, she took my hand warm it was and promised *** Dom Charles tonsured dark haired gazed at me through thick lens glasses eyes like ***** holes in snow, I have been all things unholy and if God can work through me Francis said he can work through anyone, I mowed the grass by the church and Dom Frederick said you've done well, qui tutto sono fratelli the Italian monk said as he helped me dry up the dishes, beyond her dark hairs lay the Kingdom of Eve and joyousness, bell tolled in the bell tower by George or Hugh or both for Terce, a monk read in the refectory from a book on Oliver Cromwell as we sat and ate in silence, bonitátem fecísti *** servo tuo Dómine, the old monk opposite ate with gusto spooned food as if he may never eat again, nog steeds sneeuw buiten the Danish monk told me coming in with vegetables from the garden for lunch, indeed snow still there trees covered and fields that I saw, if you want to you can she said so I did, Dom Bruno said later that Dom Andrew had cancer and was silent on it, Deus meus libera me, and we licked our cutlery clean between meals and put away under our tables in a large napkin and George said unhygenic but we did, there is no great genius without some touch of madness Gareth said quoting Aristotle, sunlight on flagstones in the church warmed by midday, Compline bell told of the end of day.

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Jan 21, 2016

Jan 21, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC

TerryCollett

END OF DAY 1971

Off a room of the cloisters I met Dom Andrew bookbinding in silence bearded and white cowled, in silentio sit Deus, Mancunian he said saw picture in book of monastic cell and that were it, I sensed the coldness of the room body shivered ears felt pained, il avait de la neige à l'extérieur the French monk said huddled in his black habit, saw the snow on trees and purity of it, she took my hand warm it was and promised *** Dom Charles tonsured dark haired gazed at me through thick lens glasses eyes like ***** holes in snow, I have been all things unholy and if God can work through me Francis said he can work through anyone, I mowed the grass by the church and Dom Frederick said you've done well, qui tutto sono fratelli the Italian monk said as he helped me dry up the dishes, beyond her dark hairs lay the Kingdom of Eve and joyousness, bell tolled in the bell tower by George or Hugh or both for Terce, a monk read in the refectory from a book on Oliver Cromwell as we sat and ate in silence, bonitátem fecísti *** servo tuo Dómine, the old monk opposite ate with gusto spooned food as if he may never eat again, nog steeds sneeuw buiten the Danish monk told me coming in with vegetables from the garden for lunch, indeed snow still there trees covered and fields that I saw, if you want to you can she said so I did, Dom Bruno said later that Dom Andrew had cancer and was silent on it, Deus meus libera me, and we licked our cutlery clean between meals and put away under our tables in a large napkin and George said unhygenic but we did, there is no great genius without some touch of madness Gareth said quoting Aristotle, sunlight on flagstones in the church warmed by midday, Compline bell told of the end of day.

79