"sheffield" poems
They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And round the Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
And down to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s Own County, Yay!
Yull see ‘em rambling at Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.
Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.
Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.
So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes 're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.
Paul Butters
(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
'Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.'
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do
You keep in touch with-' Or remember how
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
We used to stand before that desk, to give
'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'?
I try the door of where I used to live:
Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
Canal and clouds and colleges subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
Anyone up today must have been born
In '43, when I was twenty-one.
If he was younger, did he get this son
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn
High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
The platform to its end to see the ranged
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong
Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
Only a numbness registered the shock
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how
Convinced he was he should be added to!
Why did he think adding meant increase?
To me it was dilution. Where do these
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
We think truest, or most want to do:
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we've got
And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.
2.5k
she opens a pack of
sheffield english type number five cigarettes
i rest my head in her lap
as she reads a french newspaper
its raining in paris and theres a girl there who is unhappy
dreams of romantic places never have sad girls in them
she must be a tourist
she sips some strange brew of teas
that has a heavy bouquet
loam and flowers..like a sweet wine
she suddenly laughs and translates a piece of the
french news for me
but i dont hear what she says
i only hear the rich beauty of her voice
i only hear the captivating beauties of her
i lean up and kiss her
she tastes of the sea and english cigarettes
i am lost in her essence and her her girlish delights
she pokes me and makes me look at a photograph in
the paris newspaper...its the sad girl
she looks english
that graceful beautiful elegant sadness
that only english girls can speak without ever saying a word
jezebel sips her tea and smokes her english sheffield cigarette
holding it like girls hold cigarettes in that dainty way
i forget the english girl and her sadness
as i lay looking into the eyes of this dreadlock hippie queen
janis joplin plays softly from her mp3
shes tapping her bejewelled toes to the ancient music
bachelors in literature she loves the written word
she has read everything ever written by anyone
she has read her way through forty years worth of poetry by me
and corrected my atrocious spelling along the way
this is morning in her arms
now you know why i am so in love with her
now you see why she is everything to me
she leans down and lays a single tender kiss on my cheek
and tells me she loves me
this is heaven
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And all round Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
Down there to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s County Yay!
Yull see ‘em rambling near Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.
Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.
Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all do hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.
So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.
Paul Butters
(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
© PB 2\5\2016. Slightly Amended 14\4\2023.
Apr 14, 2023
Apr 14, 2023 at 3:09 PM UTC
He flew to our shores on the back of a black iron bird,
Immigration stamped him through on a student visa,
His mother’s kiss still lingered upon the lips of memory,
To Sheffield he came waving away Sri Lankan tears.
Life was hard, life was sleepless, life was unrelenting,
To eat his daily bread he worked long into the dread night,
By day he studied English knowledge inked in books old,
And by the arrival of twilight he delivered steaming dreams.
Every day, every single day, by the light of day, he spoke,
He spoke to his beloved mother so far away across oceans,
They had a bond true and deep, a mother and her beloved son,
But wings wet with evil were flapping closer and closer…
On the night before the Eve of All Hallows the darkness came,
As he drove through a wet night on the last shift of his job,
As he went to deliver his final aromatic pizza of the evening,
That’s when the demons of ignorance stabbed away his hopes.
They came from an infernal zone and they sliced through him,
The silent angels watched with horror stitched in their sockets,
His liquid life ebbed away at the coffin wheel of his delivery car,
The cold October moon wept milky light upon the warm blood.
The media ravens will label him ‘this’ and ‘that’ and the ‘other’,
And soon, all too soon, his name will melt into memory’s mist,
His name was Thavisha Lakindu Peiris and his life sings no more,
Under Halloween’s one eyed moon a soul kneels for justice.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
It's a distance from me
Sheffield - City of industry
Where my friend alights to be
Lizzy Boo Green
Queen of my scene
The perpetual adjective that smiles
Like a teenager
in a disco
Or a burning go-go.
-----
Primary a target of my wishes
That curl friendship in a scribbled
slowhand
Back and forth
To indirect overdrive
Where a thousand exits greet you with fire
And say welcome
Where we probably will never meet
Seperated by forests, buildings and miles of cold
concrete.
-----
If I allowed my candle to burn down
Then tame a buick's wanderings into nature's
blind spot
Then I am no poet
I hold my friendship like a trophy, high
No contact, No coffee, But we share the same sky.
-----
My pledge is to write my verse
A gift stolen be a loved cat,
So here is my rotting composure
I have one golden friend, Whose fretted blue lights
Are visualising something else.
As change haunts the bellringer, The only sound of life
Is deafening bells.
-----
A frail yet stunning femininity masked by
Accumulative beauty
The description holds general putativity
in a broken cup
As it flows into the sewers of of my persona
And tho we will never share
A cobblestoned journey into the opposites that
collide into seperate genders
It is only my years that say goodbye to that today
I lost my younger years in the afternoon of yesterday.
-----
2 Friends heading into infinity
But without a compass to map direction
Only 1 of us is courting perfection
And I am sorry to say in my selfish unit
That it isn't me,
I'm only a word that's free.
-----
Freedom is so entwined by *******
Tho I'm not concerned with that,
I am blessed from where I am sat
I am, perhaps too old to understand
What cradles friendship between a young girl and
an ageing man-
A beautiful wide-eyed energy from Elysium, Our Lizzy
Which leaves me nothing inside nothing more
Other than a single image worth living for.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
You are encased in your world of flower;
Whilst I suffer in the pit below
that wolf at the door is me.
He is the leader of my pack
and when he howls others follow in tick tack
tight formation, his howl has rendered cowards
to fits of madness, coward!
I am that too he says? hahaha!
A fit of vortex light burning brightly over there, you fool!
Screams the wolf,
'you do not know the box you have opened!'
'I do!'
I have opened the post it says sickness and fit,
a spice awakening in Sheffield, and not just the drugs
not working in Manchester,
as Ashcroft once sang banging his shoulders
into every passer by, why? For the hell of it,
take no prisoners, proper Manc wolf style.
And I will burn your souls with words, O burn those bridges burn;
I will crush you with every click of the typewriter
you seek to burn me, call me drunk and ****** and fool,
I forget you! ha! Neit papa! Neit Mama!
Da Christopher! I have made such art and wonders
so see I am not to be taken lightly.
I have danced with death, not once but twice
and lived to tell the tale, captured foes forever
their grimaces frozen in time.
In the dead of night when I have no desire
for both shallow words and drunken wounds and late night calling-
your 'fatal fallacies'
I will burn these images and all the old
word scribbled in spider handwriting
by me that eldest poet, and soul.
That fire shall bring solace.
I hate you, as much as I hate myself;
forever smoking in the corner
and laughing at deaths wings,
as it winks at me underneath
cloaked eyes of shallow indifference -
Off with you and your 'perfect' life too.
Bitter wolf blinks, and cannot sleep,
Oh look how I am red and rendered, insomnia
red eyed and twitching, shocks all over sighs the poet,
Never call me again, drunken witches. Vampires
and bloodsuckers.
Alive still and struggling against the call
of it. Defiantly myself, whilst others crawl
to the windowpane of the widows to cradle the light.
I am encased in darkness, and search for my window-
fools allay me from my path, winding, twisting to
love.
I am burning. This fire it will not cease, this is
the end. My first friend, thrown to the fire,
her fate is sealed, she is undoubtedly married.
My pack is pleased, and giggle in the night,
drunk on the strength of passion! and *****
ACC WOO AGH
Nein Nein Nein
Neit! Da! Da!
I grin through bared teeth,
Always gnashing and grinding.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
Grab a coach home heroes,
sit amongst the somewhere men,
the here and there women
and the growing up fast kids,
with lantern phones, magic tones.
Everyone here is going somewhere,
winter’s bare
and home awaits.
Fantastic lips and red sense in style,
a lady reclines in front.
She texted Rhys, lengthy in characters,
whilst the plot remained precise.
‘I have to agree with you, let’s take it slow’
fantastic fingers itched her fringe.
Was she confused about love
and its rules and regs,
or was he a staller,
‘the old car won’t start again’ kinda feller?
There are no heroes on this coach tonight,
we’re Sheffield bound and
all without a fight.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
Someday
I will be able to drive past
Dunfermline
Glasgow
Sheffield
Without remembering you.
They will just be,
Once again,
Places on a map
To which I have no connection.
Not that I have any
Tangible connection
To them now,
Of course.
It's just you.
Not that I have any
Tangible connection
To you either,
I suppose.
What a pity.
And maybe someday
I will be able to come home
Without hurting that
I am no longer coming home to you.
However much I wish
That weren't true.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
Yo!! I make sure my cut
Remains Raw Quick draw Mcgraw
/take more shots than Brian Shaw
Above the Law/
with my Seagal Tactics
Suckas get rapped in Plastic
trying to match my Ballistics i got Statistics
/to show and prove
been Raw since Daddy Kane
Insane in the Membrane
check my Rhyme Asylum/Dumb
Co-Ill Lyrics Turn up my Vocals so u Can Hear it/
Tear it
Cuz its Causin Brain Hemorrhage to the Masses im a Super Savage
Causin Carnage/
no Survivors in my Battlefield take that Pitch ill Swing on ya like
G Sheffield/
Real Deal like Holyfield
Pedigrees Shaken
like its Holy Ghost Filled Billed
/Signed Sealed and Delivered
by the Devil to Acheive Multiple Levels/
Stay on my Grind
No Yellow Bricks to Follow Never Borrow/
Distribute my own Arsenal
take **** Personal/
if u ever feelin' Froggy/
ill make u get like the House of Pain and Jump Around/
Copper lead to your Head now u 6ft in the Ground/Pound 4 Pound
i can take/cuz when i Make my Point i Even make the Mountains Shake!!
hittin' u with the Acoustic-
Once Moooore
makin' SUre i Keep Things Rawww!!!!
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
There once was a woman from Sheffield
For whom murderous thoughts abound
Her weapon of choice was an axe to wield
Falling swiftly, her victims fell to the ground
It seemed for long there was no stopping her
Until the Police a link they found
So now she awaits her turn for the rope so tight
So very tight and round.
>>> Copyright MSE 02/08/2013 <<<
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
Thursday and the kiss of the wind on my face feels cold,
if only I could fold myself up and keep warm in my pocket
I would.
' what's good for the goose ' feels like a hangman's noose.
it could be the glint of gold,
but it's more likely to be six inches
of Sheffield steel that's dazzling me,
did I mention that it's cold?
The six o-clock shock,
the missing button, can't find a sock,
can someone knock me out
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
Have you had PPI
and if so
did it itch?
you can check it out
on Docdot.com
and
that's their latest pitch.
I don't have a bank account
unread
I'm a blank amount
of no account and certainly
not a bank account.
and the thoughts dwindle
like the sunlight over
Sheffield.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC