"tyne" poems
I have laid claim to the Tyne Bridge - it is my home.
You can keep the streets, the shops, the bars
Share them between you
But please
Let me have the bridge for myself.
The bottle green arch of Newcastle,
And the stew of water that runs beneath
The sheer drop of air between them,
Lightly salted by the sea.
It is but the only childish affectation
To follow me and hold true
Through the contaminant of temporality.
Just please, let me keep it.
I shed the skin of adolescence
And left my school tie at home
When I made the journey North.
I arrived expecting transcendence
But instead I received the unwanted gift of the present.
From the clamour of Manhattan,
To the desolation of New Mexico and Peru,
The present will forever be the most effective ammunition
In shattering the stained glass of the world’s wonders.
I know this from the beauty of memories.
Those wonderful fragmented images of childhood
That so efficiently cut out the hours of exceeding boredom,
And the tedium inflicted by the men in suits.
And the future,
The future of flying ships,
The mining of the moon
And downloadable pizza.
But we know in truth, when we arrive
There will still be lawyers
And adverts,
Beggars on the street
And apostrophe’s used incorrectly.
I digress.
Let me return to the Tyne Bridge
My bridge on the Quayside.
For despite the bird ****
And the playboys that trundle over it day after day,
It stands defiant over deep waters,
Daring to cheat death
Or vice versa.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
I met a man the other day--
A kindly man, and serious--
Who viewed me in a thoughtful way,
And spoke me so, and spoke me thus:
"Oh, dallying's a sad mistake;
'Tis craven to survey the morrow!
Go give your heart, and if it break--
A wise companion is Sorrow.
"Oh, live, my child, nor keep your soul
To crowd your coffin when you're dead...."
I asked his work; he dealt in coal,
And shipped it up the Tyne, he said.
2k
its so what if i hate you
i still want you to take care
out of all fake love brought us
i just miss the way you stare
at me like you think ill stare back
now its impossible for you to do that
its hardest when i breathe out
all of the air from my lungs
while clinging to the bottom
of this lake trying hard to die from
either this pressure or whatever
this death brings first to measure
how much water i can keep in my lungs
its brought me nothing now
holding onto love like life
its so simple living now
life like the steady breeze
i am coming out of the water
a new man for living now
they said i can choose
anywhere i want to haunt
but i chose the same spot
where i used to kiss you
when i would walk you home
now every visitor that we get
gets this strange feeling
that i never had. of not being alone.
babe i didnt dance for reckoning.
i chanted for it and with my brethren
at the time: hand in hand on the hill
tasting carnal lust for the first night
we kissed to romance andto redwine
smoking out of the finest rosemary and most potent tyne
i wish i could dream of my new love
because i found a brand new rose
and i got her good like the gods
they thought i deserve it i would
**** it up on the first time it came
to town because my baby well
she dont want me right now.
i just dream of you or less scary things maybe a funeral for two.
she says i scare her well just as well
i only have seven years
to live and die on this planet of hell
4 when i go to heaven. 777
i aint taking any angels with me
and its just as well 666
but imagine one could save me
an unstoppable redemption
i appreciate beauty in grandeur
divinity but yet i am banned in heaven - life is subliminal
i could be a blade for these seven
years maybe even for the Lord himself
would sin be outweighed by all of that death
and that when i sit in purgatory
waiting to meet my makers
i got the chance to fill out an application
just like for one of my regular day jobs
it said apply to do it all over again
there would be only happiness
guilt free or worries negativities
and sorries. well BabyGirl i wouldnt
i would only start anew
and be different than you saw me
depending on how i saw you
from your video tape
depending on the look on your face
the nights i held you in our firey embrace
and determine if that was just
****
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
There was a young man from Zagreb
Whose pencil ran out of lead
He went to the quack
Whose answer to that
Was use a biro instead
There was a vicar from the Tyne
Who put all his sermons online
A woman wrote please,
I'm weak at the knees
Here's my address, what's thine?
The Prime Minister went for a walk
Invited a woman to talk
She said "If you want a bang you can jolly well scram"
He said Do you know who I am?"
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
Hanging by the post box red front door
Since 71
A long trench coat, shade of green
With flat cap on top, peak smudged
From fingers that had gripped
Pulled it from a head,
Both, an umbra of post war world gloom
To the boy, now the man who looks at it
Memories contained within its pockets and creases
Of boiled sweets handed to his bairns
Of neatly folded plastic bags,
For the necessary emergencies
He was so convinced he’d meet
Of hands that belonged to the coat,
Strong, firm that tousled this man’s hair,
Yet gentle and playful, full of fun
Of the head that wore the cap, the grin,
The mischievous glint, when his Peg wasn’t looking
As he slipped some coins into this boy’s tiny hand
Stories told, of times before the war,
Of stopping trams, driving pigs through N’castle
As a butcher’s Boy, on slaughter day
Of the day he met his Meg, down by the coast
Of showing off, and coming a cropper
And oh, how his Meg laughed
A coat holding so much of the past,
Of shipbuilding by the dark, ***** Tyne,
Boats that loomed over the houses
Taking this boy to see them launch
Dreaming of exotic, oriental places
He would never visit
Of betting slips, crumpled in pockets
From long gone nags, who caught his eye
Torn envelopes with Megs writing,
Bread - brown, tin of carnation milk (small)
Rich tea, sultanas, flour – plain
A use for his plastic bags,
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Sinking teeth
Flesh so smooth upon my touch
creature of the night
beckon forth and love
my wounded heart
blood drips slowly
quickly the fear is replaced
by the wanting
of tyne flesh
I shall now feed
and be whole once more
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 3:17 PM UTC
That BBC accent over the air,
a beacon in my hour of despair,
Thames, Dover, Portland and White,
the warm, soft glow of the radio light,
Shannon, Fastnet, Plymouth, Biscay,
Soothing my soul ‘til light of day,
Dogga, Fisher and German Bight,
my only comfort throughout the night,
Cromarty, Malin, forth and tyne,
Through static crackle, his voice so fine,
Those childhood days have long since gone,
No big old radio to twist and turn on,
But I’ll always remember, forevermore,
Listening to the shipping forecast on Radio Four.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
With noon’s grim call, I rise too late.
Condensed sunlight through greys and slate.
Awake with a steadfast hunger for sleep,
to push out these pains that so make me weep.
Each day is rushed to a ****** too soon,
like some alleyway lover, ‘neath the moon.
‘Neath the moon, I give into wine;
vessel over my wholesome Tyne.
It’s all I have, to numb this pain,
pattern my thoughts, order my brain.
And with self-disgust, I discuss the past,
self-talk: The only friendship built to last.
I think on us all, and what we have been,
a filtered film-still, or some beauty queen,
when life weren’t fair, but fortunes true,
when the sky still ran that azure blue,
love no more than a hungry kiss,
some manufactured teenage bliss.
And lo, I’ve no friend to confide my heart,
each pound of muscle to create my art,
each longing of longing for reader’s love,
and my origins with the stars above.
No, reader, my dear, you’re all that is left,
to align my soul, frequently bereft.
So, read not this page as poetry,
but of the union of you and me,
we sit in life so clumsily
and yet with poise, we love so endlessly.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
I was dark and it was bright
the moon shades were at half tyne
and I wept
I felt confused but I carried on
through shedding dapple bright.
And it was very dim in the forest
of palms and swaying trees
but still I carried on
bravely as if he were still alive.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
Inflation is just another form of taxation
on the poor.
Was it Keynes who coined that phrase
back in those Bloomsbury days?
when the world was younger than now
when the when and the why and the who and the how
didn't matter
but now
it's appropriate
because of the awful state
we find ourselves in.
Was it him
Was it Keynes?
It seems that he was right
and if so,
then we must fight against poverty
fight against penury
we
could find insolvency
in our own back yard
Life is hard and they make it harder
raiding the larder
taking the food from your mouth.
The South
bleeds us dry
from the Tyne
to the Wye.
We really ought to get wise
and get rid of those guys
in grey suits.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Castles in sandpits.
Feet that wander.
Seaward as seawater meanders.
Buckets of plastic.
Containing fresh water.
Probably not.
Forks with spikes on Tyne side.
Professing weird knowledge.
Bending round edges.
Breaking down hedges.
Crumbling castles made of tactical fairy steps and freaky dreams.
Huge construction.
Rubbed together butter and flour.
Carefully, even lovingly, put into ramekins.
Everyone's named Paul or George.
When creating castles made of sand,remember always.
Pride always comes before a fall.
Ready for baking.
And the ball flattened the castles,
Squashed like malleable putty.
Sandcastle in sandpits.
Paul was a self destructive shot.
George, well now, he is not.
Just in case, both be forgot.
(c)Livvi
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
YOU MAY LEAD A HORSE TO WATER BUT YOU CAN'T MAKE HIM DRINK,
THAT'S BECAUSE THE POOR BUGGER'S NOT THIRSTY,
A FOOL AND HIS MONEY ARE SOON PARTED,
ESPECIALLY AFTER HE'S JUST ****** FARTED.
YOU CAN'T MAKE A SILK PURSE OUT OF A SOW'S EAR,
THEY MAY NOT APPRECIATE THAT ANYWAY IN TYNE AND WEAR,
A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH,
LISTEN MATE, I'M QUITE HAPPY WHEN SHOVE COMES TO PUSH.
AS YOU MAKE YOUR BED, SO YOU SHALL LIE IN IT,
I DON'T MAKE THE BED BUT STILL GET IN ****
BEAUTY IS IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER,
MUST HAVE BEEN UGLY BECAUSE GOT A SLAP WHEN I TOLD HER.
PERHAPS ITS TIME FOR A MAKE-OVER FROM GOK,
BUT MAN IN SWING DOOR IS STILL GOING TO BANGKOK.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
It is art that oils the moving parts of me
the free flowing nectar in the seed of me,
art in ******* tips and the half full skips,
the 'tramps' that ship the coal around the coast.
I play host to the wonder of words that make up the rhyme,
more 'fog on the Tyne'
the lowlands and highlands within these Islands and bridges to cross,
It is art in the heart and what we see with the eyes,love it,despise it,ignore or get wise to it,
everywhere I look, I see that someone took time,moulded , transformed it and changed forever this world a bit
and every bit helps.
My fingers are lazers ,blazing out art,starting to burn in every sentence that turns and turning to light,
gutters that utter to me prophecies and in the pharisees I see only samaritans who give
salute to the pimps and the prostitutes,the Kings and the courtiers,those who buy and who sell,who are
milled in the gin of it,the thin and the quick of it,tied to the wheel in the cockpit and spitting out what could be me for the hell of it.
I see art in the faces that stare blankly,to flicker at screens in store windows,art in the glow of the cigarette end,in the bending of imagination, where salvation is palmed off to an ungrateful nation as corn from the candyclouds,art in the female,the he man, the mail man,the banter of cantors,the whispers of sisters the sadness,the badness,the joy and the gladness is there,
out looking to share,insiders,
outsiders,lone wolfstate riders and in pairs or in threes all looking to please,
street paintings,feint bread lines on fences,dull
brush strokes on brickstock
unlock your mind
find your
art.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
down the Dearne on a digestive,
up the Thames on a Bourbon,
down the Sheaf on a Garibaldi,
up the Don on a Flapjack.
down the Tyne on a Brandy Snap,
up the Wear on a Hobnob,
down the Severn on a Ginger Nut,
up the Lune on a Custard Creme.
down the Styx on a sunflower seed bun,
up the Lethe on a lemongrass stick,
down the Rhine on a Raisin Slice,
up the Seine on a Belgian Pancake.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 5:46 AM UTC
The public debate
a political **********
reminds me
why I hate.
But that's Eton and Harrow not
Toxteth or Jarrow.
I leave the politics to them,
the Southern gentlemen
Up in the shires where men walk on tight wires
and dance to a different song is
where I belong,
from the Midlands to the Tyne where
they drink beer and leave the wine is
another place in time
a place for me.
And while Atlanta burns the gentlemen shall all take turns to **** upon the fire.
but when the hands of 'Ben' unlock and count the votes there'll be a shock when some old lady gets the keys to number ten,
we all remember them old days, the three day week, the hide and seek, the suss', the stop and search, the powers that interrupt, corrupt and end in a debate,
a state of the nation more infiltration, less liberation, more ************
the public schools have fooled us all,
we're ******* but we don't know it yet
we'll get the letter in the post,
the most that we can hope for.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC
Listening to Sting’s best:
Ten Summoner’s Tales.
Sting: there’s a lesson in arrogance.
Leaves his band, The Police,
Throws the blokes—
The blokes who carried him,
Put him on the map,
Made him rich--
Throws those same blokes
Off the back of the boat,
Jetsam & flotsam in his wake.
Then starts hallucinating that he's
Geoffrey Chaucer reborn, &
Self-finances a Broadway musical,
Itself a saccharine homage to
Newcastle upon Tyne, land of the
Genetic zygote he once was.
Needless to say: “The Last Ship”
Sank shortly after leaving dry dock.
Hey, Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner:
Who was your financial advisor?
Bernie Madoff?
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
I felt as pure as the sea
And as soft as the sand
The day we walked down the pier
At quarter past five
We sat on a bench
With your hand in mine
It never looked as perfect
The mouth of the Tyne
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
I spend far too much time,
writing about wine.
I spend far too much time,
needing it.
And I spend far too much time,
making words that rhyme.
And not enough time,
living it.
For the banks of the Tyne,
I sing for what's mine,
And all of the brine
it searches.
For the bells that do chime,
and green nails of lime,
You are all that I dare
dream about.
Though I spend too much time,
cleansing the grime,
And far too much time
cursing it.
And there's not enough time,
to live like a mime,
to only chronicle secrets
in silence.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
Northern, Eastern, Western and South of our land is in great trouble
There's nothing to make, craft or do, jobs falling by double
We've lost all of our skills, mines, industries factories
None of the closed business will ever move back here
We were living the high life with Blair and his magical funding
Unaware the ground was falling beneath us and crumbling
Conditioned in good times and taken for granted
Now the shock is too much to handle
All prices up! Minimum wage no longer exists
European competition has seen to this
Competing with ex-slave labour
Who are prepared to work for peanuts and good favour
Tories fooling, ‘Ha ha there is no North and South divide’
While hammering the poorest, robbing us of all remaining pride
As he stands in Teesside he thinks it’s the Tyne
What hope does the UK have with such ignoramus Tory crime
With no hope of work futures look grim
Once happy people now stressed to the brink
We watch and listen about the mythical recovery
I think to myself, ‘London must be some far away country!’
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
I read his books, to cry at night,
If God is dead then show me the light,
Where is the man on the cross, where is the shining knight ?
... that veiled specter and the streak of light ?
Is nihilism a noose too tight ?
Are we living though our final rites ?
Is this the truth or a noise just too white.
Help me God, but alas he is dead,
We killed him and bathed him blood red,
New century, and many still go unfed,
We still wage wars, are we lacking in staid ?
Amor fati ! but I remain afraid,
Has our senses met with a touch of fade ?
A distant thunder... a storm, a hale, a glade !
Gold, Oil and Drugs - GOD to spell,
... rich to richer, poor to poorer - does it ring a bell ?
Widows cry and mums wail,
Father dies and sons follow in a war to fail,
Cruise and thomahawk don't even tell half the tale,
Our inner selves are shriveled and pale,
Where is our aura ? conscience smells stale.
Markets tumble and the poor man whines,
Leaders make speech, claim things are ''just fine'',
Elephants or donkeys, red or blue - jaded bottle, old wine,
Job dwindle, banks swindle - be it wall street or the south of Tyne,
Or cities on the banks of Rhein,
Long queues, angry mob and a shout of "you swine"
... are we cowards lacking in spine ?
If recurrence is the universes' game,
Are we zombies, or just too lame,
So much we do, in an effort to maim,
What we seek is money, power and fame,
Stare into the mirror, isn't our soul the same ?
... and we all have is an ego to tame,
Love and compassion, that is all to our name.
Good and bad, with evil on right hand,
... overflowing adrenal glands,
Our moral landscape seems bland,
Driven by media which is slave to the rich brand,
It is time we take a stand,
Be the Zarathustra, not make castles in the sand,
... else our children will not find a planet too grande!
Is it the last leg for our kind,
... and smart machines are our next find,
Cometh the superman with wires fitted to his mind,
Man was an error, he is not just deaf, but also blind,
As he lacks in sight be it the fore or the hind,
There is not much to remind,
... his death is dated and signed.
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 12:34 PM UTC
On a boat up the Tyne
a favourite river of mine
oil slicks and old shields.
The south side
a bit wide of Whitley bay
some say
the rough side
Is where I guide
her in
thirty seven feet
mahogany timber
a tall ship
slipping fast into dock.
Going home into port
shirt and shorts
a tan from the maze
of places I've been
this gypsy boy and
his
'Ocean Queen
sleek and lean
lean into the wind
together.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
Silence, nothing else but silence now, am I really dead
No more the sound of cannon fire or smell of rotting dead
Is this the death I feared so long, is this my eternal rest
The grasp of war relinquished now, my duty dispossessed
Incessant rain, falls constantly, to torment and pain my soul
The battlefield a quagmire now, that swallows’ soldiers whole
Thousands, countless thousands of men now dead or dying
Hell, on Earth is Passchendaele, to be its witness, horrifying
I have no sense of being now, my corpse bequeathed of breath,
My soul now purged, awaits its fate to meet the sacrament of death
My dreams of home abandoned now, my weapons cast aside
Now duty paid to God and King, my epitaph epitomised
But from the very brink of death, I feel my pain again
Returning from the heavenly gates, soaked by that ****** rain
Delivered from God’s holy grace to Satan’s gates revived
From the peace of my eternal sleep, my comfort now deprived
Back to Pilckem Ridge once more, to a Flanders blood-soaked trench
Where grey faced lads with bowing heads, sit silent in the stench
Corpses laying side by side, half buried in oozing mud
All faith and hope abandoned, the price now paid in flesh and blood
I prey for the Lord to take me and release me from this hell
Remove me from perdition, reposed in perpetuity to sleep where angels dwell
Let me succumb, dispense with me, undiminished in your grace
Deliver me to eternity and redeem me from this awful place
My headstone stands on hallowed ground, near Tyne Cot, ***** Town
Eternal sleep, my answered prayer, now rest in peace where I lay down
I gave the best that I could give, till I could give no more
Then blessed the Lord that saved my soul, but cursed the ****** war
Jun 7, 2019
Jun 7, 2019 at 2:43 PM UTC
It started off innocuously enough. An argument over the correct length and shape that parsnips should be cut. Differences in vision over simple practical matters can quickly expose much deeper fissures. She felt compelled and her brain quickly went into overdrive; feeling consumed by a clarity of vision that she had rarely had since childhood. She opened an incognito window on her web browser and started looking at flights to Irkutsk, Florence and newcastle upon Tyne. All places she had a fleeting connection to. She updated her CV, and checked her eyes with a pocket mirror, noting that her eyelids had a slight purple tinge. She went downstairs to get a glass of water and saw that she was alone.
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 6:03 AM UTC