"yorkshire" poems
Back in the day,
When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds,
We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood,
For weeks and weeks.
Everyone built towering infernos,
Ready for November Fifth:
Bonfire Night.
Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes,
Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot”
And stood in the street saying
“Penny for the Guy”.
What a night!
Roaring fire on a chill Winter night,
Those flames burning your face.
A World War Three
Of Fireworks:
Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers.
Bangers to scare the girls.
Kids painting pictures in the air
With sparklers.
And best of all,
That yummy gingery Parkin cake:
A taste I cannot put
Into words.
Oh and deep dark
Treacle Toffee,
Jacket potatoes,
Roast chestnuts
And Crunchie-like cinder toffee.
It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire.
Politically correct firework displays
Are more the modern thing.
Seems strange to burn the effigy
Of a man who had the sense
To try to blow parliament up –
Especially a Yorkshire Man.
Ha ha.
But then I read that good
Religious reasons are behind
This bonfire Celebration:
Those flames are orange
After all.
Not wishing to create divisions
Anywhere in the world,
It’s still good to see traditions
Being maintained.
Let those fires and fireworks keep rising,
Constantly emerging from the shadows
Of Halloween.
Paul Butters
© PB 27\10\2018.
Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
KISSING MR. CHELIDON GOODBYE
Ho...ho. . .oh!
I don't know
if I should be
telling you this.
I was just sweet
as in 16 &
never been kissed
and my *******
hadn't yet arrived
though I prayed and prayed
to a God who did not
heed my girlish plea.
All the girls in my year
had already budded.
******* to the right of me!
Breast to the left of me!
Into the valley of despair
I rode my Raleigh
alas alas
breast-less!
I practiced kissing
by kissing
the you know
inside of
( the whatchamacallit? )
my elbow the
chelidon so called
by an old falling-apart
medical dictionary.
I clipped some hair
from our Yorkshire terrier
stuck it on the crick of
my right elbow
so that it became
my first moustache'd kiss.
And so, was born
my Mr. Chelidon.
Pathetic...yes...I know
but the year after
my bosoms arrived
with a suddenness
that took my breath
away.
I breasting the waves
like a ship's figurehead
as I dived into the sea
a Venus for boys to see.
I was my *******
and my ******* were me.
Somehow I could then not
stopped being kissed.
And once kissed
grew addicted to it.
The bliss of the kiss.
I was my own drug.
I gave Mr. Chelidon
the elbow.
Discovered the joy of boys
inventing various uses
for them
as they
discovered
me.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
& now I know we share Oscar Peterson in common
I want to love you all the more,
till the world ends
Let our beloved rain fall
Let our days howl of our Ginsberg
Plath, Eliot & Dylan
& others, more obscure
Let us buy that Edward Hopper
we both love
& let us sleep in your car
out on the Yorkshire Moors
You're the milk in my coffee
Let me be the billboard
you advertize our love on
lets be breathless metaphors
of each other
the quotation marks
around each others words
high on the ******* of stars
& always read
each others poems
drag each other to open mics
& drink too much
let's make Cupid jealous
of the fiery arrows
we use to stab
one another
if it doesn't work out
& make the Angels
jealous of our heaven
if it does
lets be a restless breeze
that blows
through the world
& stirs each leaf
with our words
lets just be us
fellow hermit
fellow poet
Soulmate
that's
the word
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
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
My hometown
is a place
of rustic beauty
and simple people
a population
under 200
meant that
everybody knew everybody
farmer Neville
and his sheep
always on the loose
and the quiz night
at the pub
just another excuse
to get drunker and drunker
and the private boarding school
which I attended
so rich with false academia
we learned the lessons
which would prepare us
for the false prophets yet to come
and the public school
and their ***** uniforms
where I found my friends
friends who at this point
have arrest records
ranging from assault
to petty larceny
and criminally wasted potential
oh how I miss that town
even now,
because despite the racism
and xenophobia
which infest my kinsmen
I still have to believe
that things can get better
that life there
can match the beauty
of North Yorkshire farm lands
and woodlands
and friendly knowing smiles
My hometown isn't perfect
and I wouldn't have it
any other way
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
The Yorkshire Rose, elegantly perched on the bridge
This was not London, or the palace
nor Manchester, where Mancurians are free
nor Blackpool, where the beach swallows
Glasses, towels, mussels clinging to rocks
The Yorkshire rose, drawn upon the bridge
Bullet trains, leading distances
Almost unfathomable in this very spot
Harrogate, bath water
Spilling onto the street in natural sulphuric geysers
Burning
The Yorkshire Rose, fleeting in memory
In ghosts of the abbey nearby
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
“Yorkshire! Yorkshire!” I hear the EDL scream,
as if somehow the county, relates to their regime?
Trying to push on others their far right views,
and tainting Yorkshire with their taboos
cos Yorkshire to me, is whatever the **** I want it to be,
I do love a bit of local pride...
maybe to revel in the comfort it provides,
and even though stereotypes say we're tight,
as well as stubborn, argumentative (they're prolly right),
But I'd rather that, than be uptight,
like a stereotypical southerner might
I recently read a quote from Stuart Maconie,
“England has a bottom half,
but there isn't a south, in the same way there's a north”
The North in the south means desolation,
A cultural wasteland with deserted stations,
a place built on violent, aggressive foundations,
With mid summer Arctic temperature fluctuations,
Nothing that comes close to a nation....
But that's not what I see,
To be from the north means good fish and chips,
with tomato sauce and vinegar, it's glory on the lips,
I see people willing to lend a hand,
A honest chat about the weather as you stand at a bus stop
that you never planned,
It doesn't matter whether it's a cob, bun, bap, barm or roll,
Or that the north was ****** over by the outsourcing of coal,
Or your opinion that we're all just sat on the dole, drinking tea out of a ***** bowl.
We should still all have a similar goal,
To have a good time,
and not hurt a soul
Sometimes I do like to revel in the divide,
but I'll always welcome people from the other side,
Acceptance is not sin,
and if you let it,
it generally ends up with a win : win
What's Yorkshire to you? I haven't got a clue... but come sit down so we can have a chat and a brew! And hopefully we'll both learn something we never knew.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
Though you've barely had a ramble
are no wayward canine daddy of note
that brief encounter in our brambles
has left the experts fearing a cancerous growth
So we starve you of your pine nuts and bacon rinds
so we can feed you anaesthetic
and betray you to the thief of time
only to make you, I imagine, feel pathetic
And you often so full of life's exasperate scurry
I worry
will the shine stray from your eyes
those hazel pools of so much of
my feeling mature, just for
pertaining to a creature's care
we all seem in too much of a hurry
to stifle what little spirit
that surrounds us
to wear
down on every minor aspect
of childish delight
in this silent sacrament
of the aging process
and with arguably years
of your fatherhood left
in the very ***** some dry eyed savant
decides it correct we should tamper with
Tomorrow I will snuggle you in favoured, bouncy eiderdowns
that will blanket your unknowing
and treat you as if
you were an eastering child
on cured hams and other saltiness
after you awaken
from those strangest enforcements of sleep
and through our eyes we will trade more secrets to keep
And we will hope, as we only can, that it was for the best
For you, Yorkshire's son, or Sheringham's
And consider with all of your
exhuming breath
That we meddled, stilling over life
To cheat a slightly delayed death.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
Beat-Up Old Car
Vastly under-appreciated possession
In dull blue, a MK1, no less, with original rust
Inside lingering scents of Exchange and Mart
top-notes of WD-40 and miscellaneous mix tapes
A car like this gets into your life
in lumpy knuckle-barking unsubtle ways,
stays there in subtle ones
That long drive back to Yorkshire
in the quintessential exemplar
Clutch cable snaps.
****** and Crap.
Hardly helpful but can be accommodated
with enough thought
rough though it is
on starter motor
and nerves whenever
anticipatory powers inadequate
and we are forced
to a complete red-light stop
Brakes dodgier, exhaust noisier
than ideal or legal
Gender-ambiguous
elderly tyres flirt outrageously with slick tarmac
Showing their canvas underwear
and male-pattern baldness
Keeping this unstable, unsafe, unreliable
ultimately essential lump of metal
moving and on the road
is a fine art
Engaging, fluid and intense art;
The Clash and The Specials
Costello and The Cure in support
A distraction then
getting hauled over by plod
somewhere near Bury St. Edmunds
Thatcher's boys.
Tax? MoT? Insurance? ID?
No real interest shown
Any passengers in the back?
Clearly no. Pickets?
Pickets? What?
Please open the boot sir... Oh.
On your way lad. Drive carefully
I was, officer, I was
More than you will ever know
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
Taken, whisked, picked from the plug,
grass grows inside crack walled shrugs,
built by hand by a northern named man.
His dog lays still in the heather,
in the fog,
on the hill,
by the river;
resting in the bleak hill town, morning weather.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
**via woodland trail, along deciduous dale
amid a rocky terrain, through geographic chicane
meandrous no longer, smoky waters beleaguered
upwelling they burble, in deep tracts they gurgle
hypnotic they swirl, then turgidly whorl
the rivers egress, from caverns sub-aqueous
bereft of surrender, outpours now in splendour
the Wharfe expelled from the strid.
... ... ...**
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
Where are you Paul?
I'm in Cyberspace Mum.
My Pentium processor has broadbanded me
Into this wondrous realm.
A pixel powered virtual landscape
Peopled by avatars
Speaking Internet Slang.
FFS, *** are you talking about?
She asks.
In so many words.
I **** and ROFL at her incredulity.
It’s full of danger, that Internet, says Mum.
That’s true.
It’s full of paedophiles,
Spammers and trolls.
Hackers.
Chat-rooms and forums
Plagued by flame-wars
And spam enough to fill a trillion tins.
Sites full of viruses, Trojans, malware and spyware.
Cyber-bullies and loons abound.
But I just Love it.
A ****** addiction
Needing every fix.
A realm indeed of quantum singularities,
And imploding nebulae.
Paul Butters
(C) PB 3\9\2011 in Yorkshire.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 11:09 AM UTC
It's alright gal I've turned off the lights
tonight is going to be a night to remember
your coat is in the cupboard under the stairs
hung and forgotten
for where you are going you won't need it
bed awaits our love making
your legs wrapped around my hips
you get yourself comfy
I need to urinate
ill empty my bladder and be right there
lay back and think of England
because no one but me will hear you scream
when I slip my ***** in
and make you wet
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
Old fellow old fellow
where for art thou old fellow
I'm in t'shed wi whippet and tin bath
his filthy from his walk on t'crags
you should ha seen him what a laugh
chasing through t'mud a plastic bag
Oh Fred you said it were too wet
to go a walking on t' pit top
your boots are caked in mud I'll bet
oh I bet thy breath sticks high of pop
Quiet woman can you not see
I'm as sober as a judge
so get yer back to makin t'tea
as I wash off me boots of sludge
She is the moan this northern lass
that makes me old heart flutter
but just one more word of disrespect
and I'll head in there and nut her
He is the pain makes me old heart ache
and the one that brings me t'laughter
but I'll **** him soon as look at him
if he don't respect that I'm a grafter
Teas on t'table drippings hot
there's fresh bread in the oven
by heck lass that there's real class
I love yer, yers a good un
So no Romeo nor Juliet
just honest homely folk
whom now the worth of mother earth
and the value of a joke
Let's leave em be in kitchen warm
wi the humblest of fayre
for Yorkshire folk are t'salt of earth
and I know coz I live there.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
You can yank me out of Yorkshire but I still want Yorkshire pudding
You can send me south but I’ll still go bargain hunting
Even though it is that I live in the South
I still have a hint of the northern mouth
Well that’s what the southerners say
But I’m sure to you it doesn’t sound that way
Anyway regardless where I am at
I’m Yorkshire bred and that’s a fact
To present this case to you
Some traits of yours; I have a few
I chose cheese to partner fruitcake
And forever search for savings to make
I always speak what’s on my mind
Which at times southerners think unkind
Though they themselves aren’t so good
When it comes to small talk in moments stood
A stranger is a momentary friend to a northerner
Whilst the southerner stands awkwardly waiting
I know which I would rather be
Let’s just say it has its’ own tea
So I am most pleased to see
That so much of you has rubbed off on me
For you my northern family
Are in my thoughts more than you know
And without you I would not be so
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
The Yorkshire accent
sounds pretty rough
"T" doesn't exist
unless you from Bradford
then you can't pronounce things propperly
and you say Bratfd
and the "o" lasts too long
the note is held on
now you knooow
how two letters are pronounced
go learn the dialect
not heard down soulth
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Total trust implies one must
remove all doubt that remains about
untold plans or secret spans
some past betrayals can last
that give cause for us to pause
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
Sweet, sweet the fields
where the grass grows rich and full
to fill the valley to a spectacular view
That comes and engulfs this mind of mine.
I run freely the course of the wind
twirling in this dance the eternals play
The days, the nights, ever glowing in bounty
to these wild free images that here surround
infiltrate and vitalize each breath taken
thought spoken and dream envisioned.
Here in the belly structures of life
I commit to the song of the bird over head
the fox upon the green and that screeching call
of the majestic wind, that falls and gathers
every scented blossom from the fragrant womb
Of Mother earths grandeur.
Who understands better or partakes of this form
ever born to the senses, drawn to the Soul
These remote desolate places that summon and call
reminding one of the glory, the powers that yield
Here in the Yorkshire Downs,One learns to know.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Apr 2, 2011
Apr 2, 2011 at 6:36 AM UTC
*This is one of the racier "Memories" poems by the great Barry Hodges, my alter ego.
It might well make you come involuntarily in your ******
How happy was I once with the wind in my hair
Wandering o'er the dales with joyousness unmeasur'd,
In the sweet long passed innocent days of platonic love
When stolen gropes and kiss were to be treasured.
But all good and true things come to a sad close
And my poor first love lies in her grave so sorrowfully
Having been crushed to death by a runaway steamroller
Before I managed to go all the way quite thoroughly.
What a waste of delightful teenage flesh was that
Yet perhaps I had a narrow escape from the derangement
Which might have been mine had our trysting
Led to a semi-permanent matrimonial arrangement.
For I recall one afternoon in the old ABC cinema
In the delighful Yorkshire spa town of Harrogate,
Sitting next to my gorgeous love in the back row,
Exploring her not so very private parts on a hot date.
How I cursed the management's niggardly folly
In not showing a film with hot romantic blood
But saving pathetic pennies by putting on
Daffy ******** Duck and Elmer ******* Fudd.
But yet I perserved with my digital explorations
Unaware that the throbs my fingers felt were no dream
But darling Elsie laughing like a proverbial drain
At Daffy's hilarious anatine adventures on-screen.
'Twas then I began to wonder about the viscous liquid
I had hitherto imagined was Elsie's lovejuice flowing
*(dear, dear reader, cease your perusal of my tale forthwith
if you are of a nervous disposition or prone to food up-throwing)*.
It was only a careful examination of my sopping knuckles
In the dimly lit gents after old Daffy's film was done and dusted
Which revealed that my dearly beloved had leaked
Big time out of both ends, leaving my fingers well encrusted.
O to think that, but for Daffy, I might have been lumbered
With a different kind of bird for whom double incontinence
Was a way of life (thus, the fatal steamroller she encountered
The very next day was a blessing from kindly Providence).
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
You ever wish that you were a wild animal?
Sounds a bit indecent, but reckoning the sense of freedom, order, and understandings
;then, you'll look at it through a bird's eye
Doesn't it seem like animals have no issues at finding their purposes?
They seem to know exactly what is it, in which what they are living for
Oppose to us humans, they seem to be less frightened by death
Do you think animals have religious beliefs?
Some divine stranger they must let control their life.
Or are they responsible enough themselves?
And/or only have faith in what it mean to live
...Just live
The things in which they used to do is still their tendencies today.
Give me one lion that don't hunt anymore?
One pack or tribe that is ran by female?
One chimpanzee who think swinging from trees is out of style?
One shark who think blood is disgusting?
I never met a gopher who wasn't hip enough, who didn't "dig"; digging wholes
Every cat I know rub their skull, ribs, backbone, tailbone and tail; in one motion against other creatures for what I figure as comfort.
Shepherd, Yorkshire, or hound; however, they all get on the mailman's nerves
Humans... We just seem lost
Not knowing where we belong
Steady trying to figure out right for wrong
Attitudes always going up or down
Need to much to crack a smile
The slightest ordeal can make us frown
A successful human is visioned as having access to the whole world
Do you ever see a honey bee left behind in a swarm?
Or a polar bear climbing a tree when it's warm?
Their world has no critics
No trends
No high expectations
Just eat, sleep, and ****
Is that it?
Or there's more to it?
Two separate lives
But I'm influenced
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Tucked inside ducts and they wait to erupt,
like ******* volcanoes and not one of you knows
until they spew out their tears.
I don't cry anymore,
my dad used to say,
'cry and you'll *** less'
I guess that's what dads do,
strangle you with words that you can't understand and
you're ******* your pants but you find you don't cry,so
I guess it works both ways.
We tend to grub in the dirt today and blub on some skirt today but it wasn't always that way,
men used to be strong and to cry would be wrong,
we got soft by holding aloft these ideals of what it is to be really a male.
I blame Charles Dickens for making men cry
for destroying the stiff upper lip.
'I spy with my little eye'
which is full of glistening tears,
something that's been happening to the male population for years.
Oh cry me a lake and I'll take a swim,
come in and join me,together we'll both be
wet.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 3:11 AM UTC
Come up north to see the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint
Sit down
And enjoy our way of life
Born and bred northern boy
But no flat cap or corduroys
Yorkshire til the day I die
I'll represent that West Yorks sign
Faithful to my northern life
Faithful to my northern rhyme
Brought up well with northern vibes
Through hard times, miners strike
Times when maggie thatcher tried
to stir up **** with lies designed
Got miners and police to fight
But don't believe that southern hype...
Those brutal battles gave us life
It redefined our future times
Redefined our future lines
Redefined the northern kind
Redefined our northern humour
Redefined our northern style
Tourists come from far and wide
to find out what the North is like
Expecting lack of cultured life
Surprised we're not uncultured swines
Rewarded with our northern minds
Our northern ways
Our northern lives
Come up north to see the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint
Sit down
Enjoy our way of life
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
It's all reet lass I've turned leets out
t'neet is gonna be a neet to remember
yer cowat is in the cubby ol'
hung and forgotten
fer weir yer goin yer w'aint need it
bed awaits our horizontal dancing
mekin the beast with four legs
you get yersen comfy
I need a slash
ill syphon me python an be reet with yer
lay back n think of England
coz nay one but me will hear the scream
when I slip thee a length
and mek the wet
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
I sit here on this lonely windswept ridge
Overlooking a wild place
Of peathag and bog and wild heather
Of outcrops of gritstone rock
Standing like rotting teeth
In ravished gums
Bleak and dreary in the rain
But still a place to be loved
Hardy sheep graze the barren slopes
Watched over by equal hardy men and dogs
Out in all weathers
I'm lucky
Because I know the tracks and trails
Crossing this wild land
I know the streams of fresh water
And the sanctuary for my nights rest
In my small lightweight tent
This is wild Yorkshire
As yet an unspoilt place
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC