lange gasse 18

The leaves blow through the glass

as dreams float in the room

and people I have travelled with

climb up these timbered stairs.

Memories coat the walls,

days wander down the lane;

there is no telling where the tales

of drunken nights have gone.

Church bells punctuate the moon,

screams open up the dawn,

and I see Jennifer lying there,

poems oozing from her smiles.

At morning, Ingrid, with her little hands,

brings coffee to my brain

and Karin calls at evening’s door

with wine to ease the pain.

All these dancing moments,

the dripping down of hours;

this house’s chest is heaving

with the loss of human touch.

I drink those sunken days

and know the gulps are fleeting

but the moonlight-stains on the empty bed

will show we bled

for love.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

OUT TO SEA

SOUVENIR CD


North Tyneside based poet Keith Armstrong and conceptual artist Rolf Wojciechowski recently completed the tour up the Northumberland coast of their text sculpture and poetry performance project, ‘Out to Sea’.

Keith performed his poetry on the local beaches with a loudhailer.

The project was launched at the Dove Marine Laboratory in Cullercoats and a display based on the journey was staged at various venues, including the Maltings Arts Centre in Berwick, Amble Library, The Ship at Low Newton by the Sea, South Shields Central Library and St. Mary’s Lighthouse, Whitley Bay.

Performances by Keith and folk musicians were also staged at the above venues.

This amounted to a literary and musical trail along the coast.

A selection of Keith’s poems from ‘Out to Sea’ are featured on this new CD. Further poems are also included from his recent Northumbrian projects, with sequences on Northumbrian Piper Jamie Allan (1733-1810), the fishing village of Spittal, Whitley Bay’s Spanish City and North Shields’ pubs.

Grants from Commissions North, Arts Council England North East, Northumberland Coast Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and North Tyneside Council facilitated the ‘Out to Sea’ project and enabled this souvenir CD to be recorded.

Artists: Keith Armstrong - poetry, Ann Sessoms - Northumbrian Pipes, The Ancient Mariners - sea shanties, Jim Mageean - sea shanties.

Recorded at Time Studio, the Buddle Arts Centre, Wallsend, North Tyneside.

Mastered at Shoebox Studios, Newcastle upon Tyne.

ORDER YOUR COPY NOW BY SENDING A CHEQUE FOR £5 (INCLUDES POSTAGE) TO:

Northern VoIces, 93 Woodburn Square, Whitley Lodge, Whitley Bay, Tyne & Wear NE26 3JD, England.

Tel. 0044 (0)191 2529531.

THE FIRST TIME! AN IRISH TRAVELOGUE

1.                                                           

The 7^th February 2012  saw me heading North along

the A1 towards Newcastle Airport. it was early, it was

dark, but it didn’t matter, this trip had been a long time

coming and I couldn’t wait to get on with it.

On the concourse of the airport, I saw who I was looking

for exchanging his sterling for euros with maximum effect

but then that’s what you would expect from "the Jingling

Geordie".

Ryan’s wings ferried us across the sea and we landed with a

scary bump in Dublin’s Fair City. 

A bus ride through streets wide and narrow, where Molly Malone

once pushed her wheelbarrow, quickly brought us to Dublin's Heuston 

Railway Station and the Galway Hooker Bar. Keith, being a doctor, expertly

explained that the place was nothing to do with ill repute or ladies of

the night.

This kind of hooker was in fact a type of sailing vessel. I must

admit, I did feel a little disappointed. Anyway, we spent a glorious

afternoon watching travellers of all types travel through their

life’s written pages, while I readily sank the black stuff and

Keith sank the Magners.

It was brilliant in the Galway Hooker Bar but time and trains wait for no

men, not even spellbinding poets who were filling themselves to

the brim with the Irish charm.

2.

We ambled, unsteadily, along Platform Six and climbed aboard

a brand new train to Limerick, where Keith said we would

get even more kicks. The three hour journey seemed to vanish

as speedily as the dainty tins of Magners that were on sale.

We staggered out of Limerick Station straight into “Charlie St

George's" bar and raised a glass or four to the actor Richard

Harris who used to whet his whistle there. I was quite happy, 

in my Guinness induced haze, so I said "Fuck the gigs!" but

Keith, being the true professional that he is, said unconvincingly:

"No, we’ll make this our last and then we’ll have to grab a taxi

- fast !", which we reluctantly did.

The Jury’s Hotel welcomed us with open arms, it was Magners for

Keith and a tuna and sweet corn sandwich for me - sorry! but I

was ravenous. We had just enough time to get to our room put

our bags down and then it was order a taxi and straight to the gig.

I can’t remember how we got to "Foleys Bar" but when we did

the place was packed, from floor to ceiling, with poets, writers,

artists…all of whom, came, at various times through

the evening, to say hello to Keith, who is well respected and

extremely popular there, which is very good news, even better

news was that we never paid for another drink all night.

Modesty forbids me to blow my own trumpet too loudly, but I

have to admit we absolutely rocked Foley's Bar and went down a

blinding sensational storm - the audience would not let us off

the stage until we repeatedly promised to make a return visit

in 2013.

We even overshadowed the presence of Miss Limerick who was

involved in a photo shoot. You may have heard the old rhyme,

"In Dublin’s Fair City where the girls are so pretty" and it is

perfectly true, Dublin girls are so pretty - but not as pretty

as Miss Limerick! She looked absolutely stunning. Her beauty

cut straight through the Guinness-induced haze and set our

thoughts on a hopeful wandering. We were silently hoping our

fame as poets would hastily spread to her table and she would

inexorably rushed to ours - no such luck! 

3.

Nobody wanted to leave Foleys bar, because the evening had

been so incredibly enjoyable. The licensee had to plead with

everyone to leave before he lost his liquor license. A truly

memorable night!

I don’t know what time it was when we got back to the hotel

I was totally pissed but felt very pleased with myself. My head hit

the pillow and I just crashed out for what seemed like seconds,

when suddenly I was woken by Keith saying:

"How does it feel to be a success, Lonsdale? "

I was really thrilled by his comment and will remember the

moment all my life.

Keith had set the alarm for 6.00am just to make sure we

didn’t miss breakfast and after being suitably fortified by a

full Irish we prepared ourselves to do the whole trip again,

only this time in reverse.

4.

This roller coaster of a trip came to a fabulous climax inside

the "Palace Bar", Dublin, surrounded by Ireland's finest

literary giants together with two of Keith’s friends, Noel Duffy

and Shauna Gilligan, who are both superb writers. It was a

wonderful craic-filled afternoon and a very fitting end to

our trip. When we left "the Palace", my head was literally

spinning, the time spent there had been an absolute delight.

Standing unsteadily outside, we found all the cash we

had left was twenty euros between us, which was unsettling

to say the least because the taxi fare to Dublin Airport was

thirty seven euros. Desperate times call for desperate measures:

I waved a passing taxi down and slurred our predicament to the

driver. He was a good man and full of the craic, he said he

would do us a favour and take us to the airport for twenty euros.

He also threw in his very intimidating and frightening life

story along the way, for free. I somehow remember feeling glad

to be alive when we reached Dublin Airport. The chap was

a cross between Fred West and the Kray Twins, enough said.

I was sad to leave Ireland, it had been my first time there and

something I had always wanted to do and will certainly do

again. Everywhere we went, we were made to feel very

welcome and every gig we did was a complete and total

success, I can honestly say that Doctor Keith Armstrong and I

absolutely shook Dublin and Limerick to their core, Keith

even volunteered to help save the waters of the River Shannon

from being drained off and sold. 

The craic and the laughter never stopped from

take off to touch down and I loved every minute of it. I really

did not want this adventure to end. "Roll on next year!" that’s

what I say and many thanks for the invite Keith, I wouldn’t

have missed it for the world.

ROBERT LONSDALE

SKULLHEAD

Oh, how soon

Beauty and form disappear.

You shine with your cheeks

Just like milk and purple shine.

Alas, the roses are withering.

(Wilhelm Hauff)

An aging, independent scholar disturbed my musings - a dessicated, lonely and embittered bachelor known as ‘skullhead’. For years he has been living all alone. He injected his bitter mockery into the elegy I had just begun and walked around those paths with me for a whole hour, talking and grumbling. It was a strange thing to watch: he couldn't help making bitter and angry jokes, yet he needed so badly to talk about himself and be sociable that he thrust himself upon me in a manner I found almost moving.

(Hermann Hesse, letter from Tuebingen 2/10/1898)

I clocked him

again 

yesterday,

a long and lonely Sunday,

falling out of the Boulanger

with the moon in his top pocket.

He’d had a schnapps too many

and it showed

on his slobbering tongue.

He was hanging round 

nooks and crannies,

last year’s stubble

stuck

on his crazed cranium.

He could have been Hermann Hesse

but he found himself 

in a rut,

got his heart broke too often

got his bones frozen

too many times,

embittered,

brittle as old crumbs.

But his eyes

gleamed

with knowledge

and foreboding,

his wiseness

bothered people

in their aimlessness:

folk growing kids

to make themselves feel useful.

Skullhead knew different,

he knew that the Neckar

was full of piss,

that the trees on the Platanenallee

had brains

and feelings,

that the sky screamed

and churches were awash 

with shit.

Young girls and boys

basking by the Cafe Piccolo Sole d’Oro,

eyes playing

with sunlight,

flinched

when they saw him.

They might just end up like him,

brilliant and unloved,

stuck in a town called Tuebingen,

shoelaces trailing 

down Hafengasse,

branches creaking,

river murmuring,

footsteps in the memory,

fallen leaves.

That 

and the dull thud 

of spiritless music

everywhere,

no God,

no hope.

Only Skullhead

to remind us

that we’re going nowhere

but the graveyard,

like Hoelderlin

without the poetry.

KEITH ARMSTRONG