NORTH TYNESIDE STEAM - KILLINGWORTH BOOK LAUNCH

GRAND POETRY

GRAND HOTEL, TYNEMOUTH RESIDENCY 

GRAND TIMES - A NEW PUBLICATION 

Featuring Keith Armstrong’s sequence of poems inspired by his recent artist's residency: 

(1)

From this Grand window

My eyes

Surf

Across the sea

To a world 

Of stars

And tranquility.

(2)

In Room 333

I feel free

To admire

The view

And dream

Of a Duke 

And a Duchess

And a world

Passed by.

(3)

The Grand

Long Sands

So much

To understand.

(4)

Ships in the Night

Passing along

Hotel corridors

Full

Of memories

And exotic cargo.

(5)

The gulls’ wings

Flicker

Between the curtains

In my room.

(6)

I have written

A Grand poem

On the Long Sands

For visitors to read

From their windows.

(7)

Snapshots

At Reception

Today

All my dreams

Are

In colour.

(8)

There’s a seagull 

In Copperfield’s

And its wings

Are wet

Full 

Of the drink 

And tales

Of the Ocean.

(9)

The dogs

Are bounding

RIght across the Sands

And I

Am breathless

With love.

(10)

I am 

Getting married

To a barmaid

Today

All my dreams

Will come true.

(11)

This Hotel

Is friends

And its rooms

Are full

Of kisses.

(12)

I give 

You

This ring

To wed you

To the Sea.

(13)

The Grand Hotel 

Is on our flight path

And the sky is

On the Menu.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Grand Hotel, Tynemouth 

SONG FOR ANNELIESE

You can’t analyse Anneliese,

she has too free a view.

Anneliese flies through the breeze

And makes a dream come true.

She’s a free floater, not a voter.

There’s a song inside her head.

When she dances she prances, no disco romances;

She sways into my bed.

She’s a German daughter, no teacher taught her.

No nails can hold her down.

When she needs to, she’s free to, no rules to bow to;

She wears no fancy gown.

You can’t analyse Anneliese,

she has too free a view.

Anneliese flies through the breeze

And makes a dream come true.

She’s a true feminist, a brainy anarchist.

She has no hatred in mind.

She’ll love and she’ll give and try to forgive;

She’s not the possessive kind.

She’s a poet on skis, on a flying trapeze.

For her beliefs, she’ll travel miles.

She’s a constant surprise, she’s a gleam in my eyes;

I see planets in her smiles.

You can’t analyse Anneliese,

she has too free a view.

Anneliese flies through the breeze

And makes a dream come true.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

THE STORY OF STEAM: FOR GEORGE STEPHENSON 1781-1848

‘How wonderfully has his invention facilitated the meeting of thousands of fond and happy lovers.’ (Thomas Summerside)

The story of steam,

history’s hiss 

through the passing

of engines and 

clapped-out hours.

The pereptual urge

to move

into the peace

of sleeping valleys;

iron dreams

and the nagging drive

of cruel ambition 

on the banks of the sliding Tyne.

You knew all this George,

how violent life is,

as, thoughtless in your youth, 

you stole a blackbird’s eggs,

developing an understanding

of mankind’s urge

to rip forests apart,

to make ways

through gardens and castles, 

for commerce

and selfishness to have their way.

That and the wonderful offshoots

like lovers

getting together

and children laughing

in cultural deserts.

Your broad Northumbrian tongue

echoed along rails,

barked orders

to force idle workers

to spark the engines

that scared the crows

and brought terror to horses and cattle

with the fiery blast of mechanical power.

Your ambition surged roughshod

over delicate flowers,

more interested in the mechanics of time 

and fixing watches

than the whispers that the clocks of dandelions

heard in the breeze.

Mister Practicality, 

though you knew that the human lot

ended up in vapour,

you still told the pitmen’s sons that the earth

was round,

taught algebra to the lads

in a curiosity shop

of working models,

self-acting planes

and perpetual motion machines.

In your litttle garden,

you grew gigantic leeks, astounding cabbages,

scarecrow ams to fly in the wind

and a sundial to record the ticks of days.

Hammering the flaming hours

into the rickety shape of Blucher,

you moved people along the way,

crafted the valves, the rods and cylinders

of life

into a breathing thing

that lolloped along,

careering like you

into a famous night.

It did not come without a price;

My Lord, they can’t imagine

how much you scraped along in the dirt,

the bursting blisters on your feet,

your hurting fingers as you began to write.

Wriggling out of the Militia,

you earned everything you got,

forced 

to suffer the deaths of wives and daughter

and the blinding of a father.

Weeping bitterly on the West Moor to Killingworth road,

thinking of leaving for America,

you got to your own station in the end.

Geordie,

with Ferguson’s ‘Astronomy’ in your hardy hands,

you gave us many a glorious smoke-filled day,

brought young lovers together on platforms

awash with the smell of smoke

and the sparks of hearts 

spreading lightning across the land. 

KEITH ARMSTRONG

from 'North Tyneside Steam', Northern Voices Community Projects, 2014.

OUR SPITTAL: POEMS BY KEITH ARMSTRONG, PHOTOS BY TONY WHITTLE

Tammy Spence he had no sense,

he bought a fiddle for eighteen pence

and all the tunes that he could play

was ‘O’er the Hills and Far Away’.

From Cow Road to Hud’s Head,

Toppye Knowe Stone and Spittal Point,

we have dredged the coal

and snapped up fish

with ‘Lovely Polly’ and all.

We have ground the corn and bone,

found the iron and cured and smoked.

We have worshipped Bart and lifeboats

and prayed to Paul and John.

We have staggered on in rain and nonconformity.

We have lurched along old shores,

drowned the thirst of sailors

with the rattling old Town Bell and the tunes of jolly Jack,

whistled and fiddled away

in the bright Red Lion light.

Jesus Light of the World,

we are the history in the barrel,

in the soaring wind

and in the foaming waves:

it is our blood,

it is our bread,

it is our Spittal,

our mirrored past.

TALES OF SPITTAL

This small space

for tall tales,

the leprous tongues of centuries,

hospitalised gossips,

words drifting out of ward windows

on a dripping wet afternoon.

Church reduced to a hung silence,

closed hearts

ready for a drink.

And there’s this man

like a tea leaf in the corners

of the Blenheim or the Red Lion or The Albion.

He’s gagging for a chat about the old days,

it’s on the lips of driftwood,

swirling in the blown down days.

Tug the fruit machine,

wallop down a pie-eyed dream.

The ghosts of Victorian ladies

hiss along the promenade

as we are hit in the face

with sepia breezes.

They come from North Sea places

and from Kelso,

Selkirk and Hawick,

they ripple the surface of the sea

and the leaves in the border forests.

Take the ancient waters,

sips of iron and sulphur,

bathe yourself in history and grime.

Pellets of sleet,

hail a watery charabanc drive,

run a hot bath

down the prom prom prom.

And let the keen and callous wind

whip up the skirts of the Tweedside girls,

so you can dance for your lives.

We are the Spittal folk,

the old Pierrots,

our songs are shattered

on ancient rocks.

Our children skip through the clutter of news.

Bless them,

bless young hearts.

Splash in Bishop’s Water,

in fishing places,

songs of herring and of salmon.

Spittal Rovers

sing again.

Leap for breath

in the ways of Spring.

RICHARD MENDHAM’S SPITTAL TIPPLE

Yon tippling illiterate Spittaler,

that smuggler of drunkenness,

thief and copier of the night.

Across the lines of sobriety,

you lurched,

carving a living

from rich streams

of whisky.

Dodging water bailiffs across rooftops,

creeping down trap stairs,

you and your gang

of fleetfooted drunks

shifted illicit dreams.

Eyes glinting in hidie-holes,

disguised in black cloth and gowns,

you sparked like bar-flies in the dark.

Dancing round brightly,

skipping school lightly,

laughed in your dens of warm cackle.

Shook the village with laughter,

gave the rude sign to Berwick,

pranced till they caught you,

hung you high

from your rafter

for daring to test

the stone-sober law.

*Richard Mendham - 1830s Spittal smuggler and counterfeiter who was tried and executed at Jedburgh in the presence of Sir Walter Scott, Sheriff of Selkirkshire.

DRINKING IN SPITTAL

See me fall out of The Elephant bar,

where I’ve been drinking with salmon.

Spittal foaming from my open mouth.

Lame, maimed, drunken,

dissolute, boisterous and poor,

I have become intoxicated by parties of pleasure.

I have strayed from the Holy Island to Brandy Well,

become awash in luggers of boozers,

staggering on smugglers’ sand.

Gin, brandy, tobacco and silk,

let me cleanse myself in the morning light,

take the clean waters of Jesus.

Walk to the Hallowstell,

past the lepers’ huts,

for drops of holy blood,

strip away with bare hands

this ugly scorbutic humour.

Clean the beaches,

clean Spittal,

clean my weary soul.

I will launch myself

into a seawater bath

and blow hot and cold

with the seasoning.

Calybeate waters of Spittal,

salts of pure iron,

you have me

chained to your heavy drinking cup.

Let my lovely heart sing

with children and larks.

Let me go plodging

in daffodils.

GIRL IN A SPITTAL WINDOW

Glancing moment,

chance look.

I was wondering

where to go,

what to do

in the seaside fret.

I am growing 

misty with dreams:

welcome to my Spittal World.

I am little in this universe,

the sun is falling,

the stars are poised.

The window cleaner

will come in the morning

and wipe yesterday 

away.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

The coastal scenery around Berwick is very fine, with rocks and cliffs, only occasionally interrupted by small bays and harbours. The nearest bathing beach to the town is in the little seaside resort of Spittal, to the south.

I was very impressed by the picture you and Tony created of Spittal.

It struck me that it was in the very best traditions of photo-journalism -

Picture Post recreated for the electronic age.   I thought images and text 

showed great respect and sensibility.

JOHN MAPPLEBECK (Bewick Films)