JINGLE ON MY SON!

JINGLE ON MY SON!
A doughty champion of his local culture.(Poet Tom Hubbard)Your performance at the city hall was soooooooooo good! Christoph thought it was excellent! (Carolyn)

13.5.11

FOR RUUD

















Everything

was straight in your face

on Rozen Dwars Straat.

Proud

to be Jordaanese,

you wore a flower

in your hair,

on a road full

of colour

and perfume.

On St. Nicholas’ Day,

they gave you a present

of football,

all the way

from the Sonny Boys

of Surinam

to the Meerboys

of Amsterdam.


‘Devil’s calves’,

your father had,

a shot

like thunder over the Rijkesmuseum

where your mother,

Ria Dil,

cleaned,

working the ‘Night Watch’

through the underground tunnels

of a World of Art,

with Rembrandt, Rubens and M.C. Escher

your Stars.

The colour of those galleries

lit your mind,

took you

to the Mayans of Peru,

the Ancient Egyptians,

and the Crazy Cosmonauts

of your bright imaginings

in Bilbao Square,

Amsterdam Old West.


At the J.J. van Noord School,

in the regimented drizzle,

you practiced

knocking down bricks

and teachers

with the ball:

it was Football,

just Football,

only Football for you,

dancing inside your head’s canals,

all the seconds

of each teeming day

on the Amstel trams.


Ruud,

I am ferrying

these lines for you

across the Seas my father sailed;

words from a Geordie Boy,

dug from black-and-white chares,

simply

to let you know

that I saw the child

in you,

the Wonder shine in you,

in the sultry dreadlocked darkness of your face.

And I saw you cry out

by the Tyne

for your roots:

for Jerry Haatrecht your best friend

and all the black players of ‘89

who died

on a DC-8

in Suriname

and still burn on

in you.





KEITH ARMSTRONG


12.5.11

one for the royalists!



THE NORM FORCE


The police are appealing for information on people who are seen to be acting oddly

(You know the type)

People who:


make love in business hours,

sing in the Bank,

dance to work,

stand naked in the dole queue.

touch the person in the next seat,

sit in the wrong corners,

stand on seats,

stand in the stands,

steal so they don't starve,

shout angrily at the rich,

break down and twitch in public,

burn money,

kiss coloureds,

fight racists,

swim in the Tyne,

drown in the Tyne,

get drunk at the wrong time,

sleep when they should be awake,

undress when they should be dressing,

eat when they should be drinking,

drink when they should be eating,

wear no underclothes under their uniform,

refuse to wear a uniform,

call a weed a flower,

listen to bird-song,

drive to drink,

grow hair and grow young,

try to fly,

laugh too much &

make beautiful and useless things

(That type of person)



Keith Armstrong

11.5.11

PATRICK GALVIN - THE MADWOMAN OF CORK


Today
Is the feast day of Saint Anne
Pray for me
I am the madwoman of Cork.

Yesterday
In Castle street
I saw two goblins at my feet
I saw a horse without a head
Carrying the dead
To the graveyard
Near Turner’s Cross.

I am the madwoman of Cork
No one talks to me.

When I walk in the rain
The children throw stones at me
Old men persecute me
And women close their doors.
When I die
Believe me
They’ll set me on fire.

I am the madwoman of Cork
I have no sense.


Sometimes
With an eagle in my brain
I can see a train
Crashing at the station
If I told people that
They’d choke me.
Then where would I be?

I am the madwoman of Cork
The people hate me
.

When Canon Murphy died
I wept on his grave
That was twenty-five years ago.
When I saw him just now
In Dunbar Street
He had clay in his teeth
He blest me.

I am the madwoman of Cork
The clergy pity me.


I see death
In the branches of a tree
Birth in the feathers of a bird.
To see a child with one eye
Or a woman buried in ice
Is the worst thing
And cannot be imagined.

I am the madwoman of Cork
My mind fills me.

I should like to be young
To dress up in silk
And have nine children
I’d like to have red lips
But I’m eighty years old.
I have nothing
But a small house with no windows.

I am the madwoman of Cork
Go away from me.

And if I die now
Don’t touch me.
I want to sail in a long boat
From here to Roche’s Point
And there I will anoint
The sea
With oil of alabaster.

I am the madwoman of Cork
And today
Is the feast day of Saint Anne.
Feed me.

Controversial Irish writer Patrick Galvin has died aged 83


The playwright, poet and former RAF member was best known for the 2003 film, Song For A Raggy Boy, an autobiographical tale of a violent childhood in a Catholic school in Ireland.

Starring Aidan Quinn, it told of a solitary teacher's struggle to protect boys in a brutal Christian Brothers reform school in 1939.

The writer died just after midnight on Monday at his home in Cork with his fourth wife and agent, Mary Johnson, at his bedside.

Galvin's health had been in decline since he had a stroke in 2003, the year his best known work hit screens.

His third wife Diana, aged 84, who was cut out of the family inheritance after the pair eloped, paid tribute to him from her London home.

She said: "I am deeply sad that Paddy has died, although the last eight years were more than difficult for him because he could no longer write.

"We were together for 27 years: strange, volatile, entertaining and often profoundly happy years. He was marked by genius, and no genius is ever predictable.

"Our parting and divorce in 1978 was fairly traumatic but thank God we were both able to rise above that and become friends again, which we remained until the end of his life."

Born into extreme poverty in 1927 in Margaret Street, a deprived area in the south side of Cork, he was educated at St Conleth's Industrial School, Daingean, Co Offaly.

The school was examined in the Ryan inquiry which, in 2009, exposed the decades-long physical, psychological and sexual abuse of children in state and church-run institutions. The violent and sadistic priests featured in the reformatory-inspired Galvin`s acclaimed memoir, The Raggy Boy Trilogy.

Other works include the poem The Mad Woman Of Cork which was recorded as a hit song, and stage plays such as The Last Burning in 1974, which explored the themes of witchcraft and ostracism, and Boy In The Smoke, screened by BBC Television in 1965.

Galvin spent many years living in England and joined the RAF in 1943, returning to Ireland in 1974 when he became Playwright in Residence at the Lyric Theatre, Belfast.

He will be cremated on Thursday in his native Cork.


BACK IN THE BOULANGER















This wooden wall

was here in Hegel’s time.

He had its ear.

He would have carved out

a conversation then,

rested his tired head,

drunk time.

The punter here today

tells us strangers this.

He’s proud of the local boy,

Georg Wilhelm Friedrich the woodsman,

and of the wood,

dark with ages,

that has lived

to tell you

the truth.



KEITH ARMSTRONG

2.5.11

A JELLY FISH MANIFESTO


















(for Jakub)


Home Rule for the Jelly Fish,
A swimming pool, not a dirty dish.

Jelly Fish of the oceans unite,
Swim in one peace, don’t fight.

No longer Jelly Fish of War,
We will make love on the sea floor.

No more monuments to dead fish,
At last we Jelly Fish will have our wish.

New markets for Jelly Fish allies,
No matter what their countries’ size.

March for freedom for Jelly Fish,
Create a Jelly Fish world of bliss.

No more the rotten capitalist sting,
For the new Jelly Fish future we sing.

Fight for the Jelly Fish vote,
Sail in a Jelly Fish boat.

For democracy for the Jelly Fish,
Put your cross on the Jelly Fish list.

Place your faith in the Jelly Fish Party,
Go to Jelly Fish University.

Make more Jelly Fish money,
Spend your days in a hive of Jelly Fish honey.

Jelly Fish bank notes
For Jelly Fish poets!

Jelly Fish bank notes
For Jelly Fish poets!




KEITH ARMSTRONG

1.5.11

back in tuebingen in 2012! if not before!




29.4.11

the centurion bar, newcastle central station



















'THE LIGHT IN THE CENTURION'


FREE FULL COLOUR BROCHURE (2000 PRINT RUN) TO CELEBRATE THE CENTURION AND ITS HISTORY


FEATURING SPECIALLY COMMISSIONED POETRY FROM KEITH ARMSTRONG



PHOTOS: PETER DIXON & TONY WHITTLE



LAUNCH EVENT


THURSDAY 19TH MAY 5.30PM THE CENTURION


FEATURING SPECIALLY COMMISSIONED POETRY FROM KEITH ARMSTRONG


WITH ANN SESSOMS ON NORTHUMBRIAN PIPES AND SONGS BY GARY MILLER



NEW MUSIC BY TREVOR WISHART



The Premiere of the complete 4-act version of Encounters in the Republic of Heaven will take place at The SAGE, Gateshead on Wednesday May 4th, 2011.

Features Dr Keith Armstrong on tape.



Also at:

May 16 (Monday) : London King's Place : The London premiere.
June 1 (Wednesday ) : Oxford : Jacqueline du Pres Concert Hall, St Hilda's College.
June 24 (Friday) : Cockermouth : Eco Centre as part of the Midsummer Festival.


May 12 (Thursday) : Limerick Digital Media and Arts Research Centre : The Irish premiere at centre launch.
September : Mexico City : at the International Electronic Art and Video Festival TRANSITIO MX_04.
November 18 (Friday) : The Hague : at the Kees van Baarenzaal, Institute of Sonology.
August 2012 : Toronto performance proposed for Deep Wireless Festival.

28.4.11

radical north east



from 2006! - intro to 'radical north east'



A RADICAL NORTH EAST ANTHOLOGY

ARMSTRONG’S VISION

‘Can Tyrants hinder people from singing at their work, or in their families? Sing and meet and meet and sing and your chains will drop off like burnt thread.’

(Thomas Spence)

‘The older lads in the pit had a habit of ballad singing. It was seldom that they knew a ballad right through but they used to sing snatches of ballads and songs at their work and these fastened themselves in my memory.’

(Joseph Skipsey)


‘Geordieland’, we are given to understand by the City Fathers, is undergoing a cultural rebirth. The banks of the Tyne are pampered with a gushing stream of Lottery money, the new Music Centre rubs shoulders with the new Gateshead Hilton. We ‘Geordies’ aren’t so thick after all. We don’t just jog like manic lemmings to South Shields each year in ‘The Great North Run’ but we’re wired for Beethoven and Damien Hirst as well.
Gone are the grubby pits and the dorty back lanes, this a new and dynamic place rising from the squalor of the cloth-cap and the doleful whippet.
The Geordie-joint is buzzin’, we’re even thinking of joining Europe now. So who needs History when you can Party?
And then we have the self-styled ‘Geordie Intelligentsia’, the true proclaimers of ‘Geordie Genius’, who wallow in an analysis built actually on mythology and inflated regional pride.
So we have, by way of example, the genius Bunting hauled from obscurity by the romantic Pickards operating from their beloved Morden Tower Poetry HQ in a haze of Geordie dope and literati splendour. The stuff of legend! But how much of it is true and how many people know or care? Who really believes in their own bones and hearts the tale of the good St. Cuthbert?
Do they celebrate our glorious Christian heritage doon the Bigg Market of a Friday? Are the Lindisfarne Gospels Alan Hull’s best work?
Even our esteemed Novocastrian academics can’t put their finger on the derivation of the ‘Geordie’ but still we’re proud to be one aren’t we? The most likely roots of the term derive from Newcastle’s opposition to the Jacobite uprisings and the city’s loyal support for the monarch. So much for a progressive culture then!
The new Music Centre will allow the classical ‘Northern Sinfonia’ to share digs with the traditional ‘Folkworks’ outfit. You see there can be no contradictions in ‘Third Way Geordieism’, the cultural boat has come in and we’re all aboard and happy to enjoy ‘the buzz’ created for us by our Glorious Municipality and its entourage of quango-speakers and cultural money-grubbers. All aboard you poets, musicians, thespians, and public art workers! There are grants to be had and we need the loot to fund our coffeehouse lifestyles, we need the tingle of ‘Success’!
In proposing a different look at things through the prism of a Radical North East anthology,
I am seeking to argue that there is a heritage of dissidence in the region and that this needs to be kept alive if there is to be any real vitality and space for argument on the banks of Tyne, Wear, and Tees. To do this, we need to uncover what is truly challenging and subversive in our culture, what is not only local but of universal significance. My own sense of this goes back to the Border Ballads and on to 17th and 18th century Newcastle, to the times of Thomas Spence and Thomas Bewick and Swarley’s Club, where poetry and song spoke for the underclass and sedition was in the air, side by side with the beautiful craftsmanship of Bewick and his school.
We have others from the grass-roots like Joseph Skipsey and Jack Common who offer a more radical insight than the romance of Cookson or the school of ‘Larn Yersel Geordie’.
We need to see our regional pride in world terms to give it a balance with the culture of others. Whilst I would expect the anthology to have a strong focus on working-class and indigenous culture, a culture which the City Fathers would prefer to skate over, we need to to look at this in the context of race and gender, nationalism and multi-culturalism. We need to see how us ‘Geordies’ can celebrate the world.
So the vision is of a refreshed grass-roots culture built on the positive bricks of the past with a sense of a regional universe rejecting cultural imperialism and asserting cultural democracy.
Dialect is important but not hand in hand with feudalism. Folk-singers can be as inspired by the Chilean Victor Jara as much as by Derwentside’s Tommy Armstrong.
I support the Campaign for a North East Assembly but as a stepping to empowerment at a local level not as an extra arm of the Labour Party, which to my mind has become culturally sterile and opportunist in using culture to paper over the gaps in its own political ineptitude.
Not long ago the City Fathers were scarcely bothered about the Arts now they’re a gravy train for inward investment. We need to challenge this use of the Arts to promote Business and the relationship between the two. We need to return the Lottery money to the people.
We are suggesting that the way forward is through a conflict of ideas based on an historical perception of our regional identity. If a Radical North East anthology can contribute to such a debate then it will be worthwhile.
‘In Gateshead, we passed some little streets named after the poets, Chaucer and Spenser and Tennyson Streets ...... and I wondered if any poets were growing up in those streets. We could do with one from such streets; not one of our frigid sniggering rhymers, but a lad with such a flame in his heart and mouth that at last he could set the Tyne on fire.’

(J.B.Priestley, English Journey, 1934)

‘Watch me go leaping in my youth
down Dog Leap Stairs,
down fire-scapes.
The Jingling Geordie
born in a Brewery,
drinking the money
I dug out of the ground.’


(Keith Armstrong)


http://www.footballpoets.org/p.asp?Id=26031

24.4.11

“ALL RICH PEOPLE ARE PARASITES”



“All rich people are parasites”,
said the girl as she glided in,
drifting through the French window,
with a face that looked ready to kill.

She sat next to me on the chaise longue,
she had next to nothing on.
And Stockhausen’s friend played piano
and the party became a song.

Her eyes moved amongst the guests,
cutting them up with her glare.
She draped her legs across mine
and played with the strands of her hair.

“All rich people are parasites.
The future belongs to the poor.”
And she put her hand on my thigh
and she kicked her shoes on the floor.

She took me upstairs to my room,
she was drunk on red wine and champagne.
In the rich afternoon we made love,
in the evening it spat on to rain.

Her hair was wild and soaked
as we wandered through the wood.
She fell and cut her leg
and I licked it to taste the blood.

In town we sat in a candlelit pub,
with the light flickering over our lives.
Somebody tried to sell us a rose
but she told him she wasn’t in love.

“All rich people are parasites”,
I’ll forever remember those words,
and the evening we spent by the Neckar,
feeding the crumbs to the birds.



Keith Armstrong,
Tuebingen

the jingling geordie

My photo
whitley bay, tyne and wear, United Kingdom
poet and raconteur