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)

22.4.11

twinning again in tuebingen!




Austerity is for the English. The cuts will hit England hardest. Why doesn't it have its own parliament like the rest of Britain?

Here is a question for St George's Day: how should England respond to the government's austerity agenda? If it sounds like an odd question, it is only because we never ask it.

We know what we stand to lose from the ongoing public service cuts: affordable university education; state support for many higher education courses; a health service that operates in the interests of patients rather than accountants; publicly owned forests; state support for arts, cultural bodies and voluntary services; libraries and swimming pools.

But who is "we"? The answer, in all the cases named above, is the English.

Austerity will affect the whole of the UK, but most of its blows are landing on England. In Scotland, if you go to your GP – who will not be commissioning services under the Lansley plan because it doesn't apply there – and he gives you a prescription, it does not cost you the £7.40 it costs you in England; it's free. Your forests are not for sale, because Westminster does not have the power to sell them. Your libraries, schools and sports centres cannot be closed by the coalition either. If a Scottish student goes to university in Edinburgh, it's free, and the state pays for the courses. English students pay through the nose.

This looks achingly unfair. But it has happened for a reason. The reason is that the Scottish have their own government, which acts as a buffer against decisions made in Westminster. Why do the Scots have this? Because of decades of campaigning by a population determined to assert its sovereignty. A similar situation applies in Wales.

We know who speaks for Scotland and for Wales. But who speaks for England? The British prime minister, like his predecessor, won't even mention the word unless he's praising the football team. His government at Westminster speaks for and of Britain. So do the protesters who oppose him. UK Uncut never mentions the fact that much of what it opposes does not apply to the whole UK. The group 38 Degrees is campaigning to save "our NHS" when the NHS outside England is not at risk. Who speaks for England? Nobody, it seems.

There are reasons for this. For centuries, England dominated the union, and many of the English lazily assumed that England and Britain were the same thing. These days, we are being forced to wake up to the fact that this is not true, and never has been.

As we do, we wake up to grievances. Is it fair that Scottish and Welsh MPs can make our laws while we can't make theirs? That the devolution settlement has given the people of three of the four British nations a vote on their national destiny but denied it to the largest? That Scottish citizens get more money from the Treasury per head than the English? That we are the only nation in Europe without our own government or parliament?

No. None of it is fair. But if we want it to change we have to do something. We are going through a fascinating historical period, full of pain but also of opportunity. Perhaps it gives us a chance to create our own radical narrative.

I say "create", but the narrative is already there. England has a deep history of resistance to the alliance of state and property, which the radical writer William Cobbett called "the Thing". We might focus on resistance to the land thefts known as the inclosures, which forced self-sufficient rural communities into urban slums; or the peasants' revolt; or the uprising of Jack Cade; or the civil war radicals; or the anti-capitalist rebellion of the Luddites, which happened two centuries ago this year. The story is there, waiting for us.

This St George's Day, we should give some thought to writing it. We could link the current attacks by the British state on English public life with our lack of political representation. In the name of our historic freedoms, we could call for English home rule – for the return of the English parliament, lost like that of the Scots to the Act of Union. This would give us a national narrative a million miles away from the establishment tale of royal weddings and military interventions.

At heart, this is an issue of sovereignty. When the Scottish reclaimed their nationhood from Westminster, they asserted the sovereignty of their citizens. The English case is the same. Who owns the English NHS, English forests, English libraries? Not David Cameron. Not the British state: the English people.

Talking about economics and politics is never enough. If you want change, you need to speak to people about their culture; appeal to their sense of belonging and ownership. There is power in history, and in narratives of nationhood, and there can be a deep radicalism in standing up for our rights, knowing who we are, in an increasingly plastic, corporate world
.

15.4.11

HOTEL UTOPIA


























































(for Tony Whittle)


In the Hotel Utopia,
we’re as happy as mortal sin.
You can hear an old man crying
through the city din.

There’s a tap that’s always dripping
and walls that are paper thin
and, in this Hotel Utopia,
we’re really dreaming.

There’s a picture in the bathroom
of a resort miles away
and the stairs creak like the old man’s lungs
as he lives another day.

Outside, the trams go tumbling past
and a young girl lights the glass.
It’s Amsterdam and more days lost
on the streets that run so fast.

Yes, here in the Hotel Utopia,
we’re as happy as mortal sin.
You can hear an old man crying
through the City din.

There’s a tap that’s always dripping
and walls that are paper thin
and, in this Hotel Utopia,
we’re really dreaming.

Remember Anne Frank passed this way
so you could grab some Speed,
get high on Sex and learn tp pray
for this City of Eternal Greed.

Take a canal boat, a Rembrandt Ride,
take a hippie down a diamond mine.
I’m a happy man but this City’s sad
and we’re running out of time.

Here, in the Hotel Utopia,
we’re as happy as mortal sin.
You can hear an old man crying
through the City din.

There’s a tap that’s always dripping
and walls that are paper thin
and, in this Hotel Utopia,
we’re really dreaming.

You can lose your eyes in a haze of dope,
you can drink your life to death.
Lying down, in these days of hope,
you’re running out of breath.

So pack your bags and fly away,
through the crowds on these Amstel streets.
Just one last whiff of a Tulip Day
and the weight is off your feet.

In the Hotel Utopia,
we’re as happy as mortal sin.
You can hear an old man crying
through the City din.

There’s a tap that’s aways dripping
and walls that are paper thin
and, in this Hotel Utopia,
we’re really dreaming.





KEITH ARMSTRONG


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vLOUbuFxQI

'Well Keith your beautiful poetry melts my heart, you know that don't you?

Good to see you writing about current politics, don't stop, our country may be depressing politically but the things that are happening are still brimming with meaning and young people today especially need to believe that poetry can be powerful.'

(Jen x)



'No one in the North East has written and read and

encouraged and organised so consistently and over so

long a period as Keith Armstrong. His poetry is

different, original, and politically exhilarating.’

'It doesn't matter which way his poems are facing, or

the subjects they address, it is recognisibly the same

sensibility, each part of a unified whole, and unified

by the same, strong identifiable voice.' (Andy Croft).


14.4.11

tuebingen: images from peter dixon





JOHN MARTIN (1789-1854)

Event name: Lunchtime Lecture: Keith Armstrong – Under the Fantastic Sky

Date and time: Wednesday 1 June, 12.30 – 13.30

Venue: The Laing Art Gallery

Description: Poet and performer Keith Armstrong will speak about John Martin and his brothers and their relationship to regional culture. Armstrong will also perform a sequence of his own poems inspired by Martin and his family.

Admission: Free – no need to book.

Contact: For more info about this and other events at The Laing, call (0191) 232 7734 or visit the official site.


don't forget jingle's at strugglers inn, lincoln april 20th!








































Clarke's Dog

The Strugglers Inn, Lincoln, is said to be haunted by the ghost of this little fellow. His owner, William Clarke, was executed for murder at Lincoln Castle. After the execution, the dog used to return to the pub looking for his master, whin ing and scratching around. Soon afterward the dog himself died and was stuffed by the Landlord. It was then that the spectral hound started being seen around the pub and castle precinct. Sounds of a pitiful, howling hound have also been heard. The dog was kept at the pub for many years but can now be seen in the Castle Museum - illustrating the story of his master's crime.


Armstrong also makes a surprising appearance on BBC Radio Lincolnshire!

Watch out for Armstrong's Selected Poems this year - and a new popular biography of Newcastle writer Jack Common

10.4.11

MY FATHER WORKED ON SHIPS


My father worked on ships.
They spelked his hands,
dusted his eyes, his face, his lungs.

Those eyes that watered by the Tyne
stared out to sea
to see the world
in a tear of water, at the drop
of an old cloth cap.

For thirty weary winters
he grafted
through the snow and the wild winds
of loose change.

He was proud of those ships he built,
he was proud of the men he built with,
his dreams sailed with them:
the hull was his skull,
the cargo his brains.

His hopes rose and sunk
in the shipwrecked streets
of Wallsend
and I look at him now
this father of mine who worked on ships
and I feel proud
of his skeletal frame, this coastline
that moulded me
and my own sweet dreams.

He sits in his retiring chair,
dozing into the night.
There are storms in his head
and I wish him more love yet.

Sail with me,
breathe in me,
breathe that rough sea air old man,
and cough it up.

Rage, rage
against the dying
of this broken-backed town,
the spirit
of its broken-backed
ships.



Keith Armstrong



Hello! came across your website and really enjoyed above poem. I am now living in the United States having been transplanted from Wallsend, that would be in 1949. I have wonderful memories of my childhood in Wallsend and also High Farm and your poem really piqued my interest...my dear Dad worked for Swan Hunter for many years, he was a shipwright and I remember with great thrill and anticipation, seeing the ships that he helped build being launched. Thanks for the memories! Awa the lads!

Joan Edler

10/4/2011

8.4.11

twinning in tuebingen april 2011








7.4.11

from neckartenzlingen!
















Hello Mr. Armstrong!

It was an amazing poetry reading today! I hope I'll see you again on stage. One of the best English lessons ever! Thank you.

Sincerely,
Philipp K.

29.3.11

HUIS DE BEURS, GRONINGEN





































HUIS DE BEURS



Spinning and reeling,

days slipped by the window,

thudding clouds.

We rock in candlelight,

piano glows.

Sun’s sunk into the red carpet,

blood in the skin of the wine,

juicy dregs of another spilt day.

Old friends they have come

through this infernal revolving door

and gone on to evolve

long faces in the mist.

New vistas swing

through the old market

to make the lifelight

shine in our hearts.

Dragging on the stubs of years,

blowing out memory’s vague smoke.

Wet cobbles

glint with the dreams of fish,

flashing girls stream by

on darting bikes.

The crippled sunset

of war years,

the modern politics of fear.

Throw me another cigar

hand over your gear,

let us meet

in socialist song.

Your fleeting poetry

is a scarf tossed

round my neck.

My handsome northern mate,

I am going Dutch tonight.

That Mr Piano Man

flies across the bar

to catch an A Train again

for the fresh morning,

love’s daybreak.

My darling,

kiss my poet's lips,

let us greet the warm flesh

of Groningen

breathing.






KEITH ARMSTRONG

the jingling geordie

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