THOSE HUMBLE PIE BLUES AGAIN!

THOSE HUMBLE PIE BLUES AGAIN

(in honour of Adrian Mitchell)



Drank too much of Goodnight Vienna,
fell from the top of a lighthouse.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Took the knickers off a Polish maid,
ended up facedown in The End of the World.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Turned up drunk for my poetry class,
ended up cockeyed in the Corner House.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Heckled Uncle Tom on the saxophone,
felt the tits of a lesbian.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Laughed at the straight man
and slashed on a comic.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Twanged the suspenders of an actress,
kissed the hard nipples of a Sunderland girl.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Stood to attention at a sit-in,
sat on the face of a stand-up.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Jumped off the bridge at a Coronation,
swam in a river of whisky.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Swore blind at a military policeman,
shot poems in the back of a priest.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Danced on the table at a Chinese,
acted myself on a train.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Rolled in the hay with the lass next door,
flew in the face of reality.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Balanced my shoes on my head,
threw my socks at the band.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Stole the case of a businessman,
fell asleep in a play.
Well I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Dreamt all day,
and wrote all night.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Woke up in the arms of an orangutan,
leapt from a bar on the top of a mountain.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Split my lip in a Durham gutter,
got fixed up with an NHS stutter.
Well I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Got pissed with a physiotherapist,
let her fingers ease the pain in my head.
Well I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Took a tumble in a fall of rain,
saw all my words pour down the drain.
Well I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Slagged off another man’s trousers,
got called a rabble rouser.
Well I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Refused to join the Socialist Party,
hurled a Trot from the upstairs room.
Wel I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Ended up in a padded cell,
read my poems in East Berlin.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.
Drank the City of Edinburgh dry,
scoffed the whole of your Humble Pie.
Well, I’m sorry about that,
I’m sorry about that.





KEITH ARMSTRONG

THE CUTHBERT POEMS BY KEITH ARMSTRONG

KEITH ARMSTRONG PERFORMED THE FOLLOWING POEMS IN THE CHURCHES OF BAMBURGH, BEADNELL, NORHAM AND TWEEDMOUTH IN NORTHUMBERLAND:

'I thought the Cuthbert poems were very powerful...Do go on writing and performing like that.' (John Mapplebeck, Bewick Films).

DON’T TRUST SAINTS

I wouldn’t trust Saints,

goody goody two shoe Christians,

they wouldn’t pull me out of the mire

with their do-gooding ways.

I do my praying in the trough,

sweaty trotters grubbing together,

not in anyone’s heaven

but rooting in the soil

for bread.

Don’t get me wrong,

I like a drop of wine

with me nosh,

and I can put the fear of God

in me neighbours

to keep them off me land;

shoot them stone-dead if I have to.

They can go to Hell

for all I care,

whole lot of them: 

Poets and Peasants,

Pipers and Plovers.

I just get on with growing me crops,

no time for preaching Love and Hate.

This Northumbrian sun is all I know,

and the gannets swooping over me.

What I can’t touch or feel or smell or taste

is no good to me:

you can’t eat hymns

but I can catch rabbits.

THE BONES OF PROPHETS

The bones of Prophets

rot in this sacred land.

Cuthbert’s spirit soars with the gulls

over the ancient ground.

North Country hearts

beat with the songs and ballads

of missing centuries;

lyrics in the rough wind,

notes in the margins.

The Saints and the Scholars

scribble down the years -

but who can make sense of it all?

Bind up the volumes

of human endeavour

in this vast universe,

let the dust of our thoughts

feed the insects.

Northumberland is in truth

a bleak land

held together by dreams,

fantasies of us all being Saints:

an open slate,

still wet with the drizzle

of the scribe’s pen.

THIS BURNING BEAM

This burning beam

that did for Aidan,

Bamburgh’s finest

fallen King of Northumbria

in ashes.

Palaces of Pretence,

Gefrin on a summer’s afternoon,

basking by the Glen

where Paulinus

baptised us with pelting sleet,

and where the late Josephine Butler

spread her kind smile

for the welfare of wor women folk,

for the goodness of touch.

Oh Edwin oh Oswald,

oh Ida oh Hussa,

carry my head in your hands.

My mighty warriors of Christ,

is that you in the curlew’s cry?

Is that you in the breeze on my face?

Cuthbert’s a hermit crab,

a ‘Wonder-worker of England’,

and I am an empty shell of a man,

talking to birds

because they make more sense of my life.

Listen to me Bede, I’m the Universal Soldier,

I have rubbed ointment

on Cuthbert’s sore knee,

ridden with him across the sheep-snow hills,

and bathed his suppurating ulcer

in red wine.

Light a torch for me

for I am no Saint.

Yet I speak

the Gospel Truth:

Grant to me, Lord Christ, for this pilgrim journey through life,

Your ready hand to guide me, your light to go before me,

Your protection to guard me from evil,

Your peace to rest within me, your love to sustain me,

That through all the joys and sorrows that meet me

I may know the promise of your abiding strength,

Until I reach my final homecoming with you forever.

commissioned by berwick museum 2007

SPLINTERS

(FOR MY FATHER)

You picked splinters
with a pin each day
from under blackened fingernails;
shreds of metal
from the shipyard grime,
minute memories of days swept by:
the dusty remnants of a life
spent in the shadow of the sea;
the tears in your shattered eyes
at the end of work.
And your hands were strong,
so sensitive and capable
of building boats
and nursing roses;
a kind and gentle man
who never hurt a soul,
the sort of quiet knackered man
who built a nation.
Dad, I watched your ashes float away
down to the ocean bed
and in each splinter
I saw your caring eyes
and gracious smile.

I think of your strong silence every day
and I am full of you,
the waves you scaled,
and all the sleeping Tyneside streets
you taught me to dance my fleeting feet along.

When I fly, you are with me.
I see your fine face
in sun-kissed clouds
and in the gold ring on my finger,
and in the heaving crowd on Saturday,
and in the lung of Grainger Market,
and in the ancient breath
of our own Newcastle.



KEITH ARMSTRONG

‘This is one of the poems I'll never forget. I see the struggling of my own dad in your words.
Thanks for your fine poem.’ (Klaas Drenth)

‘Beautiful poem. Loving, moving memories. Most excellent Keith.’ (Strider Marcus Jones)

‘Love the poem Keith. That’s my dad.’ (John McMahon)


Annie Sheridan ‘Beautifully visual Keith, nice to share your memories.’ x


Imelda Walsh ‘Lovely poem, loving memories too.’

Kenny Jobson ‘So, so good, Keith - I'll share this, if you don't mind.’

INNOCENT BLOOD: THE HEXHAM RIOT MARCH 9TH 1761

In 1761 a new Militia Act came into force. Strangely it managed to arouse strong negative feelings in both ordinary working people and the ruling class: the former because a ballot system of recruitment - essentially conscription - was resented; the latter as training the masses to use weapons was felt to be dangerous for the future, priming them for revolution.
On March 9th 1761 a large crowd gathered in Hexham Market Place to protest about the ballot system, some putting the numbers as high as 5000, though a few hundred is more likely. For several hours the leaders of the protest talked with the magistrates, remonstrating about the imposition. Those magistrates feared violence, and brought in a force of the North Yorks Militia as protection against a mob attack. Their presence, however, probably further enflamed tempers.
Eventually the magistrates lost patience, and the Riot Act was read. As the crowd turned uglier, the soldiers fixed bayonets. The mob, by now its fierier members armed with tools and staves, charged. Two soldiers were killed with guns grabbed from them or their comrades, then a volley or far more probably a series of volleys was fired into the rioters. When the smoke cleared at least 50 were dead, including the two soldiers. Another 300 or more were injured, some of them dying later of their wounds. Among the dead were two pregnant women.
A hunt went on over the next few weeks for anyone known to have participated in the riot, taking in not just Hexham but the settlements around it, the list of casualties showing people from Corbridge, Slayley, Stamfordham and Ryall among many others had been involved. Unsurprisingly the North Yorks Militia earned the sobriquet The Hexham Butchers after the event.




TUESDAY MARCH 10TH 1761


‘The Market Place was a tragic sight. Bodies of the dead and wounded lay scattered. The ground was stained with blood and the cries of the wounded were pitiful. The following day it rained, washing away the traces.’


Wash away the day,
wash the pain away,
sweep the remains of yesterday
into the racing river.
Beat the Dead March,
bang the old drum,
heal Hexham’s bust bones
and cry me a river,
cry the Water of Tyne.
Wash away the day
and wash this pain away.


 
A PITMAN DEAD


With blood gushing out of his boot tops,
a well-dressed man
leaves town
along Priestpopple.
Thirteen men lie inside the Abbey,
not owned.
Numbers are found dead upon the roads.
Big with child, Sarah Carter shot,
the musket ball found in the child’s belly.
Thrice into a man’s body
lying at James Charlton’s shop door
it’s said they ran theIr bayonets;
and a pitman dead,
a weaver:
all those broken days of history,
all the slain hours in our diaries.
Sound the Abbey’s bells!
Let them toll the severed minutes.
Let them celebrate
the end of torture.
Let them gush
with rejoicing
for more peaceful times.



THERE’S A RIOT


These streets,
in this Heart of All England,
are swept clean of blood.
But the stains still soak our books.
Death upon death,
we turn the pages;
in between the lines,
we read about the screams,
time’s bullets
tearing flesh away.
There is terror lurking in this Market Place,
just scrape away the skin
and, deep down,
there’s a Riot:
a commotion boiling
a terrible turbulence,
a throbbing pain.
It is a Riot of gore,
a torrential downpour
of weeping:
a seeping sore
that is Hexham’s History.




KEITH ARMSTRONG

(Poems featured in Hexham Local History Society Newsletter Autumn 2011)

LISTEN UP NORTH!

Hi Keith
Hope you are well.  Just to let you know I’ve put some of your work on listenupnorth and hope to be re-introducing more in the coming months.
http://www.rachelcochrane.com/portfolio-item/an-interview-with-writer-keith-armstrong/

http://www.rachelcochrane.com/portfolio-item/4383/

Take care and keep in touch
Best wishes
Rachel

Rachel Cochrane
07545 915393
hello@rachelcochrane.com
www.rachelcochrane.com

LA CONCHA WINE BAR, LETCHWORTH GARDEN CITY

It is forbidden to dream again;

We maim our joys or hide them. (George Orwell)

An unseasonal sun

fires the little socialist in me.

Just off the train

and staight into the red wine

in the La Concha Bar. 

My first time in Letchworth

and such a thirst

for deeper knowledge

in this Garden City.

I’m in Orwell’s footsteps,

no street bears his name,

my brain

strides in his shade,

on his way to a Summer School

and to war in Spain.

I’m keeping that aspidistra flying

in the torment,

scanning the Letchworth Citizen

for any news of the Labour Party 

turning left.

I will announce myself

to the girls in the garden,

go red in the afternoon,

sneak into David’s Bookshop

for a preview of the blueprint

of the new dawn.

For now,

this day is dancing

flamenco in the warm skies

of flown illusions.

Let us create

a festival for George 

in the prickly heat

of a place 

where ideals 

lie gathering bluebottles

on a traffic island

while castanets flicker 

like precious minutes 

spent

in Barcelona.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Letchworth Garden City, September 2012

A lovely day and a superb meal we enjoyed there! (Peter Common)

LEAVING FRIENDS/FRIENDS LEAVING

 

(in memory of Paddy Bort)

I have lost my roaring boys and girls.

They are left behind,

fallen from Collegium stools;

the poignant moments in Lange Gasse dust.

Times and laughter shared,

dwindled to an Ammer trickle

in a bleak semester,

worn out days.

Friends are for leaving.

I’m afraid

I am too old to chase it.

These young Swabian mistresses

are too damned quick

for me to grab anymore

their lightning glances,

hints of a possible romance

boarding trains,

flickering

in frigid seminar rooms.

Tear yourself from me

as I stumble

through security.

I know I’ll miss

your touch.

Horst has gone with Hades bar

and the old man

from the Boulanger;

Mick has flown

to the heavens,

now Paddy has fallen,

with all those twinning hours.

Nothing is still.

Her eyelashes flicker,

new wounds open;

the light streams on Wilhelmstrasse,

darkness fills Hafengasse.

A special sunlight

sparkles in my beer,

shafts of it

dart on the counter.

A bird flaps

across my face,

shadow

of a former glory.

So that’s the story:

we lose it all,

we lose everything

and everyone.

It’s why I cling

to the night wind

beating against my cheeks,

to the whisper of the leaves

along this dull suburban street.

The old voices

of mates I made

howling

through the mediocrity

of lonely petrol stations,

soul-destroying car parks.

Puddles

of former joy

winking at the moon.

KEITH ARMSTRONG


Allan Savage I've just been reading your excellent memory to Paddy Bort and came across your farewell to my best friend Jack Routledge. It really brought a tear to my eye. I think about Jack very often and the good times we had singing together. I can remember when Jack and you went to Germany, and how he was so excited when telling me about your trip. Thanks again Keith.

Cath Campbell Ah, Keith. Ah, Godammit. You made me cry. Beautiful poem. Brought my own memories of the gone ones roaring back. 

Harry Gallagher Lovely stuff Keith. 

Tom Hubbard Many thanks for your moving tribute to dear Paddy. I was recalling these days in Freudenstadt, so long ago now. All the best from us in Scotland.

Gerhard Oberlin Thanks, Keith, excellent. I hardly knew him, but remember well.