OWN YOUR OWN NIGHTMARES

 OWN YOUR OWN NIGHTMARES

Own your own nightmares,
fight for them,
they should never be possessed by Government,
never induced by the pharmaceuticals.
They belong to history,
your forebears,
your dreaming kids.

Your own nightmares
might scare you to an early uprising
but they are for your loved ones
to relish,
to share
with the devils in their souls.

Nightmares can terrify
like a John Martin painting
yet they can also be beautiful
in a sacred and scarred kind of way.

And when they are over
they will sail you
into the kind of bliss
you have justly earned,
Including the overthrow 
of those who have confined you
for such a long time
with no bloody mandate;
the overthrow
of redundant establishments
that cling on
to  a dying power
whose way of looking misses
the potential loveliness
in all your lockdowned nightmares
inside the lovely community
of your heart and soul.


KEITH ARMSTRONG

TREVOR

TREVOR

This is a special man

who spends his life entirely

searching for clues to all of it

outside the teeming box.

He rants from the obscure corners

where no one else dares,

rummages down lanes 

where most folk fear 

to walk,

looking for a special meaning,

a hint of a jewel 

in the pervasive rubbish.

A walk with him 

will lead you

into beautiful gardens,

alternative libraries

and abstract galleries.

His voice

is his own 

unique instrument,

dulcet in the sun

of blooming vineyards

and birdsong.

His thoughts

refresh

the universe

with their original

melodies.

Listen to him,

to the deepness

in his soul,

to the reverence

in his wise and searching eyes.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

HARTLEY PIT DISASTER JANUARY 16TH 1862

‘What was it there on Hartley heap, caused the mother and child to weep?’ (George Cooke)

Cold January’s gripped our throbbing hearts and torn them.

Still the sea rolls on.

This earth’s bowels stink of our loved one’s deaths,

the air tastes foul.

Still the sea rolls on.

They don black gloves,

drag out the bodies one by one.

The death-stained faces seem to smile.

Still the sea rolls on.

We are the widows of Hartley,

our men and boys are dead,

our lives cracked open,

damp corpses in our beds.

Still the sea rolls on.

We clutch cold messages from Dukes and Queens,

we wipe the coal dust from our widowed eyes.

The coffin makers’ heavy hammers beat,

keep time with lapping parlour clocks,

and still

the sea rolls on,

still the sea rolls on.

Still the sea,

we are the widows of Hartley,

our men and boys are dead.

Take away your stumbling words and

GIVE US BREAD.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

2021 - 260TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE HEXHAM RIOT 9TH MARCH 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

 

AND FROM 1997:

 

THE HEXHAM RIOT

Known as Bloody Monday, the Hexham Riot, which broke out on March 9th 1761, was the outcome of an attempt to introduce a system of balloting for the militia. Balloting met with opposition throughout the north of England but it was in Hexhamshire that feelings ran highest. The local magistrates, well aware of this, had taken the precaution of bringing a detachment of the North Yorkshire Militia into the town of Hexham. Drawn up in the square in front of the Moot Hall, these soldiers only served to increase the fury of the mob that gathered on the day of the ballot. After almost four hours of argument between ringleaders and magistrates, the Riot Act was read.

The crowd broke loose and advanced with staves and clubs upon the charged bayonets. Two soldiers were shot by their own weapons and the magistrates, in panic ordered general fire. By the time the firing ceased, the crowd had fled through the streets, leaving only dead and severely wounded - a sight that seemed to move even the soldiers. Various figures have been advanced for these fatalities - some sources quotes 51 dead and others give 45 dead, with some 300 wounded but it is likely that the latter figure was somewhat higher, for large numbers escaped to their own locality and were naturally unwilling to acknowledge their part in the affray.

MAUD WATSON, FLORIST

bred in a market arch 

a struggle

in a city's armpit

that flower

in your time-rough hands 

a beautiful girl in a slum alley

all that kindness in your face

and you're right

the times are not what they were

this England's not what it was

flowers shrink in that crumbling vase

dusk creeps in on a cart

and Maud the sun is choking 

Maud this island's sinking 

and all that swollen sea is 

the silent majority 

waving

Keith Armstrong

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO A TWIN TOWN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am glad to have twinned with this shapely town,
the bureaucrat who chose it was inspired,
picking through the rail lines and autobahns to seek it out,
linking it with my fleeting life.
I have travelled here a score of times and watched
my features change
with the seasons
in a twin town’s mirror.
I have made and carelessly lost friends,
renewed the flagging feel of tenderness,
groped in the darkness for a kiss gone missing,
licked over nooks and crannies.
 

With local wine glinting in my starry eyes,
I have lost all tracks of time
in the cool of bowing trees;
rejoiced in the pounding of church bells,
singing in my head.
I have dived in the shadows seeking famous sons,
slid in gutters with the down and outs.

This town has a brain of a University
and the guts of a stray-dog.
I have flogged it to death.

It was in this bar, at this table, in this corner,
that I looked into a girl called Karin’s eyes;
and it was at that moment, for that rich moment,
that our eyes twinned and I couldn’t wait to jet home,
write a glowing report on her glowing face
for our International Exchange Officer to file safely
under ‘Twinning Affairs’
or ‘Affairs, Twinning, New Year’.

Yes, I am glad 
to have twinned with this shapely town,
inspired
by Karin’s eyes.  





KEITH ARMSTRONG