TELL ME LIES ABOUT NORTHUMBERLAND
(in honour of Adrian Mitchell)
Say this land is ours,
these pipe tunes do not cry.
The birds all sing in dialect,
old miners breathe like dukes.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
Tell me it isn’t feudal,
that castles were built for us.
We never touch the forelock,
bend to scrape up dust.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
Your pretty girls don’t stink of slaughter,
your eyes don’t blur with myth.
You’re as equal as a duchess,
saints never smell of piss.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
Your roots are in this valley,
you were never from doon south.
You never hide your birthplace,
you’re a real poet of the north.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
The churches are not crumbling,
the congregations glow with hope.
We are different from the foreigner,
our poetry rhymes with wine.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
There is no landed gentry,
no homes locals can’t afford.
There’s no army on the moors,
the Romans freed us all.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
That the hurt is in the past,
the future holds no war.
Home rule is at our fingertips,
the Coquet swims with love.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
‘The Garden’ is our children’s,
Hotspur spurs us on.
The seagulls are not soaked in oil,
the cows are not diseased.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
This Kingdom is United,
‘Culture’ is our God.
Everyone’s a Basil Bunting freak,
there’s music everywhere.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
We will have our independence,
we’ll get the Gospels back.
We live off museums and tourists,
we don’t need boats or trades.
Tell me lies about Northumberland.
We’re in charge of our own futures,
we have north east citizens here.
In this autonomous republic,
we’re free as dicky birds.
So shut your eyes.
And tell me lies
about Northumberland.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
Mo Shevis I think Adrian Mitchell would have been well and truly honoured by that one Keith!
SONG FOR NORTHUMBERLAND
Drifting in moonlight,
the
dunes sing their songs.
Wings
of old battles
fly
all night long.
Cry
of the seagulls,
curse
of the ghosts;
aches
of dead warriors
scar
this old coast.
Hover
the kestrel,
sing
out the lark,
we
will be free in our time.
This
air is our breath,
this
sea is our thirst
and
our dreams are sailing home.
Wandering
through castles,
their
walls are our lungs.
Seaching
for freedom
in
country homes.
Forbears
and old cares
blown
in the wind;
pull
of loved harbours
draws
our boats in.
Surge
of the salmon
and
urge of the sea
leaps
in our local blood.
Peel
of the bluebells
and
ring of bold tunes
reel
in all those grey years.
Slopes
of the Cheviots,
caress
of the waves.
Shipwrecks
and driftwood
float
in our heads.
Pele
stones and carved bones
hide
in these hills,
roots
of new stories
in
ancient tales.
Dew
on our lips
and
beer on the breath,
drinking
the countryside in.
Bread
of the landscape
and
wine of this earth,
flows
on these river beds.
Drifting
in moonlight,
the
dunes sing their songs.
Wings
of old battles
fly
all night long.
Cry
of the seagulls,
curse
of the ghosts;
aches
of dead warriors
scar
this old coast.
Hover
the kestrel,
sing
out the lark,
we
will be free in our time.
This
air is our breath,
this
sea is our thirst
and
our dreams are sailing home.
KEITH
ARMSTRONG
