I HAVE FALLEN IN LOVE WITH THE FORTH BRIDGE

Dear Mr. Armstrong, I hope this finds you well.  I've never done this in my life - i.e. contact a writer - but felt I really had to thank you for the fabulous poem about the Forth Bridge which appeared in the Scottish Review.   It so inspired me that I wanted to hang out the window and shout it across the bay!  (I live on a wee island on the west coast.) Not only do I also love that bridge (I spent my childhood holidays in Fife and always got so excited whenever we crossed it), but I like bridges in general (don't know what that says about me and don't care to find out!).  I'm also a Russian speaker and absolutely love Mayakovsky's great poem inspired by the Brooklyn Bridge. Yours is equally inspiring, as far as I'm concerned. Anyway - all I wanted to do was to congratulate you and say thank you for that truly marvellous poem.  It made my day reading it. All the best, Moira Dalgetty

http://www.scottishreview.net/KeithArmstrong61.shtml?utm_source=Sign-Up.to&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=8427-288448-No+comment%3A+the+%27spokespersons%27+and+their+secrets

Strapping girders,
lusty arches:
the span of my ambition,
shore to shore
you link me with the old bones,
the new ways,
the true trains that take me
down the path of all my loves.
You lift up your wide arms
to take in the tide,
roll with the shaking wind
that whistles in the rushes
of the wild banks.
You thrill me with your size,
your strong embrace;
you roar with achievement,
you make me proud:
I could hug you.
Let me take the Queensferry train,
slide through you to freedom.
The pipes play
and the kilts sway
to greet us.
You are the opening,
the gap we streak through
to the woolly wilds
of Auld Reekie
and Bonnie Old Dundee;
to the sea of workers’ blood,
the red rust of the past that clings
and hugs the bones of dead engineers.
In the Albert Hotel,
tucked up, I hear you moan in the darkness.
Naked,
I pull back the curtains
and see you floodlit
in all your entrancing glory.
Shine on, shine
you crazy bridge.
You have my devotion,
you have my deepest darkest love.
I would climb you stripped;
I would feel you breathe in the Firth wind.
I give you my heart and soul,
I am frail against your depth.
You will outlive me,
do not mock me,
you are superb.
You are my outstretched lovely;
I will breathe through you,
long for you,
die for you.
Rock me,
go Forth
and inspire me.




KEITH ARMSTRONG

Peter Selgin Love this very fine poem and the bridge that inspired it

CONSTANCE

‘Hours, more brief than the kiss

Of a beam on the lake that is mourning,

Than the song of a bird on the wing,

Which drops down like pearls from above .....’

Annette von Droste-Hulshoff (1797-1848)

I have lakes for eyes today

on a ferry across memory.

I am reaching for friends,

skirting boundaries.

My arms thrash in wild waves.

In this moody vista

of wet dreams

and legends,

the horseman rides

his panting steed

across the ice of cold lake kisses,

not knowing, in all this darkness,

just how close he is

to a plunging death.

The swirling weeds,

that wrap themselves

around our shaking bodies,

are full of drowned days

and gulped-down sunshine.

Look! These Alps are clouds today,

and the mountains pile up in the sky.

The line is thin between

fantastic vision

and suicide.

Another sip and I’ll slash my wrists,

gash the sky with blood,

dash poems on a promenade

awash with tourist trash

and the curse of cash.

Knowing looks

she gives me,

does this mighty Constance.

She gleams with sunlight

and sadness,

her red wave hits the mountain’s edge.

I want to get to know her more,

to sail in her dreamy looks

and thunderous smiles.

What tales she echoes,

what amazing craft

she sinks.

The breath of Europe

is recorded in the Bodensee’s sighing:

the wars and agonised cries,

the shrieks of pleasure-boats,

the dying of pointless ideals.

Her castles and churches bear testimony

to all the joy and futility,

the spasms of birth,

the ruination of fine folk.

And so my good friends

let us sip the scent off our brimful Lake

to forget where we’re going

for at least one long breath.

Life can be good at this moment.

It will come on to rain

but the Swabian Sea

will float with stars.

The flaming blood of her heart

will break through a thousand gates.

And our songs will live

when we are gone,

and some will tremble at them

who felt like us.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

Lake Constance

BABY SEAHORSES

Incubated

in your father’s pouch,

two hundred born over a few days,

some less than the length

of a fingernail,

you are such fragile trembling things,

such slender horses.

Tiny fins beating,

thirty times every second,

you are all mating for life

surrounded by danger

and polluted worlds.

Cowering in coral reefs and mangroves,

taken for mere souvenirs

and man’s crazed schemes,

twenty million of you are lost every year.

Tiny heartbeats,

please hold on tight

to the whispering sea-grass.

This grieving world,

this messed up planet,

needs your precious sensitivity,

needs your watery beauty

more than ever.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

JAMIE ALLAN (1734-1810)

JUMPING JAMIE!

The poems below were written by Keith Armstrong for a touring show ‘O’er the Hills’ by Northumberland Theatre Company in 1988, recounting the life of Northumbrian Piper, Jamie Allan (1734-1810), and based on an original idea by Armstrong.

The show featured Armstrong in performance with associate writer Graeme Rigby together with  musicians Kathryn Tickell, on Northumbrian Pipes, Rick Taylor, on trombone, Paul Flush on keyboards, Keith Morris on vocals and saxophone and Joan McKay on vocals, with original music by Taylor, Flush and Tickell.

JUMPING JAMIE!

A mischievous man you might say

but with beauty did he play,

with his wee fingers

tripping

over songs.

When he piped,

the rivers and girls came

running.

The world danced

when Jamie drooled

on his lance.

Yes, when Jamie smoked,

the salmon

leapt in his pipes.

A bit of a lad and bad

but oh what a way he had;

with the fish

and his hands leaping,

he set the salmon and some women 

jumping:

Jumping Jamie!

Home your heart

in your hymns,

your wild Northumbrian hymns -

Jumping Jamie!

Home your heart.

JAMIE LIVES!

I see him.

Everytime I see

the Coquet,

I see him.

Everytime

I walk

the Cheviots,

I sense his voice.

I hear him

in the Curlew;

I hear Jamie

in the wind.

His tunes

haunt me still;

his wandering fingers

ripple through

the grass.

His tunes splash

across the river,

skim

in me.

IN THE YOUNG DAYS

In the young days,

I swam,

dipped in the River Coquet.

Along the banks I ran,

shouting for the sun.

In all wild flowers,

I’d lie,

picking out such scent,

jinking jaunty amongst sheep,

dancing for my keep.

Now by the Ganges I walk,

the evening streaming blood;

such wanders through a different land,

such songs of our dead brothers.

In the scale of things I am

but a small fish abroad;

all rivers flow together,

all wonders outlive man.

Jamie Allen I,

piper by the sea;

notes flow inside me,

streams flow by.

OUTCLASSED*

I never really knew my station,

my destination.

I was restless,

yearning.

Could never settle

for second best.

Yet I was

consistently

outclassed.

Ending my days

dingily alone,

stripped of illusions

and riddled

with humility.

My ego starved,

my regal palate fed

on bread

and Coquet water.

*performed by Mike Tickell on the Kathryn Tickell album ‘Common Ground’ (1988)

FOOTNOTE:

Jamie Allan, the most renowned inhabitant of the House of Correction, Elvet Bridge, was born of gypsy parentage near Rothbury in the 1730s and his accomplishment on the Northumbrian pipes earned him recognition from the Duchess of Northumberland. 

He became resident at Alnwick but misbehaved and lost her favour. Subsequently he led a remarkable and irresponsible itinerant life throughout Europe, Asia and Africa but on his return was convicted in 1803 at Durham Assizes of horse stealing, and condemned to death. This sentence was later commuted to transportation but, probably due to his advanced age and poor health, this last journey was not enforced and he spent the remaining seven years of his life in the House of Correction. This is the building where Hollathan's is now housed. 

He died in 1810 on the day before the Prince Regent granted him a free pardon. It is said that his ghost wanders the dank, dark cells and that the plaintive sound of his pipes can sometimes be heard. 

No Wonder! What greater punishment to a wandering gypsy than this? Even his request to be buried in his native Rothbury went unheeded and he was interred in St. Nicholas' Churchyard, now part of Durham's busy Market Place. 

BOOKINGS: Contact Northern Voices Community Projects tel 0191 2529531 if you are interested in  booking the ‘Jumping Jamie!’ show featuring Keith Armstrong and Ann Sessoms (Northumbrian Pipes).

DIAL THE SUN

A new project for this year's Heritage Open Days (September 8th to 11th) to mark the bicentenary of Stephenson's sundial at Dial Cottage.

Northern Voices Community Projects will be encouraging local writers and schoolchildren to come up with poems, songs, stories and artwork to celebrate the sundial and for the end products to be displayed in a touring exhibition to be launched at the White Swan Centre and Dial Cottage with events to coincide with it when a booklet of the written material and artwork, together with an historical background, will be promoted together with a souvenir poetry poster featuring Keith Armstrong’s sundial poem with artwork by Peter Dixon.

Contact NVCP  k.armstrong643@btinternet.com

ELEPHANTS IN TUEBINGEN

Such a postwar circus, 

swill of pigs and drawn out cold war,

the bleeding never stops.

Under the straw,

the claw of a miserable history

grabs down the years

at the young who are innocent

of all the butchery and whoredom.

Imperial Germany is a fagged out colonial office,

a sweating prison

of bashed up ideals,

a broken clock

covered in ticks and leeches.

The animals have escaped

and invade the Market Place.

Elephants sup at Neptune’s old fountain,

spurt out the foam of stagnant days, 

trunks curling to taste the Neckar water.

This Tuebingen is a surreal pantomime:

barmaids swing from ceilings,

policemen hang from their teeth.

Frau Binder throws them buns.

And our Max Planck is a dream inventor.

Some boffin of his crosses a peach with a tulip,

the genetics of a bayonet in a breast.

The menagerie moves on to the Castle,

a giraffe nibbles at a church.

The sun gnaws at the clouds.

Like a clown,

I leap to down beer.

And a hideously sweet lady cracks a whip

and flashes her milky thigh at me.

It is no good.

I cannot raise a glassy smile anymore.

This circus is a tragedy.

The animals are sad 

and rotten

with the stink of carnage,

seeping 

from your television screens.

KEITH ARMSTRONG