Readers’ Poems Summer 24
by Northern Life
Are you a budding poet who would like to see your verse in print? Then share your work and send your words to poems@northernlifemedia.co.uk
A Gateway
BY PETER FOSTER
This poem is an amalgamation of two fields I knew as a boy. The first and last stanzas are based on one I knew as a child through walks with my grandfather. Then, around ten years later, when the field was ‘developed’, and my parents bought one of the properties, I actually lived there, although I was sad to see the old field disappear under bricks and tarmac. The other belongs to a farm I worked on as a school leaver, which, as I write, is still intact as grassland and long may it remain so.
Let’s step through this gateway.
We’ll go down through the meadow,
And walk in the footsteps of history.
Close the gate and stay on the path, Don’t trample the crop. There’s a stile
By the oak at the far end of the field
Onto a lane that leads back to the village.
It’s an old meadow, not ploughed for generations; Not since horses were used.
See the regular undulations: lands;
Or in Lancashire: rieans.
A land-written record of ancient skills
And techniques for us to read,
If we can understand the language.
See the mixture of grasses and plants:
Timothy, cocksfoot, fescues and ryegrass,
Narrow-leafed dock and mayflower.
In spring it’s a carpet of dandelions;
Not weeds here but a magic carpet
Of taproots lifting trace elements
From the soil for cattle to tap into.
When mown and sun-cured, the hay
Possesses an aroma like no other:
Sweet and herby, mystic; this is a scent with history
Beyond living memory; it evokes a warm byre in winter,
And even in an urbanite, an innate sense,
Of a golden, pastoral age that only
Existed through biscuit-tin mythology.
The crop has formed its own ecology over time;
Through seasons: under winter’s white mantle to
Haw-frothed hedgerows in spring and
Searing, summer, hay-time sun.
It has grown, cropped, seeded and regrown;
Been served up as fodder or grazed;
Providing milk for humankind.
This meadow defies science
Its grasses are old, unproductive varieties,
And yet; and yet, it thrives. Below the sward, through a
Mystic alluvial alchemy of geology
The meadow becomes a self-perpetuating organism.
A living history; a spiritual oasis amongst the analysed,
fertilised,
Monetised acres of modern agronomy;
it is a symbol of the unknown.
The unpractised eye sees just a stretch of grassland:
Ten acres bounded by hedges and ditches.
But to those who have worked it, walked it,
Felt the sward beneath their feet, this meadow is
A connection with the toil of artisan farmers
Who were a part of the land they worked,
And whose souls have seeped into the turf.
This should be the realm of the yeoman.
Where the hedgehog, vole and brown hare
Call home. Where kestrel, skylark,
Swallow and swift fly freely.
But cloud-shadows darken the meadow.
Indifferent eyes view the land and visualise
“Little boxes” upon eponymous thoroughfares.
My First Love
BY LUCIA KENNY
Together we walked everywhere
even danced the night away.
You made me feel tall
though I was only small.
You helped me reach great heights,
you were the first to connect to my heart.
I could stand in a queue and feel proud
cause you were with me.
It was my friend
who admired you first
and said we were
just right for each other.
But now, five years on I have to let you go.
I have grown up
you have declined.
Fit perhaps for
another purpose
of that, I am not sure.
But you will always be
my best ever
bright red shoes.
Bertie’s Lycanthropy
BY NEIL RICHARDSON
I’m bashful Bertie, a werewolf,
In the main, somewhat quiet, and shy.
But when the full moon rises above me,
Beware the red glint in my eye.
Arms, chest, etcetera, get bigger,
And I turn ever so hairy,
Even friends of sound disposition,
Find my alter ego a little bit scary.
Ears rise high, and are pointy,
While a muzzle grows long and fierce,
Armed with razor-sharp fangs,
Ready for bare necks I can pierce.
Well, I’m trapped in a hellish existence,
Often so desperate to prowl,
Down dark footpaths in lonely forests,
Where I practise my lov-erly howl!
Look, this lycanthropy is hardly my fault,
Being in the wrong place, one cold night,
During a coach trip to snow-covered Munich,
Exchange rate being wonderfully bright.
We’d stopped for a beer hall booze-up,
Served by staff in their smart lederhosen,
When a girl with wild eyes asked for walkies,
I should’ve said: No pet, I’m bashful and frozen.
AT COUNTY CRICKET, 1963
BY ALLAN BOLTON
The bell sounds for start of play,
a boy crosses the empty outfield,
behind him a little old man,scorebook under arm,
in this humble role yet serving still
his lifetime’s passion.
The boy knows who this is, bridges a gap
of five yards and sixty years to make a link.
He senses he’ll never be a top player
yet he’s in love with the game,
on the brink of senior school,
he’s here to watch, study, learn.
His Yorkshire uncle plies him with books
on skills, on glorious histories.
Read, dream, practise; read, dream, practise.
He’ll be the best that he can be.
The old man, a fast-footed master craftsman,
a touch player, servant of his art,
yet holds second billing, the quiet great,
batting partner of the master, a knighted legend.
A magician’s assistant,
his fate to be teamed with genius,
a bright star burning too close to the moon’s glare.
He signs his name, small, precise, legible as print.
Misty-eyed, he nudges someone, gives a wondering laugh,
‘I’ve just been asked for my autograph’.
MUM’S LIFE
BY EVANGELINE EVIE CLAY
Did I shout too much?
Did I read enough?
Did I listen to them today?
Was I too consumed with cleaning,
To stop and watch them play.
Everyday I try my best,
My plans sometimes go astray,
If I’m not the perfect mum,
Will you love me anyway?
When you are a woman,
When you are a man,
Will you think of me and smile?
Will you think to come and visit?
Please don’t wait a while.
I’ll only be part of your life,
You have so much yet to come,
But rest assured you’re my whole world,
Your ever loving Mum.
Romeo and Juliet Til Death Us Do Part
BY PAUL FITZSIMMONS
A poem for my mother who passed during Covid and Dad who went into a home with dementia.
Thou art thyself such a Juliet, tis how you started life,
for he, a Romeo, called up to you and took you for his wife
From a whistle at your window-ledge, to a lifetime guarantee,
a young love so wrapped up in each, it chose your destiny,
A love story so beautiful and then motherhood so blessed,
you made your life of loving him and feathered well your nest.
You gave your life to him alone, then shared it with us all,
you gave us all you had to give, and then you offered more
You shaped us into what was right and how we should behave,
then gave us faith in who we are and sent us on our way
We flew your nest to make you proud, embracing what life brings,
knowing you were always there, the wind beneath our wings
Your tale of love continued, its romance grew in wealth,
your stoic pledge of love to him, in sickness and in health
We’re sorry that you suffered, as we never saw your tears,
you slowly lost your only love, as he faded through the years
And now your nest is empty, not because that we have left,
but because you’re flame no longer burns, it leaves us so bereft.
Alas, now my love, our Juliet, ‘tis time thou leave our care,
we’ll take good care of Romeo and wilt not forget you’re there
And from thy balcony now my love, we have but just one request,
you sleep in peace and wait for him, tis but time for thee to rest.
Wherefore art thou now fair maid, you may sit upon your ledge,
gaze down once more at him again, for thou hast fulfilled thy
wedding pledge.
Music Holds the Key
BY JOHN PLATTEN
“One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain.” (Bob Marley)
On the jukebox of my youth,
the records that lit the way.
In faith, hope, joy and truth,
my tunes from yesterday.
A life’s personal hit parade,
echo down the years.
Memories they made,
return to quell my fears.
With the present fading fast
lyrics and rhythm sustain,
connections to my past,
for me to play again.
Songs unlock the past for me,
music holds the key.
It’s a Cat’s Life
BY VIVIEN FOULKES-JAMES
If you see me on the street
I’m one cool cat, can’t stop to speak.
I’m on important business
sniffing out, whose been where,
if any cat’s on my patch
I’ll just fix ‘em with a stare.
There’s a new cat on the block
a tabby from No. 29,
He’ll soon know who’s top cat
and we’ll get along just fine.
Hunting is my game
I’m a killer, that’s for sure,
I take my victims home you see
and then go back for more.
I have an alter ego, and
once through my own back door,
I like hugs and strokes and kisses
no more tough guy anymore.
I know I’m just adorable,
my coat is always gleaming,
“Aah my beautiful boy,” she coos
and pretty soon I’m dreaming …
But if you see me on the street
I’m one cool cat, can’t stop to speak
Are you a budding poet who would like to see your prose in print, then share your work and send your poems to poems@northernlifemedia.co.uk or go to northernlifemagazine.co.uk/contribute
NorthernLife June/July/Aug 24
