Readers’ Poems Autumn 2025

ODE TO ODDIE’S

BY ANNE MARIE HAWKINS
There cameth the man, then cameth the hour
And William Oddie weighed out his flour
He kneaded his dough and he trusted in God
God liked what He tasted, and blessed William Odd.

Will opened his doors in 1905
And Colne looked no further for parkins and pies;
A dozen shops followed, as justly, he flourished
All of his customers tastily nourished

They gazed, salivating, expectant, in queues
At eclairs, and meringues, and cream horns – what to choose?
A custard? Jap Fancy? A cream-piped fruit tart?
Fig pasty, or parkin? But dear to all hearts –

Most fondly remembered of these tempting eyefuls-
The little waxed cartons of Oddie’s fruit trifles.
We bought them for treats, we bought them for parties
We bought them as balm to sooth someone’s heartache:

Little to do with the tongue or the belly
More a hug made from custard, from cream, fruit, and jelly
Oddie’s supplied us not only with treats
They furnished our tables with funeral meats

We ordered pork pies, sausage rolls by the dozens
To feed the departed’s old colleagues and cousins
And many a thousand Lancastrian bodies
Have been bidden farewell with ham tea cakes from Oddie’s.

And surely St. Peter, when opening the gate
Must ask: “’As tha thowt ter bring owt up from’t wake?”
For treats and for teatimes, to console and to cheer
None thought but that Oddie’s would always be here:

A time-honoured constant ‘cross north-eastern Lancs
Is now just a memory, like best china, and banks;
Thanks for what was, and what we wish was here still
You leave holes on our highstreets, and in our hearts, Bill.

HINTS OF AUTUMN

BY LUCIA KENNY
Nature’s larder has opened its doors
to a fruitfulness,
berries are ripe for the picking,
earth’s greenery is fading,
golden leaves are slipping in,
yet, summer has not let go,
a warmth still clings to the air.

I listen to the chattering of leaves
round and round they dance on the ground
in no hurry to go anywhere,
one falls on my head,
I feel something special
perhaps it is a reminder
how lovely autumn can be.

A calmness wraps around me,
soon warm fires will glow,
while outside russet colours
greet the cool crisp air,
it is then I will welcome autumn.

WAITING:

BY SIMON GADD
Sleep will not come to me
no matter my pleading
I lie awake, alone in my bed
Wondering, why will she not come
and lie with me tonight, and
if not tonight then when? –
Shall I face this long night alone,
with only thoughts for company?
I yearn for her embrace,
her soft and subtle kiss, my beating
heart beats for her and only her,
my skin crawls from the coldness
of the night and I plead softly
for her return

PORTRAIT OF L S LOWRY

BY JULIAN ALPER
O Mr Lowry
I’m looking directly at your painted eyes
and even though you’re peering in my direction
I don’t feel your eyes penetrating me.
Your self-portrait is a youthful version of yourself
your visage appears much younger than your 37 years
and evermore you’ll stay this age.
The old man’s cloth cap on your head
makes you look lad like.
Your shirt and dark necktie
just visible behind your working man’s mac
show a vision of you as a hardworking man.
And as with all your paintings
five colours you used – more than enough
for industrial landscapes.
But unlike your factory scenes
of unreal matchstick men
you really are real in this painting.

O dear Mr Poet
thank you for your kind words
the kind of words that you and your kind
use to paint word portraits.
I really am as real as you
I see you through my unseeing eyes
I hear you and even smell you
I could talk to you as well, but I won’t
twice or more bitten, bitter lessons learnt.
People have had heart attacks
or even ended up in asylums
when they hear me speak.
So, let’s just look at each other
with silent mutual admiration
a portrait painter and a portrait poet.

ON BECOMING INVISIBLE

BY JOHN PLATTEN
As a person of a certain age,
who’s not yet ready to leave the stage,
but one who’s aware of the turning page,
and the script that reads “invisible.”

With a sturdy constitution,
I’m not ready for an institution.
Whilst I don’t want to be protected,
neither do I want to feel neglected.

It’s not some hidden mystery,
why some folks don’t take me seriously.
It’s easy to become miserable,
when you start to feel invisible.

It doesn’t take much – a nod or a smile,
for the impact to linger a while.
The highlight of a spoken word,
probably the first I’ve heard – today,
when age didn’t get in the way.

I know what line I’ve crossed,
so, please don’t treat me like dross.
I don’t expect to be the central focus,
just know – it hurts when you go unnoticed.

A GUIDE TO THE STONES (FOR CASTLERIGG)

BY DANIEL HINDS
‘the mimic arrangement of stones’
– William Wordsworth, Guide to the Lakes
Children scuffle for the seat, sit, and depart
When the war moves on, and I find my place.
More leaning than relaxing, a sarcastic courtier,
Joking over the infant tyrants throned on stone.
As a mere’s mirror, man’s small mountains, chiselled rock
Against a backdrop too large for any hammer.
But others are talking too, of sandwiches and ice creams,
Of the slow walk back, or car seats and difficult straps,
And the easeful storm drowns a druid’s quiet thunder.
A castle rigged against invasion
By the space between the stones.

AT THE HOUR

BY SUMAYAH YASEEN
Beneath Bakewell branch,
atop damp space I sit and
stamp wet-spots clustered to skin,
burnt-edged paper leaves refusing to rip away.
A stream runs hurriedly to
escape my forlorn gaze,
dewy mirror holding up mistakes,
denying the rush of chaos bursting at the brim.

I didn’t think I was ready to run beyond the archaic ruins
where you’d pinky-sworn you’d meet me at exactly ten past two.
Wondered if you’d wear the white crisp shirt,
collar turned up and stiffened with buttoned-up emotion.
Or the t-shirt hanging off your clavicles, trying too hard to show
you don’t care as much anymore.

Derbyshire dawns turn me into a poet with a deadened beating heart.
I might speak a line or two about inhibited love.
On hilly rocks my patient toes bleed and heels scuff standing.
Blue kite in the distance waves, stringless and unbound.
Gulls witness the off-kiltering –
the clouds are unaligned.
Purple hue strokes paint the sky
into readied darkness.
A stretching lullaby pans the greens,
it is time to lie in abyssal.

THE STARTLING STARLING

BY MIKE BURNETT
I fly with my friends
In a tight murmeration
We all know our positions
And all maintain station

But as a Starling of girth
I cannot fly fast
I’d love to be first
But I’m always the last

I’m planning a diet
I aim to be thinner
l’ll eat breakfast and supper
But cut out the dinner

When I’m streamlined and svelte
By keeping off the feeders
I’ll take to the sky
As the fastest of leaders

They may think l’m a dreamer
And destined to fall
But I’ll have the last laugh
As they follow my tail

I REMEMBER WHEN….

BY BETTY LIGHTFOOT
I remember when Jerry was finally beat
When Britain, en mass, took to the streets
And partied on corn beef
While waving two fingers at war free blue skies…

I remember when bunting fluttered on high
And red, white and blue flags saluted the sky,
Singing “We’ll Meet Again” and
“White Cliff” encores
With Heroes, and families,
and neighbours galore…

I remember when GI’s chilled glasses of mild
As second-hand memories because as a child
I was snug as a bug, in my black, pre war pram
And slept through the lot according to Mam!

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 or go to northernlifemagazine.co.uk/contribute.

NorthernLife Sep/Oct/Nov 25