Readers’ Poems Spring 25
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
The Matinée
BY DAVID BUXTON
We’d a smashing little cinema when I was eight or nine;
Every Saturday our gang would go along.
Together with our Sunday School and what we learned at home,
It taught us what was right and what was wrong.
We knew that good old Tarzan, as he swung amongst the trees,
Would have to fight a crocodile or two,
Or wrestle with a lion, rolling on the jungle floor,
And who would win these fights we also knew.
Flash Gordon was another bloke who found himself in scrapes.
Each episode would end with peril nigh,
But next week he’d outwit those plotting his demise,
And continue with his flight across the sky.
But the clearest moral teaching came from cowboy films we watched,
Where the goody’s hat was white, the baddy’s black.
And we knew that by the time our hero rode away,
His opponent would be stretched out on his back.
No telly in those far-off days, the cinema our highlight –
No moving pictures in our humble home.
And everything we watched just filmed in black and white –
Our world entirely shot in monochrome.
The only slight exception the ubiquitous cartoon,
Where colour briefly took control of screen.
Disney had monopoly, with Micky to the fore,
But Popeye always sure to steal the scene.
And sometimes the Three Stooges had us rolling in the aisles,
The Dead End Kids, then Bowery Boys the same.
Their humour was pure slapstick, which appealed to likes of us –
Not subtle, but it guaranteed acclaim.
The atmosphere was rowdy: supervision only sparse,
But ample in that age of innocence.
Just grateful we could enter this vast world of make-believe,
And all it cost? A few old pence.
GRANDAD’S MATS
BY JOHN PLATTEN
A clippy mat covers the floor,
in the space before his fire.
Sometimes they hung behind the door,
for neighbours to admire
and to add some rags to his design.
Emerging from the hessian,
with strength left over from the mine,
no longer the Union barbarian.
Muscles shrunk, the years infirm,
the passing of his age.
As bodkin and rag rugs become
the focus of his rage,
against a world shutting down,
In the truth of the mirror’s glare,
weeping blue eyes, lop-sided frown,
loose chin, return his stare.
From his prodding and pile of scraps,
rich, warm patterns flow.
His knees entombed in clippy mat,
whilst his eyes remain aglow.
For some – the work of women,
to him – skill and craft.
His planning and creativity
fight off him going daft.
What of his legacy,
a family of rugs,
that foster cherished memories,
as comforting as his hugs.
SHAKESPEARE AS A PITCHING COACH
BY MATTHEW JOHNSON
The veterans call him the Bard,
Because the longer you are around him,
The more you will hear him weave for you
The best stories you’ll ever come across during a rain delay.
Don’t just seek him out for advice on pitch selection;
You’d got to frame it like you’re trying to comprehend
The human condition,
And only then, you’d understand all types of flaws,
Even the ones found in swings.
He’d argue that Yogisims are just nonsense,
And that people have misinterpreted and misapplied
Nonsense from a faux philosopher,
Though he was a damn good ball player.
He also despises the Yankees for their policy on facial hair;
It gnaws at his inwards like a cutter from Mo Rivera.
He’d tell you the sport
Is only history, tragedy, romance, and poetry to him,
Stitched together like the seams of a baseball,
And it’s actually quite painless and simple,
If only you’d just read it…
IT’S JUST NOT CRICKET
BY SIMON TINDALE
Out in the middle
of Boundary Mill,
old women shop,
men sit still,
keeping well away
from the socks and pants,
having little time
for the song and dance.
They want to get home,
put the test match on.
One more wicket,
over and done.
All too much
for a squeaky old bum
who’s been caught short
with a case of the runs.
MY HEART WILL GO ON
BY DAVID MANN
There I am, on the Street Where She Lives, Butterflies
in my stomach. And when she opens the door, it’s
Love at First Sight, I tell you! She says, why are you
just standing there and I reply, You’re Beautiful! I
Can’t Take My Eyes Off You. Then she blushes and
smiles and there’s no music but suddenly I Feel Like
Dancing.
So we waltz outside and we’re about to get into the
next cab when she shouts, Shotgun! I think to myself,
Why Play Games, but then an armed man emerges
from the shadows (you guessed it, a Case of the Ex) and
yells to her, Hey! Are You Gonna Be My Girl? And she rolls her
eyes and says, Look mate, We Are Never Ever Getting Back
Together! And I’m there thinking, probably not the best thing
to say in A Moment Like This.
Anyway, I leap over and take a Bullet for my Valentine.
Blue lights to A&E, woman at the desk shouts, Thank u, Next!
And I’m into triage. Nurse says, You’re Bleeding, Love. I try to
answer but she goes, Don’t Speak – Every Breath You Take is
adding more strain.
Then she sends me away with a shoo and I think to myself,
Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye. But she’s right – my
breathing is Shallow and it’s starting to Hurt Like Hell. I
whisper to the porters, Give Me Novacaine! But they all just
Walk On By.
A short while later and the room’s spinning, like I’m Free
Fallin’. Last thing I hear is one of the nurses shouting,
Emergency! Paging Doctor Beat.
I’m out for what feels like A Thousand Years. But later they
tell me he arrived in time to administer the Kiss of Life and
thankfully I Will Survive.
INGLEBOROUGH
BY TRACEY RACE
Ingleborough looms like a sleeping bear,
Softly, fiercely, within her lair,
Formed from carboniferous layers:
Beware her power,
Approach with care;
That great bulk hibernating,
Landscape dominating.
Long ago there lived a bear beneath that hill
Shielding her cubs in Gaping Gill;
I wish she lived there still.
I danced for her that day in penitence,
Tossed by the wind,
Flung by the elements;
Tripping and stumbling over limestone pavement
To make atonement for her torment.
Ingleborough looms like a sleeping bear,
From ice age to endgame
Ever there.
ASH TREES
BY ALLAN BOLTON
Two old ash trees that have grown close,
looking one, push spiring twigs high
in the sky where black birds
test balance and sway teetering
in the burling coastal gusts
that make landfall here.
Two old people who have grown close
clutch every morning cups glad to read
the ash trees disclosing each day’s weather
and the slow march of the seasons.
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 March/April/May 25
