Readers’ Poems Winter 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
The Grand Ol’ Duke
BY JOHN LANCASTER
The Duke was brave and GrandOl’
when he marched up the hill at Sandal.
Ten thousand men couldn’t get served at the Caff
So he walked them back down, without a laff.
To Macca Dee’s he went, but they clogged up the drive-thru.
In desperation, he wailed: “Now what am I to do?”
In Denby Dale was a fish and chip shop, an answer to his pleas.
Where he got all his men (and women) cod, chips and mushy peas!
BLACKPOOL,
PLAY SOMETHING COUNTRY
BY ALLAN BOLTON
It’s Saturday night, the Empress Ballroom,
huge space and height like a dome for the stars,
set buzzing with possibility
just for you, your band with drums and guitars.
For those who love to put art in boxes
that your music is cross-over Country/ Pop
conveys nothing of its pulse and power
in playlists I wish would never stop.
I move from tables to stand near the stage.
Songs build mood, I sense something in reserve.
‘You’re all too far away,’ you say, gain clearance
to leap off the stage, all energy and verve.
Now your band resumes with perfect timing,
people rise and spill out on to the floor.
Your arm sweeps a tight circle around you
inviting close those who’d approached before.
While others film you, or themselves,
my experience, unfiltered, is filled
with your hand-held mic, your black lace catsuit,
your break-up songs, their happiness unfulfilled.
Those songs vibrate still in my memory:
strong-vulnerable, beautiful-crazy too.
Fearfully you sing ‘I loved a bad man,
I hope you’re not a bad man too.’
The singer in the poem is Twinnie.
MR DICKENS WAS RIGHT
A poem at Christmas for our times
BY JOHN PLATTEN
Somewhere there’s a Tim,
a Sophie, Jenny, or Jim.
There’s bound to be a Tim.
There’s sure to be a Mary,
without a Christmas tree or fairy,
and there’s bound to be a Tim.
There must be a Lou,
who hasn’t got a clue,
why Santa didn’t call.
It’s bound to cause a rift,
amongst friends discussing gifts,
when Santa didn’t call.
Some place there’s got to be a Tim.
Meet the parents – Bob and Sue
who just don’t know what to do.
There’s always month beyond the money,
any time of year, it’s not funny.
Struggling to pay winter’s bills,
there’s not much left for Christmas frills.
So, they join the foodbank queue.
Let’s not dally like Scrooge,
but share resources we won’t use,
to provide some light
and make a child’s Christmas bright.
In the 21st Century there shouldn’t be a Tim,
or a Sophie, Harry, Rochelle, Mary, Fozia, Leroy, Jenny, Lou,
Ahmed, Claire, Paul, or Jim.
Mr Dickens is right.
My dad was poetry to me
BY ALISON HRAMIAK
I’m not sure this is poetry. It’s about my dad and he was
poetry to me.
The man who taught me to ride a bike,
(by pretending he was still holding on) is gone.
The man who taught me how to drive his car,
(even though I crashed it, and we didn’t get far) is gone.
This man fed the birds every day,
and made bread so right, but fudge you had to weigh.
His Yorkshire puddings were the best in the land,
made in big bread tins, always by hand.
(Not like mine which are always too small,
and which rise in the oven, only to fall).
That same man who was so down to earth,
listened to opera late on Christmas day,
lying flat out on his back after all was cleared away.
Resting by the radiator, head melting but content,
listening to Aida, happy but spent. He’s gone.
The man who bought me my first posh perfume. Miss Dior.
warmed beans in a tin in the woods, (and called it camping) – we were home by four.
Who took me fishing in the North Sea off Brid,
and never complained when all I caught was a dead plaice,
having puked the whole time when the boat left the bay.
Who taught me to light coal fires and chop wood
and loved me as his own, tho’ I was not of his blood.
Who never let go, never stopped being my dad.
Being a dad to the lad he never had.
The one to whom he gave the middle name, Jane.
Who called me AJ, whose love never waned. He’s gone.
Gone but 23 long short years ago.
A generation past.
But he’s still alive. Inside.
So, while this may not look like poetry to some, it is
because my dad was poetry to me.
The Odd Couple
BY LUCIA KENNY
He stood small podgy and round,
she stood highest from the ground.
His thick arms hung like two blocks of wood,
like shafts of a brush hers dangled where she stood.
When he spoke his tone was light and sweet,
while her voice roared out loud and deep.
He loved to dance with his twinkle-toed feet,
watching the wrestling was her weekly treat.
His excitement was raised by betting on horses,
she fretted if her voice developed a hoarseness.
A pie and pint he liked to savour,
but dinner at the Ritz she did favour.
On Friday afternoon they had lunch in the park,
they sat there together until it was dark.
While eating his pie not a word did he speak,
but when he finished he kissed her cheek.
For thirty years their romance did grow,
but never a gold ring was to bestow.
Their characters were so far apart,
both came from different planets of the heart.
Endearments occurred only in their dreams,
still they stuck together – odd as it seems.
What they had in common nobody knew,
perhaps their oddities gives us a clue.
SEASON SONG
BY VIVIEN FOULKES-JAMES
In the icy air shoppers scuttle
along Kendal main street, purposeful, determined, as is the way in this jolly season of the year.
A Christmas fever descends,
everyone has a list running through their heads.
And from out of nowhere
a lone voice sings,
piercing the air with her unfamiliar tune. A carol from Ukraine,
hauntingly beautiful, mournful.
Contra to the mundane,
the Merry Christmas songs.
Turning off the main street
her voice can still be heard, rising higher and higher
until the woods on the hillside absorb the sadness in her song,
and there the melody hangs where it drifts amongst the trees.
A reminder of the sadness that exists in this world
in this very jolly
season of the year.
DAME JUDI
A poem to celebrate the 90th birthday on 9 December 2024 of Dame Judi Dench CH, DBE, FRSA
BY HENRY DAWE
This lady truly is unique
A precious gem, a rare antique
She sparkles brightly in our sky
She’s made us laugh, she’s made us cry
For so long our pride and joy
And I’ve loved her, man and boy
She’s been there to serve us all
Never failing to enthral
Her company brings such delight
She cheers up any gloomy night
To leave her always is a wrench
By ‘her’ I mean Dame Judi Dench
She has borne a heavy load
She has travelled many a road
Many a turning, many a fork
Since her tale began in York
That young girl showed such craft and skill
That she was cast in work by Will
That’s Shakespeare, I should make it clear
The Stratford Bard whom she holds dear
Admirably she kept her cool
When that day in Liverpool
She debuted in Hamlet there
Basking in the spotlight’s glare
Her talent left no one in doubt
She was the one to shout about
Tastier than a dish from Delia
She served up a fine Ophelia
That was just the start of things
Weighty parts, then wedding rings
Passed between two sweethearts fair
Dashing, dainty, debonair
She found her strength and stay, her rock
Until there came her cruellest knock
Bravely facing life’s dark cycle
She fought back from losing Michael
She has played illustrious roles
Juliet and Sally Bowles
Iris Murdoch, gentle Jean
And Good Bess, The Virgin Queen
Titania and ‘M’ in Bond
Securing fame across the pond
But home is here upon these shores
We thrill at each success she scores
And her fans have been so loyal
Seeing her as almost royal
She has splendour, charm and grace
Radiance glows upon her face
It’s true that all the world’s her stage
And every day she fills a page
Of this, her story, in her hand
My, how she has enriched our land
On her path she’s met the greats
Heroes, giants, heavyweights
Actors, writers and top brass
Saw her style, her wit, her class
She’s known them from Cleese to Oddie
Brucie, Kenny, Babs and Doddy
Joined by thesps from ‘Reggie Perrin’
She swapped jokes with old Ned Sherrin
Stephen Sondheim, Stephen Fry
Never does an hour go by
When she does not thank and praise
Gifted stars who’ve shared her days
But one star outshines all today
One beacon guides them on their way
To that most sumptuous birthday feast
With cake and treacle tart at least
Ninety candles there to see
Ninety years – that’s more than me
Britain now shows gratitude
To its one, its only: Jude
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 Dec/Jan/Feb 24
