Northern Man - The Best

photo of my maternal grandparents

My first thoughts on Northern Man were of my grandfathers and my father. Northern, Manchester born and bred, all passed on now. My paternal grandfather was in the army during WW1. He was just old enough to get called up and went to France or Belgium in the summer of 1918. He married in 1922 and raised his family in Rusholme, which I used to joke to my dad, made him an original Rusholme Ruffian. The family moved to Wythenshawe when the new estate was built c.1930, then to Northenden, which is the first house I remember. Giant daisies lined the garden path. I’d like some in my garden and one day, I’ll sort it out. His wife, my Nanna Hetty, was the gardener, though Grandad looked after the cutting of the grass. I didn’t know him very well, which might sound sad, but he wasn’t the sort of grandfather, or father for that matter, who endeared himself to children and grandchildren. Anything to do with children was his wife’s department. After he was widowed, he moved in with us. He helped out in the pub and kept himself to himself. It turned out to be a short term arrangement. He moved into a flat, with a lady. He is laid to rest with Hetty and their daughter, Peggy in Manchester’s Southern Cemetery, amongst the great and the good.

Laurence Stephen Lowry, a northern man, described himself as a ‘simple man’, not uneducated but meaning that he was ordinary, unremarkable. Well, that’s a matter of opinion. I’ve studied him and his work and find him extraordinary and a unique artist.

“I am not an artist. I am a man who paints.” He said.

The first time I saw his work I wept, full of emotion for this special man and his art. It was such an overwhelming experience. His paintings were on display in Salford University and I sobbed my way through the galleries a couple of years after his death. I’m probably the only person to cry at Brian & Michael’s song, ‘Matchstalk Men & Matchstalk Cats & Dogs’. It gets me right in the heart. The Lowry Theatre and Gallery complex in Salford is a fabulous monument to him.

Alan Bennett, oh my word, no, his words, all of them. He renders me speechless. I can read his work over and over, finding something new each time, then I want to snap all my pencils because he is genius and I have no place writing anything except a shopping list. The truth of The Lady in the Van is emotional and very much a stand-alone work, a masterpiece.  A quote from Untold Stories regarding his mother’s concern about Miss Shepherd taking up residence in her van on his driveway,

“I was a reluctant (and, of course, unpaid) landlord but what worried my mother on one of her rare visits to London was what the neighbours would think.

‘This isn’t Leeds,’ I told her. ‘They won’t think anything at all.’”

In Talking Heads he has been unafraid to tackle uncomfortable and taboo subjects. Food for thought, or if it’s too difficult, don’t read it and don’t watch the TV version. Sarah Lancashire played 'Gwen', a mother feeling attracted to her fifteen year old son, beyond motherhood. Alan Bennett takes us on a journey through her thoughts and emotions, edging towards sexual in feelings, but not stepping out of line. Exceptional from a very much alive Northern man.

My maternal grandfather was the direct opposite of my paternal one. When I was a child we played, we laughed, we got told off for being rowdy and too loud, and I don’t think we cared. He taught me Tiddlywinks and Snakes & Ladders. We played hide and seek in his pub, we moved furniture, anything. Times with him and my maternal grandmother were fun. Sometimes, he liked to be quiet and read a book for a little while. He’d been affected by WW1, though this didn’t become apparent until much later in his life. My aunt told me a story about him having a child, the result of a dalliance during his marriage. True or not, I’ll never know and it wouldn’t change anything. I loved my grandad. He cried his heart out at my mother’s funeral and now they share a grave.

Northern man, northern men, gritty like the women. The best.

My poem,

A Northern man, my grandad,
Reliable and always there.
I’m told he had his ‘moments’
But I loved him and didn’t care.
Nowt for me to fret about,
A serious ‘moment’ he had
Though he stayed put with my nan
And never set eyes on the lad.

I’d wear his precious Trilby
And put clips in his Brylcreemed hair.
My childhood, fun and laughter,
And a Jaffa orange to share.
Then the loss of his daughter,
Grandad’s heart broke when my mum died.
I sat with my Northern man,
To comfort him as we both cried.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe. Pam x

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Poetry Readings - A Night at the Brewery Arts Centre

 

The first time I stood at the microphone to share my own poem I was scared to death. At my request I was given an early slot before nerves might get the better of me. I’d spent a couple of days worrying, wishing I hadn’t committed myself, but there I was, in a café full of proper poets with a proper message and a witty way with words. I was the imposter with a few rhymes, persuaded into the spotlight despite my ‘better on page than on stage’ plea. At the time, my comfort zone was ‘Going on a Bear Hunt’ with twenty-five or thereabouts Year 1 infants, all of us doing the actions and having fun. Now I had adults looking at me with anticipation of how I might entertain them. I was amongst friends yet it felt like my appearance was being scrutinised before any words came out. I know I was blushing and my voice, when I found it, lacked my classroom authority.  I heard giggles in the right places, which was comforting, and applause at the end. My ‘daft rhyme’ was well received and I was happy to sit down, switch to ‘relax’ and enjoy the rest of the evening. I’ve done it lots of times since and I’m always nervous. As much as I love performance poets I don’t want to be one.

I was so excited to see John Cooper Clarke at the Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal. We had a pizza first in one of the restaurants there before taking our front seats in the theatre.  Yep, front seats and John Cooper Clarke, what a night!

It was an even more incredible night than I imagined because supporting JCC was a poet I’d never heard of (shame on me) who absolutely blew me away and I’ve followed his work ever since. Mike Garry, check him out, comes from the same place in Manchester as my family. His poetry illustrates places I know, people I’ve heard of and the way they relate to each other. His grandad had a pub on Fairfield Street when my dad had The Star and Garter. Our families might have known each other. Mike’s poetry is very different to JCC’s but they complement each other so well. I don’t know if it’s the Manchester / Salford thing or just Northern but as well as being excellent stand-alone poets, they certainly gel on the same bill. It was great to chat with him at the interval and buy a signed copy of ‘God Is A Manc’. There’s stuff in there that made me cry and still touches me.

John Cooper Clarke, still recovering from pneumonia at the time, kept going and going beyond his finishing time, turning pages of hand-written poetry and delivering words in his trademark pistol-shot speed. Poems I’d known for years came to life with the poet’s own voice, and he was right in front of me.

Here is the first poem of mine I dared to share,

There’s really nothing wrong with you…

 

 The dentist thinks you’re going mental,

Your funny taste is nothing dental

But you can’t convince the GP’s nurse

That all your ailments are getting worse.

She says your temperature’s fine at 37,

Twelve stone is good for 5’11”.

You should be glad that you’re so fit

You horrible, hypochondriac twit.

You don’t need extra Vitamin C

For occasional twinges in your knee

And stop that over-acted limp

You whinging, wailing, wussy wimp.

Bin the smelly cream for sweaty toes,

And menthol spray for your bunged-up nose,

The pots of Vick for respiratory congestion

And the Milk of Magnesia to ease your digestion.

Whizz that strong inhaler for chesty wheeze

And the K Y Jelly for personal ease.

Peculiar feelings in your tum

Means another camera up your bum,

But there’s never anything to find,

It’s not up there, it’s in your mind.

Oh take your special magic pill,

The one that stops you feeling ill.

It’s just a placebo, so let’s pretend

You’re feeling better and on the mend.

Now then, by your own admission

That phantom cancer is in remission

It’s just a headache, not a tumour.

Time you found a sense of humour

And stopped bringing your worries and distress

To the attention of the NHS.

PMW

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well. Pam x

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Appetence - We'll Get What We Need

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you’ll find you get what you need…”
from the Jagger & Richards composition, You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

My late father used to say something like that, long before the Rolling Stones immortalised the words of wisdom in their song. He had lots of sayings and witticisms about things that belonged to his generation and his upbringing. He was an original Rusholme Ruffian, very grounded and proud of his roots. He became an engineer and lived in Northenden at the time of meeting my mother and marrying into a family of licencees. He soon joined in. His first pub was in Manchester city centre. He was ambitious enough to want a pub on Blackpool Promenade and made it his goal. Six years later he’d done it and stayed for the rest of his working life. He had focus, desire and appetence. He’d certainly found his niche with his change of career. I’m proud to display his Licensed Trade Diploma on my wall, with photos of most of his pubs.

In my twenties, I wanted lots of children. It was a real yearning to have a large, close family. Obviously, it wasn’t meant to be and how I would have possibly found time to fulfil my ambition to write something meaningful, I can’t imagine. My two arrived in my mid to late thirties. I worked in a school with the under 8s.There was little time to write anything more than a birthday card. Things have improved, slightly.

For a few years, it’s been my wish to relocate to Dumfries and Galloway when we retire. I have to work more years than I wanted because I won’t get a state pension when I expected to. Yes, I’m one of those WASPI women, affected by the government moving the pensionable age criteria at short notice. I’ve just come home from a couple of weeks indulging my longing for Scotland, a holiday on the Isle of Barra then time in D&G. I hope it keeps me going until later in the year.

My family is growing. A fourth grandchild is on the way. I’m a very hands-on Nanna, so in a roundabout way I’m getting something I always wanted.

I thank my dad for genetically passing on his patience and tenacity, for always encouraging my writing and for showing me the difference between what we want and what we need.

The Rolling Stones have been doing a UK tour while I’ve been away. It would have been great to see them. Instead, I’ll play their music and look forward to catching up with a friend who went to one of their London concerts.

The photo is of our holiday cottage in Barra.

The poem is one of mine from long ago, but it means the same.

 

The Lowlands

 

Take me back to the coast of Ballentrae,

And a breath-taking view of Ailsa Craig

Half hidden by mist on a rainy day,

Grey shape against dull sky, outline so vague.

It’s restful at Robert Burns place of birth

And Autumn quiet on the Ayrshire beach.

A cloudy sunset calms the Solway Firth

And all of the Lowlands is in my reach.

I close my eyes and think of Galloway,

Afternoon tea at a street side café

A chilly breeze coming over the bay

At the end of another perfect day. 

I will return to this place of my dreams,

My love of the forest and rolling hills

Where all is real and just as it seems,

In peace and tranquillity, my soul stills.

 

PMW 2013

 

 
Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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In The Bag?

Manchester Monday night - what a frightful blight on young lives; a city rocked in the wrong way. The response has been resilience, a positive bonding of many colours and creeds in affirmation of community. No fear among the worker bees.

We are poets, wordsmiths. I've written poems about bloodshed in Paris and carnage in London but this is somehow too close to home. I can't express what I feel, the letters haven't settled yet, let alone the words coalesced - they're still a jumble of scrabble tiles in the bag, slowly forming in response.

Therefore I thought I should offer the next best option, not avoiding the issue exactly, more presenting what I hope is an acceptable distraction in the form of one of my favourite poems. It was written shortly after the 2nd World War by the brilliant French poet Jacques Prevert and was translated by another of my favourite poets, Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I hope it has the desired effect.

To Paint The Portrait Of A Bird
First paint a cage
with an open door
then paint
something pretty
something simple
something beautiful
something useful
for the bird

then place the canvas against a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest
hide behind the tree
without speaking
without moving...

Sometimes the bird comes quickly
but he can just as well spend long years
before deciding

Don't be discouraged
wait
wait years if necessary
the swiftness or slowness of the coming
of the bird having no rapport
with the success of the picture

When the bird comes
if he comes
observe the most profound silence
wait till the bird enters the cage
and when he has entered
gently close the door with a brush
then
paint out all the bars one by one
taking care not to touch any feathers of the bird

Then paint the portrait of the tree
choosing the most beautiful of its branches
for the bird
paint also the green foliage and the wind's freshness
the dust of the sun
and the noise of the insects in the summer heat
and then wait for the bird to decide to sing

If the bird doesn't sing
it's a bad sign
a sign that the painting is bad
but if he sings it's a good sign
a sign that you can sign

So then so very gently you pull out
one of the feathers of the bird
and you write your name in a corner of the picture...


Thanks for reading. Go in peace, Steve :-)

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A thrilling finale

On Saturday night the people of Great Britain voted a dancing dog to be the most talented act in the country. They deemed a dancing dog fit to parade in front of royalty in Jubilee year. They gave light to the bleakest of talentless nutcases that it can be done whilst plunging the nation into what will hopefully in two weeks be regarded as shame.

If you enjoyed the dancing pooch, fair play to you the first time, I did myself. The second time. The third time? To think that this is the pinnacle of talent the island has to offer annoys me. I hope then, that maybe the people who should have didn't bother auditioning (as always seems the case).

Back in the real world, yesterday saw Man City pull off their first Premiership title win in my lifetime. I sat there as most people did thinking the blue half of Manchester had thrown it all away, that QPR had done a job and that somewhere in the madness of it all everything had flipped on a knife edge. The whistles started to go in around the country, with Mancini time still being played at the Etihad and would you believe it, they smash two in and steal the title back from United's noses. By the time the papers are opened tomorrow, the whole thing will be relegated to statistics (and the top half all ended the day exactly where they started it).

Last year I sang beyond the final whistle at Old Trafford as Blackpool were relegated. The pride, the glory of it all and then the disappointment were all a little bit too much and, unsurprisingly, there were tears. That day inspired me to write the Dreamland poem when the Dead Good Poets were seeking submissions for the Blackpool anthology. This weekend, with a blog post in mind, I found myself thinking football poems again. Light and Dark is our theme for the week, and though a little rushed through, this is where I went with it.



We talked of legends for hours. Always legends. 


In the playgrounds we traded icons like stickers
Your Lee for my Matthews, some other kid's Law.
We played cup final day in the alleys back then, every night
we played pens with one poor sod on stones. 


Those were the days, in the days of our elders
the legends of their youth, the nothings of ours
the light we hold up in their memory brings darkness
overshadowed by heroes, here a long time before.


You talked then of fortress Maine Road, you went down
and I laughed as United swept off with the league
and my lot milled along: results read out last, goals never shown
but just three quid in each gave us somewhere to go.


Nobody told us back then, as young boys, that the games
we built childhoods on course through the veins of the men
who remember Maine Road on a wet Tuesday night-
with that tunnel out back, being penned in through spite. 


The Blue Moon never rose in my lifetime before-
at one point I doubted that it would endure through the dark
then from somewhere, as legend, came Keegan to steer
then Sven, Hughes, Mancini- one to make his name here


Glass eyed fan on the telly, I'm glad you've now won
Enjoy it, think of all the grounds the lads have been on
This was one for the memory bank, no shame now in tears
Light has come from those dark days, light to hold up for years. 



Thanks for reading,
Shaun.

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A Collection of Poets in Glasshouses

On Friday, Shaun and I travelled to Manchester to attend a Poetry Book Society Benefit where 15 northern poets gathered in support of the threatened PBS. They, like other societies and literary festivals, have lost all of their funding from Arts Council England. After 58 years of funding, they discovered in March that it would end; they’ve been in a state of crisis every since. The PBS director Chris Holifield explained:

The Arts Council seemed to acknowledge almost immediately that it had not understood our place in the ecology of poetry and agreed to support us and to help us write a Grants for the Arts application so that we would at least have some funding to use as the basis for a survival plan. But on 12 August we received the unwelcome news that that application had been turned down, which has meant that the crisis surrounding the PBS has deepened.

A second application, for support for staff to run the TS Eliot Prize, is currently with GftA. The situation now is that unless we can find sufficient funding for next year, the board is going to find itself in a very difficult situation. We have only until the beginning of December to establish that we will be a going concern next year.

So this is where I was on a rainy Friday night: supporting poetry, making a small contribution, being inspired, and remembering why it is that a want to be a poet – despite the barrage of cuts that continue to be inflicted upon poetry. And on Saturday, I wondered how I could tie this into a Science Fiction themed blog post... And this is what my mind imagined:

I was sitting on the second row. On the front row the poets sipped wine and waited for their names to be called; I was close enough to Simon Armitage that I could have tapped him on the shoulder, or even stroked his head. But neither of these things are subtle, they would draw attention, and for a collector – such as myself – that is never a good thing.

I removed a small plastic bag and a pair of tweezers from my pocket, and just as Armitage stood – ready to make his way to the lectern – I plucked a hair from his poetic head. As is usually the case, he turned in response to the sudden twinge of pain on his scalp, but there wasn’t time for him to question: his audience was waiting, eager to hear him read from Seeing Stars and Kid. I had succeeded; Simon Armitage was going to be the next poet in my collection.

Later when I got home, I went straight to the laboratory with Armitage’s hair sample and extracted an almost-exact copy of his genetic coding. The next stages are a little tedious and technical, so I won’t elaborate – but I’ve developed a method that allows for human cloning to be achieved within 72 hours. It produces a replica: not one that you need to wait for, not one that has to grow from infancy to adulthood, but an identical copy, well, almost identical.

The process alters height, quite drastically in fact, so what results is a miniature Armitage; a borrower-like poet that you can hold in the palm of your hand. But poetic ability, intelligence, persona, and even accent is unaffected, therefore, on the whole the results are fairly pleasing.

On a shelf there is a small glasshouse containing a few items of doll’s house furniture: a desk, a chair, a Victorian style bed and mahogany grandfather clock. I carefully wrap my fingers around Simon Armitage, lift him from the worktop, and place him inside his new home.

“There, isn’t this nice,” I say as I close the glasshouse’s lid. “Perhaps you could write about it...”

I check on the other poets in my collection, each living in a separate glasshouse, and suggest that they might like to do an evening reading to welcome our new arrival.

Carol Ann Duffy taps on the wall of her glasshouse and eagerly says, “I’ve got a new bee poem, I could read that.”

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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