Posts Tagged ‘poems’


The gate leans against the farmer

Digging into a sack of history

Stained with the smells of youth

That transparent, darkened raindrops

Have failed to fade into obscurity

 

Desperate to talk to the flesh of a dinosaur

Slowly rotting away under armour plated skin

Keeping out cold as bacteria thrives in warm flesh

Eating him alive, inside to out

Slowly killing him as time passes by

 

The gate watches, listening to the farmer

Sigh with nicotine filled lungs

Black with tar, a hole from no escape

Life is sucked in a one way passage

From this life to the next


I am trapped in the decaying coffin of bark

Forming the only life in this span of land

Trying to escape to breathe the air surrounding me

My existence only broken by the changing

Of the four seasons over time

Coming, going, as sure as the tide comes and goes

The tears of spring flow down my exposed features

Warm rays of summer split my gentle skin

Autumn blows through on currents of time

Blind winter darkens unreachable corners

Piece by piece I fall apart

Breaking away and falling to nowhere

Less and less turning to nothing

Mind and body decay

Soul and spirit evaporate

Only dust is left…


And so I move on in life

Onwards ever onwards

But the need to STOP

Reflect and reconnect to my

Inner self grows ever louder

It is time to go beyond me

Go beyond but I know

And reach new heights

Spiritually, mentally, physically

Or I will forever br

That piece of shit

On the pavement of life

That I was told I

Would be so long

Ago…

But now I can

Change my life

My circumstances

And say look at

Me

Look at what I can

Do

And go for it

And do your best

And see what you can do too…


Recently I was asked to write and perform some poetry for an event in my home village to remember the closure of Queensbury Railway Station 60 years ago. These are the poems I wrote. I wanted to capture the life of the railway rather than go into historical details. I hope I did this.

A hill stands in the way

Tons of earth lain here for years

Nothing has moved it

Not wind, rain or snow

Until now

Until now with the overwhelming desire of men

To get through to the other side

Underneath the village of Queensbury

To the town of Halifax

And navvies come from all around

To move earth and dig the tunnel

And with pickaxes and spades

They move lumps of mud and clay

And slowly a tunnel begins to form

Deeper underneath Queensbury they go

Determined to reach Halifax

And lay the tracks of the railway

A rumble deep underground as the

Slaughter line comes crashing down

And a wife and child are fatherless

Penniless, homeless

The price for some was high

But the men must carry on

In order to achieve their goal

And then

A chink of blinding light

Penetrates the blackness

And there is Halifax

1 1/2 miles through earth and stone

The men have built the Queensbury tunnel

 —————————————– 

The tunnel is finished, complete

Tons of earth above will not fall in

The people of Queensbury can

Sleep peacefully

As the lines that will carry trains go down

Mile after mile of cold, hard steel

Sleeping on beams of wood

Forever trapped in the damp darkness

Waiting for the steam train

To wake them up as it takes

The workers and holiday makers

To their destinations

——————————- 

And through the train comes

Thundering through the tunnel

As the village of Queensbury

Silently shudders overhead

Residents deep in sleep

Unaware of the mechanical violence

Happening far below

 ——————————-

And the train clanks and clunks to a halt

At the Queensbury triangle

Hundreds of people get off

And rush up Station Rd

It is long and steep

But they have no choice

The train was late

But they cannot be

Wages will be docked if they are

And someone will go hungry

 ———————————–

The day has been long and hard

Stood at the end of a loom

In a room filled with smoke

Noise, blood, sweat and tears

A child lost an arm today

No-one will see him again

And now the journey home begins

Tired limbs hurry down Station Rd

The train waits for them

Covered in soot and grime

Ready to take the workers

Into the darkness of the tunnel

One last time

 ————————-

And so it goes on

Day after week after month after year

Passengers go to and fro

Carrying cargo and coal

From work to home

For business and pleasure

Every hour of every day

The trains never stop

Not even for snow

———————–

But then stop it does

Passengers in 55

Cargo in 56

The lines go in 63

The air is quiet and still

Without the noise of the

Trains to disturb it

Nature reclaims the tunnel

For its own

 ——————

Now 60 years has past

Since the last passenger

Train ran on the Queensbury line

But plans are afoot to

Reopen the tunnel

And once again

Allow people to

Travel underneath Queensbury

This time by

By foot and by bike

For business and pleasure

As their ancestors

Did all those years ago


I haven’t had much time to write anything recently as I’m in the final few months of my degree and that is taking up all my time, energy or mental resources. However I have been going to my weekly workshop and at the last one I came up with these around the theme of eclipse. I hope you enjoy them J

At once I am a storm

And the cause of the storm

I am a paradox

Causing and creating

The storm I am in

A storm of such violence and passion

It threatens to consume

Everything I know and

Spit it out so

That nothing remains

Except the light

At the end of the tunnel


As sure as the

Cow jumped over the moon

The eclipse stopped

The sun from spying

On its minions below


Like a total eclipse of the sun

I blocked out the memory of you

And the way you left behind

Your smiles festering in the

Dirty washing up that still

Remains there to this day

A thick brown sludge that

Smirks knowingly at me


Can 30 years of living

A life in a cloud filled

With droplets of acid

Be eclipsed with a drop

Of sweat falling to the earth

And showing the flower

The way to the sun…


In the final solution

The only solution

Is to eclipse all

Solutions that have

Gone before


You eclipsed my life

With the touch of

Your hand on my face

Yesterday so soft and gentle

Today destroying everything

I understand and take for granted

As your heart turns from a

Passionate, intense warmth to a

Chill that breaks bones, rips skin

And I am trapped by the fear

Of today vicious and violent

And the memories of the past

Distant and carefree


I wake up in wet grass

That rots my sweaty skin

Tears of green stained on my face

As I stare at a flock of birds

Going round and round in circles

Forever and ever as a

Thin white light pierces a leaf

Trying in vain to warm a butterfly

Through the grey chilled air

That sends my dimpled skin

Into spasms as it tries vainly

To keep warm and stop my

Mind from freezing over


The latest from John Foggin

The Great Fogginzo's Cobweb

wave 1

Contrary to the truth universally acknowledged that British children aren’t taught standard English and the conventions of writing it down, here’s the actual truth.. What they HAVE to be taught has been there in black and white in the Framework for the Literacy Hour for years. Politicians don’t trouble themselves with this kind of detail. Maybe they should. So spare a thought for the teachers of 4-7 year olds who have to make sure that young children know how to use a full stop correctly. And, as a corollary,that they have grasped the concept of a sentence sufficiently for them to recognise one when they’ve written it. Think for a moment about that. You know a sentence when you see one. You just read some. Now tell yourself what a sentence is, or what it has to do to be a sentence. Maybe you say it has to have a…

View original post 2,283 more words


Here is the fourth and final instalment of Owen Vince’s quartet of poems about boxing titled The Bout, IV – Afterword. I hope you’ve enjoyed the poems and take the time to continue to visit Hinterland Poetry to read more wonderfully incisive and thought provoking poetry.

The link is here: http://www.hinterlandpoetry.com/owen-vince-4/


Another excellent blog from Kim Moore with a intriguing poem about a bath in a field from the lovely Keith Hutson.

Kim Moore

It has been a funny old week this week – overshadowed by the poet Graham Austin’s funeral.  It was sad and funny all at the same time.  Graham’s son and two daughters read beautiful eulogies for him which were really interesting as well as being funny and sad.  Graham’s other daughter had made a beautiful slideshow of photographs of Graham and his family.  I found out Graham used to be a runner – there was an amazing photograph of him in full sprint mode on a track.

The loveliest thing though was that the funeral was full of poetry.  Graham’s grandson read one of his poems, and other poems were quoted from and then Mark Carson, Ross Baxter and I each read a poem.  I read the poem that Graham sent me for this blog a while ago and it sounds inappropriate, but it nearly made me laugh whilst I…

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Another great article on how to maximise your chances of getting your poems accepted for publication.

Emma Lee's Blog

How to maximise your chances of getting your poems accepted for publication

The current issue of The New Writer features interviews with three poetry magazine editors, which includes the following statistics:-

  • Envoi magazine features 20 – 30 poets each issue, 400 – 500 poets will have submitted poems.
  • Other Poetry publishes 200 poems from 3500 – 4000 submitted.

In other words, both poetry magazines only accept around 5% of poems submitted.  This is actually generous as some poetry magazines accept as little as 2% of poets submitted.  So how can you increase your poems’ chances of being accepted in such a tough market?

Read Poetry Magazines

Better still, subscribe to a few.  Although poetry magazines generally don’t favour subscribers when selecting poems for publication, subscribing to as many magazines as you can means that there will be a market for your work.

Reading poetry magazines will also give you an…

View original post 1,042 more words


Kim Moore’s weekly blog including the peril’s of the dreaded tax return and a wonderful poem by Roz Goddard.

Kim Moore

I am so relieved this week is over.  It has been filled with the misery of the annual tax return.  I think I’ve spent about three full days on it.  Every year at this time I make a resolution to keep my books up to date, to file both my expenses and my income from my writing as I go along, to file my receipts according to month and not just throw them into a shoebox in the corner of the room.  I said all of these things to myself last January when I was in the depth of despair and by February I’d forgotten.  But this time I really mean it!  I have even labelled envelopes month by month and I am slowly sorting through the receipts I have so far for this year.   I have to get more organised about this because this coming tax year, my third…

View original post 891 more words