Accrington Poets.
 

I just wondered if there are any wordsmiths/poets on this site who'd like to craft some lines,on line,about and for the benefit of the folks of Accy.Here is one I wrote...

"Accrington Stinks,well it used to at least,
down by the river stink,really made me blink it did,
walking by the Hynburn stream,nothing fresh,just a smelly mess,
coz Accrington Stinks well it used to at least - down by the Hynburn made my eyes sting...
from the pen and ink of the Broad Oak waste pipe...chemical smellies poured out of pipes,filled the air with something ripe.
But above the factory the stream ran clear and one day went to fish in the clean cool pool,
there was a flash of silver,out dashed a trout and swallowed me worm,hook line and sinker,
That night,had a fish for tea and the Accrington stink was a fishy one - oh dear."
Kestrel X 2004.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Hey Kestrel I write poetry too... but I dunno if I'd write something about Accrington :/ lol

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Hi Chelle,poetry is just a laugh for me,a creative way of expressing something to myself and the world - playing with words etc. I was suprised to see a prog last week called "Slam Poets" on BBC 3 were people were competing on stage with poetry and prizes!Hey you should write poetry about were you live i.e. Accrington.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

lol My poetry tends to be lyrical... although I have written a few about other people. Entered comps etc. to have it published... had 3 replies but I never bothered to send back my permission form 'cause it was in the USA :( nvm! hehe I do write some poetry that I've done for a laugh... although it starts out as song lyrics (I write those too) which can be quite funny. Would like to read more of yours on Accy if you have any? xx

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I just made that one up off the top of my head well i had the idea for a song called "Accrington Stinks" but that never saw the light of day - the poem was the easy option - it used to stink down at the fish market as well - but the smell of Accrington is very fresh compared to what it was and were i am.

I don't really have anymore poetry on paper(though some songs) I make poems up for the hell of it...

It's good that you got 3 replies for your poetry from USA,what was the prize?

I don't really have many poems written down but I may make some up about Accrington and post them here soon!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I can't remember what the prize was now... I know that you could have been chosen for publishing out of all the entries,if you were good enough... but I think it was cash... about $500 dollars? I never sent my reply in though... and my mum lost one of the letters and found it a few months after it had to be sent in :( lol

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Most unlucky I 'd say;) I made a poem up this morning about Accrington and here it is....



THE COPPICE












:engsmil:

So Chelle have you any poems you would like to post.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

9/10....it would have been 10 except for your constant references to those of us who are follically challenged.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I liked that, especially the last verse and the tag line. You should write more.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

That really brought back memories of my childhood.

I once tried to write a dialect poem about Accrington but it wasn't very good. It was called "Muck and Mills". If I can find it I may pluck up courage to post it.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Cheers Bob,that just came off the top of my head when Chelle asked if I had anymore.Yep Willow it made me bring up some memories.Do people still swim in those lodges,also the quarry,well it doesn't exist anymore? Probably not?I would like to read your poem!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

OK, here's my effort. Sorry if it doesn't scan too well.

THE GHOSTS OF PEEL PARK

Standing at the bottom of Avenue Parade
stars shine and the moon is high
Was that a roar I heard in the distance
or the wind's mournful, haunting sigh?

Walking up Water Street in the cool night air
suddenly l hear a faint sound
Could it be the clamour of voices
away on the outskirts of town?

Looking up to the sky at the top of the hill
in the distance I see a strange sight
Is it the lamps on Alice Street
or a row of phantom floodlights?

So, with fast-beating heart, I rush up the street
and arrive at Peel Park at last
but darkness and silence are all around
it's only the ghosts of the past.


....ah well, back to the day job.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

ooh Wynonie that sent a shiver down my spine.

When I was a child we lived in Sultan Street and I remember my mother saying she had to be sure to get back home from shopping before "Stanley loosed" on match days because there was a sea of people heading down into town and it was next to impossible to walk up the street against the tide.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Will you listen to you lot....Talk about hiding lights under bushels...This Town and it's people amaze me, time and time again! And the deeper you look the more fascinating it gets.

Well done Wynonie, are there any more? Willow, if you don't post your poem I will send my assistant, the lovely Rubella, round to criticise your curtains.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Thinking about it...are there any short stories lurking out there?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Hastily checking the curtains ..................... I'll have a hunt for that poem.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Thanks, Bob and Willow, I'm glad somebody liked it. Looking forward to seeing your poem, Willow.

I liked your little story about your mum rushing home to avoid getting caught up in the crowds coming away from "t'Stanley". Somehow, I can't imagine folks living on Whalley Road hurrying homewards to miss the crowds flooding out of the IES...more's the pity.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

This was written when Sultan Street was cobbled and the Coppice was bald.

Muck'n'Mills
A young lad came t’our fair town in th’eart o’t’ Lancashire hills.

In a disillusioned tone ’e sighed “It’s nobbut muck’n’mills!”

Well it may be a bit of a mucky place but there’s green parts ’ere an’ ther

An’ most o’t’mills’ve bin pulled down tho nobody seems t’cer.



I could take yer a walk through cobbled streets, or up t’Parade t’t top.

We could climb up t’coppice if you like then just keep runnin’ till we drop.

Then lookin’ back y’d see our town, all th’ouses nesstlin’ close t’gether

An’ ther in t’fields little grey lambs, snuggled down in t’moorland heather.



That lad said ther were nowt in our town, nowt as he could love.

Well his heart can’t be owt like mine. To me it passes way above

All sorts of places, towns an’t’like as y’ear about in song.

But maybe that’s cos it’s mi ‘ome and I’ve lived ‘ere so long.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

:emotion-9 :emotion-9 :emotion-9 :emotion-9 ........what can i say?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Love it!...well worth the wait, Willow!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

BRILLIANT!
BRAVO!

Well done Willow! That was really good, Is there any more?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Matilda Harrison


Born 1837. Died 4th March 1893



“Born in humble circumstances and largely uneducated, Matilda’s reading was confined mainly to the Bible and books that the local Sunday School libraries possessed that came her way. Her poems were, for the most part, confined to “In Memoriam” verses and the contemplation of life in its poorer aspects physically.
She managed, through the kindness of friends, to be able to publish a book of her poems under the title “The Poet’s Wreath” in 1890.
From this book, a poem on Dr Clayton, whom she had known:



One by one, our friends are passing,

Quickly from this mortal sphere,

Old familiar forms have vanished,

True and loyal, fond and dear.

Eyes that shine with love’s own brightness.

Hearts that throbb’d with love’s sweet thrill;

Hands that ministered in kindness

Now are cold and still.



In her preface to the poems, Matilda craves the indulgence of those who have had the advantages of an education, which she had not, and in a reply to a question as to how she wrote her poems, she says:
“I may honestly say I cannot tell. I only know that at certain times and under certain influences there is the unfolding of a higher nature, the rolling away of the mists and shadows of earth and the conscious and exquisite delight of a more congenial existence in the higher realms of thought, then, and only then, can I write.”
She could not write to order but only, as she herself said, when the spirit of the muse seized and carried her, as it were, away from earthly troubles and sorrows.



The Angels Wreath



I sat me in twilight’s poetical hour.

To await the poetical tide,

But a mass of confusion pervaded my mind

And a subject I could not decide.

Impatient, I laid down the pen to withdraw

From a task that so fruitless would seem,

When a voice whispered near to me,

Stay mortal, oh stay,

I’ll weave thee a beautiful dream;

With the words came came a feeling of exquisite bliss,

And the mortal sight closed to the world….



…Asked the bright being for whose honour’d head,

He had entwined a coronet so rare;

He smiled as he answer’d, for one who is not

To the world either wealthy or fair,

But one who has wept neath its cold bitter scorn,

And borne her full share of its sorrow.

But ever remember’d earth’s dreariest night

Would be lost in a glorious morrow.

For one who has wrought out a beautiful life,

By a thousand noble deeds,

Whose name never shone in the records which boast

Of empty professions or creeds.



Matilda lived and wrote most of her poems at number 26 Augusta Street, Woodnook. Where she passed away on the 4th March 1893. She was interred at Accrington Cemetary."
The above is abstracted from, Crossley.R., Accrington a Century Ago


__________________________________________________ ____________




Though I am sure that there have been, and are, poets of greater facility in Accrington, there is something in the story and poems of Matilda Harrison that surprises and touches me. I’ll admit the mode of expression is more suited to the time when the poems were written, but I don’t think that diminishes her achievement in any way .
The poems of Matilda Harrison represent, for me, that spark of creativity in all of us, which struggles against almost insurmountable odds to find expression.


So, I thought that it would be a good idea to have our own poetry competition. I propose that it will be called The Harrison Wreath, in honour of Matilda Harrison and the wreath she imagined her muse entwining for an ‘honour’d head’.
The competition will be open to all ages and all sections of the community living in Hyndburn. And will be for a single poem of any length, in any style, that has, as some part of its subject, persons, experiences, situations or locations in Hyndburn.
The winner of the competition will be entitled to style his or herself “The Harrison Laureate.” for the period until a new competition is announced.



What do members think? Is this a runner, or is it going to fall at the first hurdle?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

[QUOTE=WillowTheWhisp]This was written when Sultan Street was cobbled and the Coppice was bald.

Muck'n'Mills
A young lad came t’our fair town in th’eart o’t’ Lancashire hills.

In a disillusioned tone ’e sighed “It’s nobbut muck’n’mills!”

Well it may be a bit of a mucky place but there’s green parts ’ere an’ ther

An’ most o’t’mills’ve bin pulled down tho nobody seems t’cer.


This is so reminiscent of the way I felt when I first came here. My first thought was of a town that was run down and dilapidated..........but now I see beauty all around me, countryside and wildlife abound, even the cobbled streets hold a magic that is undefinable.............. Love the place!!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Oooh thanks Busman you found the thread for me that I was looking for!

Sadly I think your first impression of Accy isn't far wwrong in a lot of cases because there's so much that needs to be done (like the state of Broadway for a start).

BUT, why I really wanted this thread was to reply to A-b that I think it's a great idea to have apoetry competition. How will the winner be decided? Will we all vote for the one which impresses us most?

Maybe it could be announced in the general chat forum so that more people become aware of it. That's just in case other people are as good as me at losing threads. I'm always losing my thread as anyone who knows me will tell you.

I loved the story of Matilda Harrison, she had such a beautiful way with words, and think it's a great idea to honour her memory with The Harrison Wreath. Perhaps the person who wins it could be awarded a virtual laurel wreath to add to their signature on AccyWeb.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

.>>Perhaps the person who wins it could be awarded a virtual laurel wreath to add to their signature on AccyWeb.<<

What a good idea Willow. I had thought it might be a wreath of Oak leaves since Matilda was Born in Accrington but I don't suppose it matters, or does it?

As to how it might be organised; We would need to appoint a jury to read and judge all the entries. Perhaps we might even announce the competition in the Observer and on Hyndburnlife too. Posters in the Library with entry forms (not too complicated). I'm sure that the Library Girls, Cath and Helen, would be only too happy to help. What do you think?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Excellent! Who is going to design the posters?

Oak leaf wreath? Now that sounds like an interesting challenge but very appropriate for Accy.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The Harrison Wreath - nice idea, I'm all for it!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Great Poems Wynonie and Willow - the Ghosts of Peel Park - whom could they be me wonders? very atmospheric,reminds me of Burnley Road Cemetery.

The Poetry Competition idea is good, but also in last few days had the idea to creat a Accrington Poetry Book it would have a picture and then a poem spread on two pages!Pictures and Poems from all ages,perhaps could combine it with a competition,but would need a sponsor!

Interesting stuff on Matilda.THere is a kind of magic about the area of Hynburn especially when you have been away for so long and then re-visit!Where there is muck there's Magic! hey!?!?!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I like that idea, Kestrelx. Any ideas about a likely sponsor????

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Is that 'picture' as in 'illustration' or 'picture' as in 'photograph of the author'?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I suppose it could be either, or both. But I think that Kestrelx was meaning that the competition could be widened to include the work of local photographers. I suppose that could include line drawings too! There are quite a few local artists of note who could be comemorated by an art competition. I wonder if we could persuade the Camera Club and Garth Dawson to take an interest?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

That sounds like a good idea. Photography and poetry. Perhaps artwork and short stories.

It's beginning to sound like the old "Accrington Miscellany"

Or are we drifting too far from what kestrelx had in mind?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Hi folks,sorry for the delay,use the library internet so havn't been online since last Saturday.Yeh it could be a mix of photos and drawings,but any images would relate to the poetry subject matter.For example with the "Ghosts of Peel Park" piece you could have a photo of the school perhaps,could either be old or new,it all depends!? I suppose the point is to create something that gives a view of what Accrington is like old and new to at tourist or someone who ain't been to the area!


Yeh Garth Dawson could be a potential backer,would need a publisher? I don't know who else?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Sounds like a great idea.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Yeah, good idea but for my poem I would've thought a scene from a Stanley match at Peel Park would be better, as that's what it's all about.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Cheers Willow,well Wynonie that is not what was invoked in my head about your poem - which just goes to show how art is in the eye or in this case ear of the beholder ; there is no mention on football in your poem.



May be a good idea but how's it going to happen?



Couple of ideas on where to get some backing...

1) The Lottery Fund.

2) The Arts Council.

Anyway is there enough poetry to go round etc?

Who is going to organise it all? :confused:

But anyone really interested may like to think about approaching the Observer or Telegraph to get some more poetry and some publicity,could start the thing off as a compettion as was suggested and then turn that into a book and so on.:engsmil:

Cheers.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Yes Wynonie I definitely saw the image of the old Stanley ground on a cold dark wintery day with the floodlights shining into the crisp air and the roaring crowd of supporters as Stanley scored, stamping their feet to keep warm, and their breath visible as they blow into cupped hands to try to stop their fingers freezing. Perhaps that's because I can remember the days when the old football ground was up there and there would be crowds pouring down the streets after the match.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I recall the ground when it was derelict we used to play in the stands,then it got burnt down!But there is no mention of footie in your poem that I recall as I used to live in the area I just assumed it was about the past ha ha ha .................................or it could be prophetically about John Peel?:eek:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The "roar" of the crowd, the clamouring voices, the phantom floodlights and the name Peel Park (it was the Peel Park ground where Stanley played at the foot of the Coppice.) - didn't really need the word football. The image was there.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Yeh yeh I just read it again in the light of your post - and I can see your point Willow but it only hints at the subject of football in my view it did conjure up other meaning to me.I think the word Ghosts just conjured up a supernatural theme which cancelled out any link with Soccer.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Maybe you have to be my age and have lived in one of those streets leading down from the old ground. lol I think the ghosts in question are the ghosts of the old players and fans who were at the old ground. My what a fascinating topic this has become.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Yeh yeh I understand that the ghosts are the players of the old team - but it shows how we all percieve things in different ways, for example I saw it as Ghosts from yesteryears and totally missed the football references,albeit subtle to say the least,and conjured up other impressions! Now if the line "blown a whistle!" was in it may have clicked straight away!:engsmil:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I must admit I never imagined that anyone would see the poem as being about anything else but Stanley. But I suppose you've got to be a little football-minded (or have lived near the old ground like Willow) to pick up on the subject matter.

Yes, the ghosts are the players who played on "the field of dreams" and the many thousands of fans who cheered them on...in particular my dad, Fred Pilkington, who was a dedicated Peel Parker and whose ashes are now scattered on the old ground.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Well all that I recall is the old derelict Stanley Grounds that got burnt down,next to Peel Park and then you have the Peel Park pub,maybe they'll change it to the John Peel Park Pub?

Nope I did not think of football when I read it....

Anyway what level did Accrington Stanley play at back in the 30's was it Second Division?I don't know?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I don't know kesrelx. I wasn't alive in the 30s. I may be getting on a bit but I'm not that old :)

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Stanley played at Peel Park in the lower divisions of the football elague (Third Division North, Third Division, Fourth Division) from 1921-1962 when they were forced to resign because of financial circumstances. They then struggled on at Peel Park in the Lancashire Combination - a local league - until they finally gave up the ghost completely (if you'll pardon the expression) in 1966. The "new" Stanley returned to a decimated Peel Park to play one match in March, 1973 when the Crown Ground was unplayable due to drainage problems.

Stanley's most successful period was 1954-58 when they almost achieved promotion in four successive seasons and regularly attracted crowds of 9,000-10,000 and this is the era I am trying to evoke in my poem.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

We moved to Accy in November 1957, to Sultan Street so you must have evoked the 1957/58 season for me! lol

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Thanks for the information - but why was the team called Stanley?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

In 1892, two patrons of the Stanley Arms in Stanley Street organised the young lads of the area into a team called Stanley Villa. At this time, the original Accrington FC ("th'owd reds") who played at Thornyholme Road cricket ground were still one of the 12 founder members of the football league. However, a year later they resigned and as they slipped into obscurity, Stanley Villa replaced them as the town's senior football club, changing their name to Accrington Stanley in the process.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Thanks Wynonie I never knew that,makes sense now!


Changing the subject slightly I only heard that Fred Dibnah passed away on Saturday,no he wasn't Accrington born but Bolton.His programs give a great insight into how the industrial age developed!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I meant to post this yesterday,a poem I wrote this week,but forgot the disk ....








They built this town on nori bricks,from burning coal from down’t pits,

On windy days up Whinney Hill,us men and boys plied our skills,sweated hard like molten iron.



On Saturday noons we drank our ale and watched the football at Stanley’s ground…

Come rain or shine we loved the sport,coz we real men,we sweat hard - like molten iron!



When Sunday come,we change our game,and meet up with Nori John of Nori fame,he got more brawn than brain…he John – Iron John!

Then we wandered oar’t field and hill,to hunt our dogs for rat and game.



Down Huncoat tip – Jack Russels sniffed,the smell of rat - to them was bliss.The dogs tail wagged and she whimpered, with nostrils flared at rodent scent…

Out came the spade and down we dug,Joey put the ferret in,when suddenly the lightening hell,sent adrenaline…the rat flew out it’s murky pit n’t dogs flew,yapping after it.

In split seconds all it took for’t death to steam from that rodent beast – then off we marched again – cross the field,down’t pub for a bit of grub!



Aye was fun with Nori John,down’t canal till’t sun went down.Even if we caught nowt the day was right,with out a doubt -------------- coz Nori John was the one,who made the bricks this towns built on!














Concerning the poetry book I mentioned - it could happen but I don't have the time - it was just an idea - so I suppose we will just leave it at that!:engsmil:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Oh I forgot blood sports ain't hip anymore - from next week hunting with dogs will be banned and you may be introuble with the law if your dog kills a mouse.

But years back many folks used to hunt rats and so on...


:wave8: :wave8:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

wow your poetry should be published
get a record deal or something
save the talent

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Cheers Sarnieboy,I was watching that film Pandaemonium the other night about Wordsworth and Coleridge - just a bunch of hippies or what:confused: :rolleyes:


http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0210217/

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Ah'll never forget mi early life, when ah were up theer livin' i' Bash,
Mi mum and dad were workin' folks we never 'ad no mounds o' cash,
But there were aullas coal for't fire and right good food on our owd table,
I were aullus clothed in gradely stuff but never owt wi a fancy label.
Wi ad some fun in them owd days especially me and my mate Ratty,
Alec McKnight, Melvyn Yates and Leslie Berry (wi called him 'fatty').
Ah fell in love when ah were six, wi Valerie Wise, she were a smasher,
A real grand lass who were born in't village a proper down-t'-earth real Basher.
When ah were ten we moved away and went to Southport town to live,
Ah can remember every minute, though now mi memory's like a seive.
Southport's flat, and for many a year I missed all th' hills and fields and streams,
I missed the Laund and down't Shoe Mill, but always kept 'em in mi dreams.
As soon as ah were owd enough to pedal far enough on't bike,
Ah'd go and stay wi Uncle Bob i' Nuttall Street any time ah'd like,
Ah'd stay for weeks in't summertime when school were out and days were great,
An' ah'd pedal that bike up Manchester Road te spend some time wi my owd mate.
Course, now ah lives in Florida four thousand bloody miles away,
But ah wouldn't miss comin' o'er to Bash when ah come flyin' o'er te stay
When ah were theer some weeks ago, ah met up in't village wi Ratty and Val,
It were great te see em theer a't church, my best mate and my best gal,
Wi never forget where wi were born, the roots 're buried far and deep,
Ah'm a Basher, born and bred, that's summat ah can aullus keep.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

That's not a bad one...more memories coming out...I wonder is Basher - slang for Baxenden?


Cheers:engsmil:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Basher with a capital 'B' is a citizen of the great village. If it's spelled with a small 'b', I guess it could be a violent type. I suppose there could be a Basher who is a basher eh?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I hope this poem is appropriate. It was written by a local Accy man as far as I know. I can't remember if I took it with me to Aussie or whether it was sent to me by a friend much later. It was printed in the observer I think. so I can't claim it. I am sure some of you have seen it before. I can recite this off the top of my head and in my original untainted 50's Accy accent. Whenever I feel sentimental I recite this poem to myself.

T'coppie

Tha mus be cowd i thi winter
thi grassy cooats thin
it's nod as green naether
as wod id wur long sin

And th'air tha breathes is smooky
thy arnt so far fray 'town
and when id rains day afther day
tha seems to weer a fraewn

Thart noan as big as Pendle yon
Tha doesn't reytch to t'stars
thas no songs sung about thi
and o thi face thas scars.

But then thas music o thi own
Thas no need to despair
when t'wind comes whistlin oer thi
an't larks sing up in th'air

Th'art bonnie too owd coppie
when t'thorns are white i may
or when tha blushes pink as sun
gets low near thend at day

and then Ive sin thi smilin
when t'skys all blue aboon
or when tha watchint'coarters
bi gentle leet at'moon

As owt be thart noan lonely
when all is said and done
all t'childer come to si thi
fro daewn i Accrington

and when tha bears i oly week
up o thi top a cross
and meks foak think of calvary
fer words i'm at a loss

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I have a copy of this poem! If I can find it I'll tell you who wrote it.

Sadly, it's an image of t'Coppie which no longer applies since the trees were planted and totally transformed the appearance. I used to love to see "the eagle" as I was coming back home along Blackburn Road but alas now it's gone.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I've seen that poem before, too. Was it in a book called "An Accrington Miscellany", published around 1970?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I couldn't really say Winonie. From the date you mention I would have to say a friend must have sent it to me. I really appreciated the fact I have it. The coppice to me was a constant source of delight, winter or summer(eek did I say summer)

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Willow. If you can find the copy of this poem you will be able to tell me if I got it right. I may have got the verses wrong way round or even missed one. It was just from memory. The EEK for summer is because at the mo I am used to at least 24 degrees C during the day:)

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I haven't had a chance to look yet. It's been a funny day. I've spent most of it on the phone to Americans. Why do elderly American women always sound so infuriatingly sweet?

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I suppose all my personal songwriting is about accrington( or maybe people, who frequent it) or stuff like that....Not about the town......Could write a song about afrika's thank god it burnt down!!!

Heres something i wrote as a poem/lyrics...I dont usually write words first usually write whislt playing but this i wrote.



Short song about you
_________________

Your the sun that shines in through my window
your the pot of gold that can be found at the end of a rainbow
your the fresh clean water at the spring fountain
your the first prize waiting at the top of a mountain
your the cool breeze on a hot summers day
your the soft touch of the ocean spray
your the moonlight on a clear blue sea
your the tide that is washing over me


R

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Hi Folks . . . I too have a bit of a knack for writing poetry. Have had several published over the years and featured regularly when the Observer ran it's poets corner.. Maybe we should petition to have it back!

Regards, etc . . . Stumped

Counting Sheep

I’m sick of counting sheep at night,
The critters won’t keep still,
They’ll jump the hedge, then turn about,
To run back down the hill,
They mess around and chew the cud,
Whilst I just toss and turn,
I simply cannot concentrate,
I wish the beasts would learn.

I’m done with counting sheep at night,
The theory don’t work,
The stupid creatures test me so,
Then vanish in the murk,
They trample on my every whim,
Conspire to turn me blue,
Till daylight filters through the gloom,
And finds me in a stew.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

i'm quite well versed............ but kids read this.:D

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

This is another sample of my previous efforts, written following an actual incident which I did not find so amusing at the time.

Cheers . . . Stumped

Mayhem
or ‘**** Happens!’

I was cycling along in my lycra,
Oblivious to all, but FM,
When a daft dog announced it’s objections,
And caused me no end of mayhem.

Snarling and barking, the animal charged,
With much lunging and snapping of teeth,
And caught unawares, I took to the air,
To land in a desperate heap.

With skinned knees and a gravel-rashed elbow,
A sprained wrist and jarred shoulder to boot,
I watched the dog vanish from whence it appeared,
It plainly did not give a hoot!

Quite embarrassed, and shaken up badly,
I reflected a while on my plight,
Exploring my bumps and my bruises,
Which at first glance seemed ever so slight.

When you get to the plus side of sixty,
And you feel like a teenager, still,
Your aches and pains tell you your past it,
Whilst your ego lends grist to the mill.

As the tow path at Rishton was empty,
Save crestfallen me and my bike,
I took a deep breath and remounted,
Still cursing my woes and such like.

Then my efforts to pedal were blighted,
Forestalled by each turn of the crank,
Yet stubbornness helped my endeavours,
And helped put some grit in my tank.

Drained by the effort I made it back home,
Once there, I examined my scars,
The bruises and bumps I had suffered,
When I went arse o’er tit o’er the bars.

The missus tut-tutted as stiffness set in,
She ran me a steaming hot bath,
And broiled like a turkey I wallowed,
As she stood by and stifled a laugh.

So there I was stuck in the bathtub,
Rendered helpless by wrenches and sprains,
Unable to raise myself upright,
Whence my pride took a tumble again.

Try as I did, my sprained wrists prevailed,
Hence the wife launched a shrewd master plan,
‘Throw your legs o’er the side and I’ll lift you,’
She said. And I said, ‘I don’t think you can!’

Imagine the comical drama,
What a picture to tickle the mind,
My bits o’er the side of the bathtub,
The wife’s giggling a trifle unkind.

The count, ‘one - two -three,’ was the trigger,
That hurled me once more through the air,
To land in a heap with the missus,
And end my dilemma four square.

On reflection, I cannot be blameless,
For the ludicrous state of affairs,
And Classic FM contributed,
By filling my head with it's airs.

End

This incident actually happened on Tuesday, 15th May 2007, on the canal towpath at Rishton, Lancashire, where it crosses the M65 Motorway. The black & white sheepdog involved was unattended and may well have come from a nearby farm.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

It appears that tomorrow 9th Oct, is national poetry day, anybody going to brek out into rhyme to mark the day, and before anybody asks no I'm useless at poetry:D

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

With Hallowe'en approaching, I thought it might be a good videa to resurrect a poem I wrote in 2000.

The Coven

Squatting round the cauldron
With their shoulders bent and spare,
The Coven dispense mayhem with their magic;
A dozen black rat's tails,
Five and twenty salted snails,
And a maidens tears to bode the potion tragic.

Stirring in succession
With adulterated glee,
The Coven lavish homage on their potion;
A pint of cuckoo spit,
Umpteen drops of dew to whit,
And a clump of seaweed dredged up from the ocean.

Chanting arcane babble
With their features grim and set,
The Coven look to implement sedition,
A splash of adder's blood,
A sprig of rotted wood,
And a curse or two to ripen their rendition.

Weaving spells at random
Minus recourse to sound thought,
The Coven inadvertently sow folly,
A cup of aphid's milk,
An arms length of spider's silk,
And a spot of mischief posed as melancholy.

Feeding in the punch-line
Without charity or grace,
The Coven look to reap what they have sown;
A flash of lightning fire,
Heralds consequences dire,
And The Coven face the wrath of the unknown.

Reeling back in terror
With no standing or defence,
The Coven flounder in eternity anon;
A potent contribution,
Dispenses retribution,
And The Coven, with their cauldron, become one!

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I see you go to the Richmond Medical Centre as well.:hidewall:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Here's another composition I wrote some time ago to 'celebrate' the advent of Hallowe'en'

Regards . . . Stumped

Ghosts

They hide inside the wardrobe,
And patter 'cross the floor,
They wander through the corridors,
And rattle on the door,
Though you may never see them,
You'll know that they are there,
For should you chance upon a ghost,
You'll feel it raise your hair.

They steal beneath the carpet,
And bind themselves in chains,
They holler down the chimney stack,
And leave suspicious stains,
Though you may never see them,
You'll know that they are near,
For should you chance upon a ghost,
You'll sense a touch of fear.

They lurk behind the curtains,
And snigger in the dark,
They flit about amongst the trees,
And cause the dog to bark,
Though you may never see them,
You'll know that they are here,
For should you chance upon a ghost,
You're like to shed a tear.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Christmas comes but once a year, sad though to note that Accrington never changes!!!

Shabby Town
( May be sung to the tune:
‘Oh Little town of Bethlehem‘ )

Oh shabby town of Accrington,
How sad we see thee lie,
Along thy dull and littered streets,
The disenchanted ply,
Oh what on earth is happening,
To this one thriving place?
Years of neglect and ignorance,
Add to the town’s disgrace.

Oh Hyndburn Council get a grip,
Before it is too late,
Clean up thy foul and littered streets,
Lest voters seal thy fate,
Oh use the monies that we pay,
To counter local ills,
Don’t auction off our heritage,
To pay your civic bills.

Amen

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The Poetry Pages seem to have dried up. May I be excused my attempt at reviving same with a little ditty I penned in 2002 when I was fast approaching my sell-by date. Though the poem largely concerns the town of my birth, I plead exception as it is not strictly Accrington, but Great Harwood does play an important part in the make-up of Hyndburn.

The Passage of Time


The passage of time yields us moments,
From reveries sealed in our minds,
Of places and faces akin to our youth,
And the foibles we thought left behind,
Though the mask in the mirror is older,
The heart of the child beats on still,
To stir up those brief recollections,
That sentiment prompts us to fill.

Like Pandora, time opens up boxes,
That rightly should not be displaced,
For the mellowing, rose tinted passage of time,
Disguises the truth we once faced,
With the lessons of childhood inherent,
To the adult we sooner become,
The genes of our parents cement us,
To the bounds of their strict rule of thumb.

Whence the formative years of our childhood,
Determine the role we enact,
So the lessons instilled in our juvenile years,
Assign us the price we contract,
Since the place of our birth is important,
To the ultimate role that we play,
Let's take time to acknowledge Great Harwood,
'Less the good things in life fade away!

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

That's really sweet Stumped .. thank you ... x

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Thank you, Katex, for your vote of appreciation. I have long been an advocate of 'rhyming poetry' and have penned verses on many subjects over the years: some enchanting, some scary and others mockingly critical of the society in which we now find ourselves.

Kind regards . . . Stumped.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Here I go again, harping on about the good old days, but I am sure that anyone born in the aftermath of WW2 will recall the sentiment I sought to express in this little ditty . . .

King Cotton
©1999

It seems like only yesterday whence Cotton were the King,
An' steeples pointed skyward by the score,
When roads were lined wi' cobbles an' streets were lit with gas,
An' it were safe to go outside bout' lockin' door;
When we 'ad full employment both for lasses and for lads,
An' factory whistles echoed all around the town,
When pride were somethin' valued and manners taught in school,
An' young men did national service for The Crown.

Come sixty three when I got wed and left me 'Arrod Town,
Bent on starting out afresh in pastures new,
Little did I realise that the rot would soon set in,
An' King Cotton's reign would end up in a stew;
Wi't railways trashed by Beeching and cheap imports from abroad,
Cotton mills began to fold up one by one,
Familiar landmarks like the Deveron an' the Palatine,
Like the Leather Works and Oxo - dead and gone.

As me memories draw me back to't nineteen forties,
To the sounds o't rag and bone man on our street,
I still hear the earthy chatterings of the mill girls,
An' the clatter of the clogs upon their feet;
Me owd' mother and me aunties were all mill girls,
Lasses skilled in th'art of runnin' umpteen looms,
An' the racket in the weavin' shed were deafnin',
Loud enough to stir cadavers in their tombs.

These precious mill girls were true treasures of their time,
A breed apart to whom we'll always be in debt,
An' like as always, faceless moguls without conscience,
Gambled blindly with their lives and lost the bet;
Now when you walk the railway beds of yesteryear,
Just take time to close your eyes and hark awhile,
An' should you heed the ghostly wail of factory whistles,
Pray remember Old King Cotton died in style.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Slumped on the bar,
With a jar and a belly full of laughs...

Feel free to continue
If you feel the desire
to add to this poem!

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Slumped on the bar,
With a jar and a belly full of laughs,
My head in my hands as I reflect on my gaffs,
The change in my pockets decidedly low,
The lack of employment a shattering blow . . .

Next please . . .

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

So I got on my guitar to play,
Just like yesterday - and said,

I hope we won't get fooled again!

Oh sorry that's from the Who song

:theband::mosher:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Saturday night finds me slumped at the bar,
Feeling like crap with my hands round a jar,
I doubt that I'd raise me a barrel of laughs,
As with head in my hands I reflect on my gaffs.

Thus with change in my pockets decidedly low,
And the lack of employment a shattering blow,
I just strum my guitar in the orthodox way,
And mutter a curse to the end of the day . . .

:theband:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

:mosher:[quote=Stumped;690501]Saturday night finds me slumped at the bar,
Feeling like crap with my hands round a jar,
I doubt that I'd raise me a barrel of laughs,
As with head in my hands I reflect on my gaffs.

Thus with change in my pockets decidedly low,
And the lack of employment a shattering blow,
I just strum my guitar in the orthodox way,
And mutter a curse to the end of the day

Then I wonder if should have a game of cricket,
But I'm so ****ed it may be a leg before wicket,
I get up from the bar and my balls are in a tangle
And head for the men's to have a quick wazzle



:mosher:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

[quote=kestrelx;691365]:mosher:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Then in comes a mate with a copy of the Sun
Something useful to use this comic to wipe my bum
I leave the bog and head for the stage,
Where I give them a scat instead of a chat...
"a do dop dada, a woop, pop dada, a do wop dada, sh la la la la!"

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The words might seem a little daft,
'Cos this rhyming stuff is a developed craft,
So no matter what the sentiment,
The effort involved is heaven sent.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Thought I would put in my two penneth...well the Obby thought it was good enough to print. :)

Folk write to the “Obby”, and sometimes wax lyrical.
Sometimes serious, sometimes satirical.
I thought I would add to this poetic trend
As I have a short while to lazily spend

It’s the only newspaper I don’t read online.
Good value, methinks, the price is just fine
To catch up with news, be it good or bad
And hear people’s moans, and what makes them mad.

Nice to know about hatches and matches
But makes you sad to read the “dispatches”
Area news from Clayton to Bash
Words from our councillors when they clash

Honeys and hunks, and beautiful tots
Voting for the best snapshots
What’s on & when, & historical news
(All in my life time now, gives me the blues)

The office will shut, so sad for some staff.
I wish them well in their next chosen path.
Hope the Obby will remain just as local
Giving us all a chance to be vocal

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I reckon we've all been there at one time or another! I'm just glad that my working days are behind me . . . Stumped.


TheInsomniacs’ Diary
:dancedog:

I go to bed at midnight on the button,
Prepared to get my head down pretty quick,
At two-o-clock I’m still awake and flustered,
By three I’ve grown so angry I feel sick.

I pace the bedroom floor to still my heart-rate,
And check the clock to see it’s almost four,
Come five-o-clock I feel I’ve really had it,
At six-o-clock I’m feeling really sore.

It’s nearly time for work and I’m exhausted,
Come seven-o-clock it’s time for my alarm,
The buzzer sounds to emphasise my quandary,
I jump back into bed where it’s still warm.

At eight-o-clock the phone rings to alert me,
And my boss snarls in my lughole: ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve overslept,’ I answer meekly,
‘Well get down here for nine or you are through.’

Come ten-o-clock I’m nodding at my station,
My computer busy logging all missed calls,
And eleven finds me snoring in the staff-room,
Where the gaffer really has me by the balls.

So mid-day sees my exit from employment,
And with cards in hand I make my weary way,
Blaming sleepless nights for cocking up my prospects,
As snoozing on the job will never pay.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

That Creeping Sensation

They can put you off your supper,
Even keep you from your sleep,
For the fear aroused by spiders,
Is inclined to make skin creep;
They wake in us emotions,
That send us into fits,
For party to their strange mystique,
They scare us out our wits !

They can weave the neatest pattern,
And balloon upon the wind,
They can shimmy up the drainpipe,
And scale the sheerest thing;
They strut in stiff legged fashion,
And strike at breakneck speed,
As party to their heritage,
'Tis how all spiders feed !

They select the darkest cranny,
There to hang around for days,
Lurk motionless and scary,
Till in the end it pays;
Though we may fear the spider,
It bodes us well to think,
E'er we assume the coast is clear,
One shows up in the sink !

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The fear of spiders is a phobia shared by many. This, like my previous posting, is a simple exploration (or maybe exploitation) of same.

+The Arachnid

Concealed inside a blanket of spun silk,
Or awaiting on it's luncheon with a yen,
No reputation rivals that of the arachnid,
This most feared of creatures present among men.

Crawling in it's stiff eight legged fashion,
Or despatching of it's prey thus turned to soup,
The abominable ways of the arachnid,
Are inclined to make the strongest stomach swoop.

Clinging to it's web in isolation,
Or ballooning through the air at natures whim,
The inviolable role of the arachnid,
Is frowned upon as something awful grim.

Considering then the creature's ill repute,
Does it really merit such an awful press?
The unpalatable traits of the arachnid,
On reflection glean a most resounding - yes.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

im not much of a poet lol... mostly i write songs

He's sitting there in the bar all alone
In the corner he doesnt want to know anyone
There is a whole world in the bottom of his glass
He only wants to drain away the day

A quiet bar is where here feels safe
Doesn't want to talk with strangers
Loutish creatures fill up the nightclubs
Dancing to music that makes him feel like an alien

Hes staring up at the sky in the beer garden
Wondering if the clouds are fluffy elephants
Sitting in the sun with his hangover
Hairs of the dog floating around in his glass

The bell rings and hes on his way
Out of the bar and back to his place
Stumbles up the stairs and falls into bed
And the hangover's cure is only a few hours away

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I penned this one in 2001 and the disillusionment I felt then has in no way subsided.

Crude Britannia
(The true face of Blair’s Britain)

LAND OF HOPE AND GLORY
Where hope has largely been eradicated,
And glory is something that once was.

MOTHER OF THE FREE . . . and easy.
Where the working man exists solely to ensure
that the criminal and the work-shy attain a better
standard of living than himself.

HOW SHALL WE EXTOL THEM
Whereas fat-cats, pop icons and footballers are lauded;
the real heroes: men and women of the armed forces,
the health service, the emergency services and the
teaching profession, are vilified and castigated by those
that they would deem to serve.

WHO WERE BORN OF THEE
Where the sanctity and values of marriage and
family life seem to have been subjugated by the
immoral preachings of the combined media, with
little or no interference from the sitting government.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Yeh Stumped I agree with much of what you say! People aspire to be celebrities and fail to realise it's all a sham - look how people like Michael Jackson and Elvis Presley ended - these are people that reached the top of the tree in entertainment!:mosher::theband:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

This one sort of pre-empts my Crude Britannia offering as it shares the sentiment to a large degree.

Politics Apart
©1998

The Town Hall coven huddles nightly in it's grotto,
Chancing council taxes on the civic lotto,
Public needs go out the door
When these dullards take the floor,
On the off-chance of a sly back handed potto!

Building road humps has become a way of life,
Better hump the road than someone else's wife,
Humping tarmac round in barrows
Through daft chicanes and narrows,
Adds little but confusion to our strife!

Doggy pooh bins are erected in the park,
Yet our dogs don't seem to see them in the dark,
It's to many folks distress
That the streets are filled with mess,
Aint it time now that we heard The Council bark!

So they sold off all our buses at a whim,
A decision that still looks distinctly dim,
Robbing Peter to Pay Paul
Is always an own goal,
Now the surest way to get their is to swim!

Yellow lines and orange badges are as one,
Feigning 'bad back' means your parking problem's gone,
Yes, a town once proud and well
Is truly on the road to Hell,
Which goes to show that politicking is a con!

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Hi All.

Try this for a little poetry :

lifeinthemix's Podcast

Not your normal poetic dream but important all the same

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

I wonder if my old art college lecturer, Jamie Reid, know his work from the Sex Pistol's record cover is being used by lifeinthemix?

:rolleyes:

Perhaps I'll mail and ask him.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

The song was nothing to write home about, very banal, but the other recordings, of the young dipstick talking on a radio phone in, were hilarious.

Have mailed Jamie Reid to inform him his work might be being used without his permission.

Perhaps the yound dipstick might phone in the radio show to talk about copyright infringement next.

:rolleyes:

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Just had an email back from Jamie Reid, the artist who did the Sex Pistol's record covers, and his lawyers will be contacting the person responsible for unauthorised use of his work on lifeinthemix's site.

You might want to let him know.;)

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

If anyone would like to start a campaign, to help raise funds for legal costs, that lifeinthemix will incur, please do so in a separate thread.

I don't want my pm box filled up with hundreds of requests of help.

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Readers of The Sun & The Daily Mail, beware.

Media Influence
© 1995

Lichen covered tombstones mark the cradles of the dead,
Silent, weed-strewn plots of earth that conjure thoughts of dread,
A twisted yew tree by the gate sends shivers down the spine,
E’er the full moon breaks the cloud above the lonesome pine,
An owl hoots in the treetops at the distant stroke of twelve,
And a rustling in the bushes makes imagination delve
Into the creepy afterlife we’ve learned to preconceive,
From nasty books and videos our wanton hands receive.

Smashed and bloody corpses lay the trail of men at war,
Mutilated bodies struck by missiles from afar,
Damage and destruction on a scale beyond compare,
Orphaned children begging in a land no longer fair,
Seas and rivers poisoned by an ever flowing tide
Of sickening pollution that man’s crassness has supplied,
Daily through our TV-sets and printed paper news,
Young minds are infiltrated and thus scarred with adult views.

Kids in cardboard boxes line the inner city street,
An underclass of people that the rich are loath to meet,
Some turn to prostitution as others embrace crime,
Life for them is meaningless and endless as is time,
Stripped of inhibitions in a grasping welfare state,
Reduced to drugged existence by the quirky hand of fate,
Tho’ the influence of the media is the present wherewithal,
It’s message mocks our dignity and damns us one and all.

End

Re: Accrington Poets.
 

Reckon all us red blooded males have come across 'her' at one time or another!

The Modern Miss
© 2006

She posed on the beach in the sunlight,
Her body in stunning repose,
Scantily clad in chic swimwear,
And sunglasses perched on her nose.

She warranted admiring glances,
From young swains who wandered her way,
Avidly scanning her assets,
To covet the goods on display.

She rolled on her stomach demurely,
Enticingly plying her wares,
Vampishly snaking her body,
To glory in admiring stares.

She simpered and turned her head coyly,
Seducing the hot blooded males,
With feminine gestures intended,
To fire up the blood in their tails.

She stretched her long legs most divinely,
Disturbing the sand with her toes,
Exploiting her wherewithal grossly,
With little more flesh to expose.

She garnered the boys in her aura,
Seductively baring her soul,
Wantonly testing emotions,
Her antics devoid of control.

She patently toyed with the congress,
Increasingly stirring the pot,
Instilling the crowd with such passion,
That rendered them blind to the plot.

She openly flouted her aptness,
For teasing and winding up men,
Whose weaknesses craved exploitation,
Whilst palpably lacking in yen.

She raised herself up on one elbow,
Commencing a search of her bag,
And unable to find what she wanted,
She said: ‘Any o’ youz gotta fag?’

End