TYNESIDE POETS!

TYNESIDE POETS!

Sunday 27 February 2011

Event name: Lunchtime Lecture: Keith Armstrong – Under the Fantastic Sky
Date and time: Wednesday 1 June, 12.30 – 13.30
Venue: The Laing Art Gallery
Description: Poet and performer Keith Armstrong will speak about John Martin and his brothers and their relationship to regional culture. Armstrong will also perform a sequence of his own poems inspired by Martin and his family.
Admission: Free – no need to book.
Contact: For more info about this and other events at The Laing, call (0191) 232 7734 or visit the official site.

Thursday 17 February 2011

ANGELS PLAYING FOOTBALL


NEW FROM NORTHERN VOICES
KEITH ARMSTRONG
ANGELS PLAYING FOOTBALL: NEWCASTLE POEMS

Keith Armstrong was born & bred in Heaton, Newcastle upon Tyne, where he has worked as a community development worker, poet, librarian & publisher. As an industrial librarian at I.R.D. in Newcastle, he was christened 'Arts & Darts', organising an events programme in the firm including poetry readings, theatrical productions, & art exhibitions by his fellow workers, as well as launching Ostrich poetry magazine using the firm's copying facilities & arranging darts matches between departments! 
This selection of his poems on his beloved home city reveals both its sunny and dark sides.
Keith is a noted Geordie wordsmith, a bloke whose musings were always radical, though of their place. (Folk Roots magazine).
In another part of the field, another field, let's face it, sits Keith Armstrong's rakish gaff. (His)poems are rooted in the Tyneside music-hall tradition, closely behind which was the august balladry of the Borders. Throughout the collection, the authentic lyrical note of this northern poet is struck. (Michael Standen, Other Poetry).
PRICE £6.50         ISBN 1 871536 19 7       
*ORDERS (ADD £1.50 POSTAGE PER COPY) TO: NORTHERN VOICES, 
93 WOODBURN SQUARE, WHITLEY LODGE, WHITLEY BAY, TYNE & WEAR NE26 3JD, ENGLAND. TEL 0191 2529531.

Sunday 13 February 2011

I DON’T MIX WITH POETS


I don’t mix with poets,
They’re so boring.
I don’t mix with poets,
They’re too self-adoring.
I mix with drunk Magpies,
I mix with no lies,
I mix with a bit on The Side.
I don’t mix with poets,
They’re parasitic.
I don’t mix with poets,
They’re soporific.
I mix with nice girls,
I mix with dumb animals,
I mix with wild birds on The Wall.
I don’t mix with poets,
They’re stand-offish.
I don’t mix with poets,
They’re too foppish.
I mix with my fantasies,
I mix with realities,
I mix with the maids of the seas.
I don’t mix with poets,
They’re just sycophants.
I don’t mix with poets,
They get Arts Council grants!


Keith Armstrong


Commissioned by BBC Radio Newcastle for National Poetry Day 

Monday 7 February 2011

Las Vegas





It’s glass ‘n’ steel reared in desert,
It’s neon gas burning so brightly
Stars are extinguished, It’s standing
On the walkover by Harman
Watching the life blood of traffic
Flowing vitally vivid red
One way, diamond white the other.
It’s darkness, yet The Boulevard
Blares and glares, sidewalks are seething
As the hour strikes up novelties:
Spumes of crystallized water dance,
Monumental Olympians,
Sculptured in faux stone, creak and groan
Into brief life; a volcano erupts,
And the gawping mob interrupts
Its promenade. All done by five past.
Then the huge slug of a crowd heaves
Into motion, oozing along
The silver trail towards the next
Stun-their-eyes gewgaw. It’s clicks
At every intersection, flick-
Flicking business cards to attract
Attention. Their business? Pimping!
In soiled T shirts brazenly bearing
“GIRLS4YOU”, a dumb show performed
In a city that’s dumb enough
To believe if no one speaks out
There’s no soliciting. It’s not
Bread and circuses anymore,
But sex and illusion, tacit
Collusion with an unspoken
Conspiracy to defraud
The willing and gullible.
Gambling is certainty disguised
As chance, the slots and deals and dice
Unremitting devices for
Dipping of wallets and purses.
It’s rock ‘n’ roll and too many
Elvi – deceiver Las Vegas.
It’s burlesque and stripper bars, it’s
Song and dance and rat-pack still
Packing ‘em in. It’s hypnosis,
It’s psychosis, it’s not saying,
“Enough! Enough! I’ve had enough!”
The only fear here is ennui,
Guilt at being caught not enjoying
A moment: howl and yowl is case
There’s slight suspicion of boredom.
Laugh and the whirl laughs with you,
Cry and there’s the Samaritans
On your cell phone singing, “Only
The Lonely…” It’s dreams and nightmares,
It’s cashing your paycheck at six
And broke for a month by half past.
It’s baby-boom of Superman
Born beyond Good and Evil,
It’s paradise synthesised, where
People pick accessible fruit
From the Knowledge Tree’s lowest branch.
It’s an avenue of sky-rise,
Vertical lily ponds in which
This city is drowning through its
Own reflection. And it’s cola,
Cold beer, iced tea.
It’s half-yards of margaritas,
It’s basques and baggies, stilettos
And trainers. It’s never sleeping,
But closing eyes to waking up.
It’s a galaxy of lights making
Beyond city limits so much
Darker. It’s electric guitars,
Chords and discords. It’s pretence,
A real sense that nothing is real.
It’s the compass abolished, it’s
The Strip as the sole direction,
Strip-stripping away refusal.
It’s bought! It’s sold! It’s Las Vegas.
It’s vague! It’s vain! And it’s Vegas.






Dave Alton