There’s a street in my dear town I can’t forget
Its name invokes in me
Feelings of pleasure and regret
The pleasure of the happiest of times
Regret at leaving for continental climes
My first sight of it was in 1998
When I was full of hope, an ecstatic newly-wed
And when two short years later I left
Unable to think straight
Thoughts of this street was all that stopped me
From going out of my head
After the tears, after the pain
I know that all roads lead to Bishop Lane
There is sun, after the rain
And now I’m finally back in Bishop Lane
It’s as if every cobble tells a tale
A life story that can succeed or fail
I can’t imagine leaving it behind
Because if I did
I think I’d lose my mind
Each tiny flat can seem like a tower
The hope that got me through
When the Croatian dream turned sour
When all my hopes and dreams went down the drain
I got through due to the thought
Of being back in Bishop Lane
From Bishop Lane, from Bishop Lane
I hear the bells of St. Mary’s
Where I became your wife
My Bishop Lane, my Bishop Lane
The little street that’s shaped me
And given me a life
These unrefined Northerners
Outside their watering holes,
(Silver Cod, Malt Shovel,
Parkers et al) half working-class,
Half dole but altogether in
Skewed cohesion and clashing Read more...
Poetry - The bicycle-bell Bird By John Cuthbert Hayton
In natural history books
You’ll find a lot of information
To keep the human race in mind
Of the animal creation
Now there’s a bird which I have heard Read more...
Poetry - The Ballads of Pete Seeger (1919-2014) By Patrick Henry
A house stayed at in far, dry hills of Spain;
Owned just one disc: America’s Favourite Ballads.
Seeger sang The Old Grey Goose. A strange sad song.
And Little Boxes: sniping at those caught tight in narrow ways.
Not open, the ways he lived; and brought wide horizons, Read more...
Poetry - Lunch at The Sailmakers Arms By Terry Ireland
Sitting in the warmth looking over the river
Where my darts partner, Bernard used to work
When they did once make sails and tarpaulins
Before it became a pub where we could lurk
After our short walk along the waterfront:
Desolation and dereliction have moved on.
Many of the old chandlers and merchants Read more...
Poetry - Downturn Abyss By Patrick Henry
TV series viewing moves upmarket to High-Class drama;
From East End-Coronation-type, dodgy, lowlife sorts.
Proof how the ruling class needs keep down that rabble.
Now screened in glory: square-eyed addicts goggle at;
Pining for days when strikers and Jack-the-Lads got the elbow. Read more...
Poetry - Come in Number Three, Your Time is Up By Maurice Fairfield
Somebody sentenced me to life some time ago.
For something I can’t remember doing.
Now as my sentence dwindles to its close,
Freedom no longer pulls me as it did.
My cell though cramped, is cosy,
And the meals arrive on time. Read more...
Poetry - Precious Things By Ian Winter
You are a diamond on a troubled shore
I am a stone in a broken shoe
We walk together in a sunless sky
Yet Still my shadow
Still, clings to you.
We roll and fall up hill
Against a thickening breeze Read more...
Poetry - Christmas Cheer By Mark Hillary
As remorselessly as winter itself
It always appears on the Christmas mantelshelf
Always the same cheery greeting 'from Julie and Pete'
Were they that ghastly couple we met that time in Crete?
Their address went straight in the bin
Once the duty free bags had released their gin
Why do they send without reciprocation
Poetry - The Solid Gold Mandela By Patrick Henry
An image shrouds around the last sight of Mandela:
The world crowds to hail, not mourn, the finish of his life.
Common sorts, stunned, losing their saviour figure.
Leaders act tributes: some seen sly and two-faced.
Dark ones, who run his land now: stand mistrusted, self-serving. Read more...
Poetry Alcoholism By Nicky Kelly
Woke up and said to myself never again
Fully clothed curled in bed
I lost count after a drink or ten
With shaky hands and a pounding head
Finally got myself up and about
Then it hit me that urge I needed a drink Read more...
Poetry - Can’t Colour In By Mark Hillary
This is a confusing city
Low and dull and not very pretty
Hull F.C. is one of the rugby teams
And much more here is not as it seems.
Really Kingston-upon, which you could colour in
but beware here that would be considered a sin.
Poetry - Try Reading Poetry - Featuring Video
To coincide with the 2013 Rugby League World Cup matches hosted in Hull in October and November,
Hull Central Library and Write to Speak recently ran a series of free workshops under the banner of
Try Reading Poetry, culminating in a special performance at the launch of the Humber Mouth literature festival 2103.
Presented by performance poets Joe Hakim and Mike WattsRead more...
Poetry - Watching Rugby in East Park By Julie Corbett
I stand with the home supporters
St. John’s Ambulance, those injured and the passionate unselected.
They keep up a commentary
Weaving plays with banter – wide –
use your flanks, butter fingers, up
and under, ref? is 'is 'ead still on ref?
Poetry - England ...This is your time ... By Robert Eunson
The two front rows are like buffalos
The hooker's like a bloodhound on heat
The centre half's built like a horse and cart
And the full back... he's called Pete
The rest of the pack they stand...unfazed
like rhino's waiting for the rampage...
There's tension and nerves before the game begins but
when they put on the shirt they won't care if it hurts Read more...
Poetry - Salute From A Fan By Patricia Gray
I've always loved the rugby games
I know all of the positions and some of their names
I like the team spirit, the speed gets my attention
It's a simple game with no pretention.
I admire the players - one stated aim;
To score the points and win the game
With strength and agility they run the field
With team ship and ability they'll never yield Read more...