It’s nivver easy being a poet
fra Yorkshire, wi an accent set to confuse
‘do ya like talkin’ wippets?’ Nah, forgedd it
let’s hit the booze;
no longer bothered by any rhymes, hooray’s or boo’s.
But Larkin, Armitage, Harrison, they upset
t’establishment - summat like Ted Hughes -
by spoutin’ swear-words in a sonnet
(even in a luv sonnet)
using bar and bitter as their muse.
A genie fra t’coal-hole’s what ya get.
No wonder Friday night’s the night to booze.
It’s reet ‘ard graftin’ as a Yorkshire poet;
done now and I’m off to turn to booze.
It is a rare event online to come across a body of poetry that is so universally stimulating and profound. I am going to take time to enjoy your work.
ReplyDeleteLove it!! Love it!! I'm a northern lass living down South and am starved of the delicately nuanced speech of home. Not the booze though,thankfully there's plenty of that down here. Thanks.
ReplyDeleteIt's just a tough, being
ReplyDeletea southern lad. when
searching for the muse
cos shandies all I've ever had
& coq au vin, not stews
So where's my inspiration from
I have no dogs or grit
& the sun breathes gently down upon
no dark satanic pit
So here I am a southern boy
bereft, forlorn, no muse
Trapped by wealth & all its toy
and definitely no booze
even all the wildlifes dead
old Hughes would be struck low
To write pomes about stocks instead
of dear old faithful crow
so next time you think its hard
up north think of a southern lad
who's tried his best to be the bard
when shandy's all he's ever had.