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CAUGHT IN THE NET 155 - POETRY BY G. F. PHILLIPS
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Behind this door of kith and kin
there were only overseers to run to.
Almost played out, given one last chance
those desperate men wouldn’t be knocked back
by the rise of gas the fall of debris:
everything hung in the balance.
from The Village Schoolroom.by G F Phillips |
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CONTENTS
1 - BIOGRAPHY
2 – POETRY
ST MARY’S LIGHT: A SONG
AMUSEMENTS, SPANISH CITY
A MAN FROM BLYTH
FROM THE TESTIMONY OF AN OTHERWISE CITIZEN
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLROOM: A
POEM ON THE 150TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE HARTLEY PIT DISASTER, 16
JANUARY 1862 WITH THE LOSS OF TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY LIVES:
SUFFOLK STREET BOMB
THE GRAINGER MARKET WAITER, OLIVER’S BISTRO CAFÉ, NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE
THE HOT BLAST: ON BLUCHER’S
FIRST RUN, 25 JULY 1814
JOHNNY SPRY: GOALKEEPER FOR
FOOTLOOSE WANDERERS
BIRD-MAN: A PROSE POEM |
3 - PUBLISHING HISTORY
4 - AFTERWORD
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1 – BIOGRAPHY: G F Phillips
G F Phillips is an Adult Education tutor in Literature on Tyneside.
His poems have been published in school textbooks and anthologies like
New Angles, Oxford University Press
and Enjoying English, MacMillan.
His short story, Going
Backwards to Go Forwards, was
recorded for the audio website, Listenupnorth as well as several of his short
poems and prose pieces. Five of his
short stories can be read at
www.cutalongstory.com
He has written articles and book reviews for various magazine including
The Good Book Guide and
Education Review.
Also, he has worked on several collaborations with composers, including a
multi-media project with Essex schoolchildren called
Five Operas.
His most recent project, The
Square & Compass, is the setting of sixteen poem to music in the first-ever
folksong cycle about the history of St Mary’s Island off the North Tyneside
coast. The result is a CD with an
accompanying booklet to be released in November 2015 in a joint production
between author and composer.
In 2011 he won a Northern Voices Award.
He is a member of the Society of Authors and the Performing Right
Society. More details can be obtained from his website:
www.gfphillipswriter.co.uk/
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2 - POETRY
ST MARY’S LIGHT:
A SONG
The hermit built his rocky cell
In the pure and salty air;
And he would learn through the host to dwell
In the world he shouldered there.
Behold the light. St Mary’s light,
As ships go back and forth
Like famous folk must stay the course,
They must stay the course.
The lighthouse keeper was all eyes
In the clean and salty air;
But greater still was his second eye
At the lighthouse top its glare.
Behold the light. St Mary’s light,
etc.
The smuggler went his chance sweet way
In the drift of salty air;
And his two lives were as night and day,
He lived for the spoils and dare.
Behold the light. St Mary’s light,
etc.
The Island Lord made it his own
In the tang of salty air;
And the life he led he made it known
With his wig and gown and mare.
Behold the light. St Mary’s light,
etc.
The sailor spun his many yarns
In the rough and salty air;
And harbour maids they’d lust on him
And he told that more went spare.
Behold the light. St Mary’s light,
etc.
AMUSEMENTS, SPANISH CITY
‘The terrible thing is that the crowd that fills the street believes the world
will always be the same and that it is their duty to keep that huge machine
running day and night.’
(Frederico García Lorca)
Young toughs drifted here and there
among the twists and turns of amusements.
Back then, another twist and turn, a brigade
of men from seam and yard. A
call-to-arms
on the brotherly circuit for the campo,
with the whirl and swirl of bringing in reserves.
Already set loose were brutal thugs
under many a white dome of a half world to come,
guns blazing down the shooting alleys of prized streets.
There was a blood feast of screams and cries,
what was music to their ears
on the merry-go-round of more pleasure.
A MAN FROM BLYTH
He always stood at the bar, standing shipshape
in his blue peak cap. He had now
retired
but not from teasing the barmaids, cut and thrust.
Him, taking his time, the slowest drinker
to have around the bar. He drank
to the likes of seamen, the man at his side.
He would tell an old tale and when a barmaid pressed
the keg’s button and looked at him the liquid
filled up like she was refuelling cargo
into his glass, like the counter was the deck
having to be wiped dry of any beer splash.
More than this the toss of her head was like his sister’s,
a helper and scalper of his land space:
was the bête noire of his overgrown back garden,
close to the sea and the cool he knows,
kept in the family this living at the coast,
of feeling at home. His Tuesdays
and Fridays
let out in town, with the afternoon free,
a walk around shops, the odd birthday card bought,
and then this watering hole, warmth, noise,
before the bus back to Blyth. Booze
and not food,
drowning himself among the known clientele,
if of the ogle and drool school.
Promisingly,
he’ll go home to the long view and sea breeze.
FROM THE TESTIMONY OF AN OTHERWISE CITIZEN
‘I find it impossible to be ‘objective’ in my approach to the joys, desperation
and terrifying fear that the peoples of Burma experience.
It is their indomitable spirit, their kindness, determination and
humanity that motivates me to persevere with my documentation of these peoples’
endless suffering.’
Dean Chapman
For Colette Anderson
1962
Rescheduled line closing in on Bristol,
its cargo weighing considerably more
than its usual crates where shades of English
mix with Burmese. The little ones
their voices
weak from expectation or the strangeness
of a cooler landscape, pale complexion.
Hidden on board all the way from Rangoon
like fraudsters living under pretence;
playing up to the moods of the sea:
three siblings with enough noise to match,
already toughened by father’s orders
their lives shored-up and stirring
from the dangers that always lurk within.
First it was the Yanks then the Aussies got kicked out.
The army with their zeal saw fit to govern,
beating unrest through more unrest, shouldered
the blame on those in retreat, and so were guilty
by their actions. The same when
students torched
your university. The soldiers
raided,
but days before you had already fled.
Your father had his only weapon:
a billiard cue – with more hope than threat.
All roads straight, all lead from the capital.
You clutching hand-held beads and blown-up views
of Windsor Road where, flimsy like new shoots,
you had hauled yourself free of the good earth.
Another day the coast would have been
your Shangri-La, as it was for grandfather.
Earlier this century he had roamed in
from Ireland, into the interior;
though spoon-fed on occupation and famine
it gave him the chance to own a pharmacy,
what the army took out of private hands,
(as was discovered later) a return,
it was said – a going back to basics.
Another Sunday it would have been
something sacred. Fussed over by
servants,
beyond serrated palms in the games-room
your father soon ahead in billiards.
He hadn’t played so well for weeks.
Standing proud –
in the way he’d follow-through was lethal,
for each ball he had to slug he’d see as
his enemy to smash
THE VILLAGE
SCHOOLROOM:
A POEM ON THE 150TH
ANNIVERSARY OF THE HARTLEY PIT DISASTER, 16 JANUARY 1862 WITH THE LOSS OF TWO
HUNDRED AND TWENTY LIVES:
and iron had crashed in-by,
down the one and only shaft it smashed
upon the backshift’s unsuspecting men.
And here the pit hierarchy moved in,
an unplanned requisition
taking over in this absence of a lesson.
The monitor’s time-centred bell was rung,
un-marked slates were blank as worn faces;
those silent rescuers, their pit boots
clarted with mud, carried in, rough-shod,
this very stuff of coaly earth.
Behind this door of kith and kin
there were only overseers to run to.
Almost played out, given one last chance
those desperate men wouldn’t be knocked back
by the rise of gas the fall of debris:
everything hung in the balance.
But that following Saturday
came the grimmest news up from below.
And so began more tea and sympathy
in that patriarchal cycle of pit ways,
lads, fathers, born breadwinners to their task
and lasses knew many of their names off by heart.
SUFFOLK STREET BOMB
In October 2006 builders unearthed a 1000lb World War II bomb in the Hendon area
of Sunderland. It was thought a
German bomber dropped it in 1940.
Sunderland police imposed an exclusive zone affecting 4000 residents and many
local businesses.
That October the digger’s driver reports
on some crock in the depths, his digger stopped short.
Suffolk Street. The Royal Engineers
got word.
A capsule ticking, heaving had disturbed
One thousand pound of German high explosive –
Nothing for it but to throw a cordon around it –
Two miles, a transit, side-on, beat cops, checks
on folk who took heed, got out or hedged their bets.
“Your pills.” “Come by.”
A must. Forgotten.
The least
he could do. All hope they’ll not
come to grief.
“The cop won’t let us through,” the lass told her drunk.
“But I live here.” A rookie took
the flak.
Yet most folk went to ground in ad-hoc centres
leaving streets whole, blank as unlined paper.
Still live, the capsule conspired against us,
biding its time, persistent in silence:
three days of labour, three days of no advance.
So it was hard-packed in sand, boarded by skips.
A metal buttress waited on the truck,
slowly backed in; turning, displayed, revived.
Late night, a crowd came to gape.
On the drive
a man too near was kept back. Soon
the cortege
left them behind. No one must go
that way.
Then they heard the big bang beneath the cliffs.
Someone
said “I knew they’d do it all along.”
THE GRAINGER MARKET WAITER, OLIVER’S BISTRO CAFÉ, NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE
Should I know you from somewhere?
Eye brows raised in thick liquorice black.
You and your hairline gone bald as plaster.
Or is it the puffed face, the cherub I knew?
No, separate, alone, stuck in time’s stiff relief,
all-round solid, middle-aged spread, that’s you.
But do I detect a grin? What’s
comical?
If I’m right, you never were the private man
enjoying lingering here among market souls.
Being statuesque has made you look so calm,
that dickey bow, tight waistcoat, long green apron,
the red towel hung rigid over our arm,
ever your big hands grip on that shiny plate.
To think you once used to like a flutter
from equine tips to extras of your trade.
Nameless, ghost-looker in perpetual gaze.
The same man? Could it be?
I don’t know – what hope?
My pocket jingle with loose change, and yes,
I’d like to put something on your plate but don’t.
THE HOT BLAST:
ON BLUCHER’S FIRST RUN, 25 JULY 1814.
‘George Stephenson’s elder brother James was the first driver of the Blucher.
He seems to have followed George around the various collieries as George
progressed over the years. George
named one of his stationary engines the Jimmy after him.
Like George, he lived in a cottage beside the Killingworth wagon way with
his wife, a large, buxom woman called Jinnie.’
[He was also known for his colourful language]
Hunter Davies after Thomas Summerside,
Anecdotes, Reminiscences and Conversations of and with the late George
Stephenson, Father of Railways (London 1878)
Jinnie lit the Blucher’s grate
as if it was her own
at four o’clock that still dawn
of a July morning,
a well-chosen morning
with the sun up, the grate’s flames
soon raged as fiery as could be.
That big brute
was George’s doing,
iron-clad, a monstrous
fresh beast lodged
behind the cottage line
along colliery way
at once a showpiece an anomaly.
O her Jimmy of wanting haulage
the lever pulled, in West Moor air
steam spat like fat from a frying pan,
up back end to chimney
the hot blast made sure
the big brute’s long rag and grind
went over rails, back and forth:
trundled.
And yet so many time she heard
her Jimmy shout, “Here, me lass,
come put your shoulder to her!
She’s hit a shit patch.
Come, shove!
She’s broken doon again
but she won’t break me bleedin’ heart.”
Momentously, awkwardly,
on her turn, just then
a baptism of throbbing erupted
to let Jinnie attend to her chores:
more floored grass was cut back,
squeezed at Jersey teats of white rich oil
came with the spread of trackside crowd.
JOHNNY SPRY:
GOALKEEPER FOR FOOTLOOSE WANDERERS
Johnny Spry’s between the sticks his second name’s The Lynx,
He’ll prowl around the six-yard box then stare out like The Sphinx.
He’s great at making hefty kicks the ball he belts quite far
And when there’s nothing he’ll swing along the bar
Until he’s out to grab the ball that’s spinning through the air,
The way he leaps and soars is more than high jumpers would dare.
Oh, Johnny Spry! Oh, Johnny Spry!
He mustn’t let the ball pass by.
He loves to roll in all the mud; he loves to do it on the sly;
And how his fingertips they stretch beating a ballet dancer’s
While everyone agrees that his knee blocking’s the answer.
He’s like he’s gotten off a horse, his legs apart as rider,
Whatever else he may be there’s no one brave or dafter.
He’s last to hear his players cheer, the first to take the flak
When things go wrong he’s put upon what’s said it gets passed back,
So out of spite, try as he might, he’ll do what they hate most,
That easy ball slips from his grasp to push it round the post.
Yet everyone has need of him, they’re shouting one and all,
But then he’ll keep them waiting as he juggles with the ball.
So when his wall is lining up, the free kick’s taking ages,
He’d like to count the kicker’s time and docket off his wages.
But, hey, he does no better as his kick goes into touch;
Though it frees him from those corners where he’s crowded in so much,
Or otherwise he has no choice but to fake an injury
And when the trainer sprays his foot he’ll plan his scrumptious tea.
Oh, Johnny Spry! Oh, Johnny Spry!
Given half a chance you’ll know he’ll try
Some crafty dodge in which he excels.
But soon the ending of his spell
When he retires and quits the game they’ll put him in the Hall of Fame
Along with others plied in wax who died and stashed away their tax,
The first in town who has been set for keeping balls out of a net
For here he’s treated like a god a saviour from the firing squad.
BIRD-MAN:
A PROSE POEM
Feeding the birds, once started, was difficult to give up.
The man in question stood on the paved area of the city square beside the
statue of Mars. He took out a chunk
of what was probably stale bread from his plastic bag and began to break a few
bits off with his gnarled hands.
Then he threw a small collection of broken bread around him that landed at
random. Nearby, the watching birds,
hanging upon the statue, immediately got the message, and went homing in on the
straightest flight towards what was now their recognised target.
They were the vanguard (mostly pigeons), swooping down to surround him.
In the midst of these birds he was anchored to his chosen spot, his legs
felt wedded to the ground, a cap rounded off his head.
The fact that he was well-prepared suggested he had done this before.
There was nothing like encouraging the birds, these infiltrators from sky
to earth. The stonework on nearby
buildings had taken its toll of bird droppings.
But he never thought of this end result in feeding them.
His sense of giving was drawing a small crowd of onlookers, amazed at the number
of birds in the vicinity. There
were more pigeons flying in from all directions, rapidly increasing in numbers
for their daily sustenance. There
were now two swarms of feathery bodies, only the main flock concentrated solely
on the bigger bits of bread, grabbing what they could, holding onto it; fighting
each other off with an occasional peck or dive to try and frighten a rival away.
He was well under siege. One pigeon
flew up and took a bigger bit of bread from his right hand and flew off into a
handy free space to gorge alone on its edible prize.
Several pigeons circled around him to see what was left for them to grab.
Come to me, he seemed to say.
Such a solitary figure, with is clothed arms outstretched, and as still
as could be, he looked like he could have been a tree in a former life.
ST MARY’s LIGHT: A SONG –
Published by Bates Island Press,
2015. Performed as part of
The Square
& Compass folksong cycle at
The Bridge Folk Club and set to music by folksong composer, John Bushby,
November 2015
AMUSEMENTS, SPANISH CITY – Published by
Northern Voices Community
Projects, 2010
A MAN FROM BLYTH – Published in
Identity for National Poetry Day 2006
FROM THE TESTIMONY OF AN OTHERWISE CITIZEN – Published by
Flame Books, Birmingham, 2004
A POEM ON THE 150TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE HARTLEY PIT DISASTER,
16 JANUARY 1862 WITH THE LOSS OF TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY LIVES:
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLROOM – Published by
Northern Voices Community
Projects, 2012
SUFFOLK STREET BOMB – Runner up in the
James Kirkup Memorial Competition
Anthology, published by
Red Squirrel Press, 2010
THE GRAINGER MARKET WAITER, OLIVER’S BISTRO CAFÉ, NEWCASTLE UPON TYNE –
Published on the Poetry Tyneside
blogspot, 2015
THE HOT BLAST: ON BLUCHER’S
FIRST RUN, 25 JULY 1814 – Published by
Northern Voices Community
Projects, 2014
JOHNNY SPRY: GOALKEEPER FOR
FOOTLOOSE WANDERERS – Recorded and broadcast on the
listenupnorth audio website,
2011 and published on the Poetry
Tyneside blogspot, 2011
BIRD-MAN: A PROSE POEM –
Published by And Then
magazine, New York, 2015
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4 - Afterword
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this series, and are open to submissions. Please send one poem and a short
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