The Hull you knew has long since gone,
How could it remain the same?
That deep sea port you wrote about,
The town you wouldn't name.
The grim faced, head scarved northern wives,
With Kathy Kirby lips.
Dusty Springfield peroxide blondes,
And Elsie Tanners tits.
Teddy boys in sky blue suits,
Winkle picker shoes.
Three day millionaires with cash to flash,
All part of the Hull
We would lose.
You could be right about the Chatterley ban,
That's when the rot set in,
According to you, that is,
For me it was,
The day I left Endike Lane.
Me? I'm just a raggy arsed working lad,
Born on Holderness Road.
Amongst the dirt and grime, the chimney stacks, and factory walls,
And rabbits in back yards.
Back to back terraces, once neatly in a row,
Red bricked rented houses,
Hawkers with horse and carts,
Rag and bone scavengers,
Bobbies on the beat,
Little kids with tear-full eyes,
And sandshoes on their feet.
A wonderous place of mystery,
Honest to the core,
But that Hull we loved so dearly,
Went a long, long time ago.
The Hull I love and the Hull you knew,
Could never be the same.
Spring Bank Cemetery impressed you though,
As the dead centre of Hull,
A place of beauty to stand and stare,
So tranquil, so still.
I would have liked to have met you
Not much chance of that.
Factor fodder for the masses,
Like everyone in my class.
But we served a purpose for blokes like you,
Us ordinary folk,
Gave you something to laugh at,
The butt of all your jokes.
I was wondering why you came to Hull,
That northern town, on the river bend.
At the end of the line,
With the cut-price crowd,
And heavy fishy smell.
The chattering crowds of urban folk,
Was that the appeal to you?
They fuck you up your mam and dad,
I know that's what you said,
So don't lay the blame on us, in Hull,
Blame your middle class upbringing in Coventry, instead.
We have enough crosses to bare,
With our residents from raw estates, in cheap suits,
And red plastic cutlery kitchen ware,
Tattoo shops, statues, spires and cranes.
That surprisingly large town,
Where it always seems to rain.
So we are a bit alike,
I don't suppose you'd agree,
But you know why this is?
My librarian friend,
Blokes like me were fucked up,
The day we left
Hedon Road Maternity.
Poetry - Kowalski's OGM - With audio download By Brindley Hallam Dennis
So, ya got through to Kowlaski's number.
Well, Kowalski ain't 'ome.
Mildred, that's his old lady, she ain't 'ome either.
Ya see, that's what ya get.
That's what ya get fer callin' such a dumb-ass hour.
That means you Hank.
Ya wanna leave a message, talk to the machine when it beeps.
Poetry - The Gap By Chris Culshaw
He lives in a bedsit now,
in a house peopled by footfalls, piles
of junk mail on the mahogany hall-stand
where a broken umbrella hangs
like a snared crow beside the pocked mirror.
His room in the eaves looks out over
sooty privets, to a gap between
Poetry - Handing Down By Trevor Matthews
She was sitting at my kitchen table
looking at her hands.
These, she said, are my mother's hands.
She had big hands like these.
Every time I look at them now I see her,
and she held them up in front of me.
Bright sun pierced the thinning flesh.
Inside I saw the shadows of her bones
Poetry - Harrogate Bedrock, 1899 By Sarah Hymas
What I love about you
I have yet to quarry.
Your worn granite face
holds the promise of mica
and buttoned sandstone,
a cladding for our home.
As limestone is local diamond,
Poetry - Don't Know How To Put It In Words By Dayne Coyne
Don't know how to put it in words
But I'm wanting to thank you
For being so honest with me
And though it might sound absurd:
But, apart from myself,
It is you who most helps me to be
So excuse me if I seem pedantic
Poetry - I Don't Know What To Do By Zachary Brannon
I don't know what to say, what to do;
all I can ever think about is you!
Not sure what you think about me never have been;
But in the end it's your heart
I hope to win! I
Will always be around, always here;
My heart, I'm sure, even skips a beat
Whenever you come near.
Poetry - This Is Not A Love Poem By Mike Watts
A hole through
My breast bone
My still beating heart
And then volley it
Out of sight
Poetry - Since You Came By Bronwyn Ellis
Is it a chore?
And nothing more
A phase you killed off years before?
A painful bore?
An anger cure?
An 'I can't be bothered anymore?'
We're both so young
Love should be fun
As good as when we'd first begunRead more...
Poetry - Acres Wide By Terry Ireland
Come sleep with me she said
Bring some warmth to my bed
That seems to spread acres wide
Now that it's empty on his side
Just for a while hold me tight
Shorten just one endless night
So full of hours that I have wept
Until exhausted and finally slept
Poetry - Larkin 25 - It's Good Innit? By Catherine Scott
This is Hull - wot we got?
Unemployment, no motivation
Teenage mums, no inspiration
It's good innit?
This is Hull - wot we got?
Beggars on street
Coppers on beat
Poetry - The Last Great Adventure? By Laurenceaux.
An 'end-game' of addiction, the despair of a life only going one-way: some people are pre-disposed to drug abuse, as they are to alcohol abuse, quite possibly because they are 'bored', but more probably because they have lost essential feelings of self-worth or have become detached from mainstream society, a society with ever increasing demands for total conformity.
Poetry - I Lost a Girl and a Car By John Dervishian
You shit on my car
because I was
but that's alright
I was days shy
of getting that
anyway Read more...
Poetry - Another Night Out By John Dervishian
She pours my drink
As often as
And she pours
A Jack on the rocks Read more...
Poetry - The Nearly Men By Terry Ireland
I am one of the nearly men
Never quite the best
Not really of the crowd
Not quite one of the rest.
You see us in every photograph
When the prizes are handed out
Making up the numbers yet Read more...
Poetry - Persecution Express By Mark Walmsley
A full head of steam, to fulfil one mans dream,
The train leaves the station, with recognisation
Bellowing black smoke, as the cargo does choke
The heave and strain, of the departing train
Carriages all broken, blindness no token,
The screams and the wails, at the stories and tales
Across field and valley, does not dilly-dally,
Poetry - An Old Vets Christmas By David Delaney
He shuffles down a quiet darkened street,
alone, he always dreads this time of year,
cause locals, he just does not wish to meet.
He eats collected scraps and drinks warm beer.
Now as the rain begins to softly fall
he crawls beneath a long deserted shop,
and hears the singing from the nearby hall
Poetry - Dreams By Dino
These are the things
I'd like to call dreams
These are the things
That are just dreams
Big glass heads
With eyes of despair