12. Geoff Lowery
A man who has exchanged his old beat for the rhythm of poetry. Poetry for people who don't like poetry. (Those who do can read it too.)
Geoff Lowery was born near Doncaster, England, in a rural village called Norton. A coal pit stood two miles distant at Askern. He grew up in the sixties and seventies when coal was king.
After leaving school he started work as a Laboratory Technician, ten years later he joined South Yorkshire Police. He worked in his local community and after only a few weeks the pit strike of 1984/85 started. His father worked at the local Colliery and was without a wage for a year. A challenging time for everyone in mining communities.
Geoff retired from the police in 2010 and bought a narrowboat. He sailed the 2000 miles of connected waterways for almost ten years with his faithful dog Spyder.
In November 2019 he joined the Doncaster Read to write poetry group having never written poetry before. He released a book called ‘The Wreck on the Beach’ in December 2022. ‘Laughter Lines’ his second book was written between December 2022 and December 2023.
He has three children and four granddaughters and still lives in Doncaster.
Poems
Toil and Soil Laughter Lines A Tied House Verdant Valley Don't You have a Mirror in Your House Tewkesbury Tunnel
Toil and Soil
My great hunger, I’m not getting any younger, over a pint of Porter, I lust at a farmer’s daughter, McGuire is my alter ego, mean and moody like the crow, The cow and the horses breed, yet I cannot sow my seed. Mother earth and mother dear, she’ll never die, my sullen fear, Sodden soil and sticky clay, ploughing is hard, with health I pay. Rain, rain, biting wind, grey skies, an idyllic life? romantic lies, I labour from morn to night, 14 hours, with or without the light, I’m just a peasant on this land, a slave rather than a farm hand, trudging to church, every Sunday, to God I pretend to pray, I imagine my last journey, prone, a box, a plot, all to pay, I groan! No, bury me in the potato field, alone, no sign, cover my body with stone. <<<
Laughter Lines
Grandad, what’s those lines, on your skin, above your eyes? I was averse to telling any lies. They are called wrinkles, Daisy, because I am old and grey, how did it get to this? I quietly say. I remember looking at my grandad, when I was nowt but a lad, “How long does it take to grow old” dad. Quite a while, don’t wish your time away, I’m afraid you will get old one sunny day, but that’s a long, long, time away. But now I’m in my sixties, I’m there, I don’t stand at concerts, I prefer a chair, in my head I’m 18, and mad as a March hare. <<<
A Tied House
A Yorkshire foundry town, 1886, my parents die, I’m in a fix, the house is tied to daddy’s job, seven days to leave, that’s the prob. I’ve just turned 18, what’s to do? no living relatives, hullabaloo, a mate of m’ dad’s, asks me to wed, what’s the alternative, to this man’s bed? Married, and moved into his work tied house, he works at steelworks and now I’m his spouse. two bairns later, I’m still only 21, factory accident and now he’s gone. Same old problem, to be out in a week, now two daughters, so frail and so meek, arranged my husband’s funeral, for Sunday, several men came, respects they pay. Each one, I wondered, what they would say, Time’s running out, being evicted Tuesday. A widower asked, and we arranged the day, In his twenties, so I hope this works - I pray. I was actually happy, baby on its way, my love was robbed coming home, head hit a wall, he fell hard, and death did call! “Not again”, my agonising bawl. Tied house again, told to get out, “Whys this happening” my angry shout, at the graveside, my energies drain, “Not sure I can do this again”. “But I must think of my children, you see, one person did come over to speak to me, he was the vicar, and a single man, understood my plight and had a plan.” “We would marry and move into Vicarage, in confinement, as I start my new page. I am happy again, new son in cot, we even have a vegetable plot.” My life is not dependent on steel, Vicars’ wife does have some appeal, he even earns a few bob, though the house is tied to his job! <<<
Verdant Valley
Lavender, Lemon, Orange, Olive, and Pine. Slate quarries shimmering, in the sunshine. Porco rooting in the pasture, goats on the hill. Peasants in the early morn, crops they must till. A woodpeckers knock, is heard through the trees, as Eucalyptus and Cork Oaks, sway in the breeze. Local Port, and cheap red wine, make for loose talk on the grape vine. <<<
Don’t You Have a Mirror in Your House
Shorts up to her bum but legs like chicken thighs, they’re quivering and chafing before my eyes, 36 double D in a 32 cup. barman with man boobs in a tight T shirt – flabby pup. Don’t you have a mirror in your house? People watching in Spoons, what a farce, a woman in ski pants with a massive arse, men in sandals and socks, give it a rest, low cut dresses showing too much breast. Don’t you have a mirror in your house? A white blouse with a black lacy bra thing, see through trousers and a skimpy G string, too much makeup, all muck and paste, bare midriff with a 40-inch waist. Don’t you have a mirror in your house? <<<
Tewkesbury Tunnel
I walked from home to town in the early descended mist, spidery dew below, and gossamer threads in the trees, like the weave in a bride’s veil, delicate, tearful, clinging. Ramsons, robins, and dog rose invade my sleepy senses. My wicker basket full of freshly picked fairy mushrooms, not blue stalk or puffball, but natures pure magic, I barter them for black pudding, pork pie and porter, around the taverns and brothels in old Tewk town, My greed for ale means it’s dark for the trail back, I’m beer buoyant, I could negotiate this path if I was Pew, the electrum moon was out, but Belsen weak and frail, the uneven cart track, silent, only my stumbling footsteps. High clay banks, clumps of ghoulish nettle, grabbing my arm, dark shadows crouching on the ridges, waiting patiently, turning into limbless stumps when I summon courage to pass. Luminous, hungry eyes around each bend, ready to pounce. Courage leaves me as I pee on the path, never a tree, Wildcats, wolves, witches, warlocks, wait, watch, I don’t hear them moving, not even a broken twig, I cannot hear them for the pounding of my cowardly heart. The tunnel of trees becomes less crowded as the watching moon flickers like morse signals from the Marie Celeste, throwing acetate noir images on the dry forest floor, I run to my cabin, lock, and bolt the creaking wooden door, my pants are wet, why didn’t I set off a good hour before. <<<
I enjoyed the Tunnel. Unusual approach and style. The Mirror made me smile. Sunshie+frost= teeshirt n mini🤔