2. John Wolf
Poetry, Events, & Poetry Events
John is a Performance poet and story writer whose recent poetry collection - Heroes, was published by Glasshead Press. . A creative Writing Tutor with Read To Write Doncaster, john has delivered sessions on Beowulf, Homer's Odyssey and various poets including Larkin, McGough, Garrett, Redpath, Frost, Heaney, and Lorca. He helped to organise the 2023 Doncaster Foodbank Festival and is currently supporting the production of the Dylan Thomas voice play Under Milk Wood, which is planned for May 2024. In his former career John was an environmentalist. He is interested in history, fiction, ecology, sci fi and folk music.
Poems
Wildwood When Pele Won the Cup for Barnsley Heroes - David Mallinder
Anglo-Saxon place names: Wildwood
Oaken-hearted, unyielding, Wildwood stands. Vernal bright-blades, acorn-deluge faith-litters. Cathedral-mosaic, buttressed, mighty. The Winter Wytch, glacial, torrential. Middle-aged now, slides by cow-pasture, seeks sanctuary in sea. The character of places, names of their own making. Truth harbours in a wood wide web, weaves wonder through mystery. Rook Leah's rush-lights dim; Pebble-eyed, poor, but loyal. Whistling Ridge endures, like burnt cakes its rock-stacks. Peers down on quernstones quarried 'neath Dragon's Back. To The Loom and Spindle, Shepherd's flock. While those with wide word-hoards, wobble out of The Whale. Lords laugh, at Wayland's golden craft, Aella's impression loosens chastity's lock. Byford, low-lying. Fisher-folk of facts, furtively finger straps on a traveller's pack. The Cauldron. ethereal, ancient, doom and boon, holds the dead to her bosom. Astride hazel-bound besom, with arched-back familiar, moon-seen at Wicken Fen. Each name holds meaning. Sacred soundscapes echo through time. Swifter than a swallow-skim, this life is. Bone-caged, quickened, quagmired, scythed. Ash Hurst, greying, struggles to stand. A row of shields, axes, spears, helms, listens to the click of death-watch beetles beneath a wise ring of comforting Elms. <<<
When Pele won the cup for Barnsley
(Written in shambolic pentameter) Languishing in relegation dogshite, tackles flew in and the marking was tight. Breath intake, it were silent I reckon, the clouds parted, and then heaven beckoned. Took t'ball on his chest, flicked up by a knee, through half their team that lad, he wriggled free, dodged clout, grapple and a midfield stamper, With deft feint and skilful, swift scamper. Nuryev in pit boits, those toes twinkled, while full backs puffed like steam trains, brows wrinkled. As if that very ball were stuck to his foot, El Ray, glorious in technicolour, while all the rest that day were bathed in soot. As he rolled through a perfect-weighted pass, she turned and winked – as if she knew, our lass, That this new lad were a proper laker, who played as blessed by the maker. “It's Just Like Watchin' Brazil !” With just one voice, that anthem song rose up, was an upset on t' cards in t' FA Cup. Pass was returned with samba-swishing hip, Spinning, he turns; gives the defender t'slip, That skinny lad, not muscly, or big, owned that ball as if it were a gold pig. He left their centre half with twisted blood, that goalie stretched out, clutching nowt but mud. Afore empty net, now and for all time, skied it over t'bar - whistle went for half time. Realised then, mistaken identity. It weren't Pélé, it were Bruce Dyer; put in a shift, that lad were a reyt trier. But they fetched on a Spanish wonderkid – Owdies'll know; Yohann Cruyff were his dad, a Penistone grafter, were all we had. But in a thunderstorm under floodlight, Carlos Kick-A-Ball don't perform so well, on a cold, wet, windy, tyke Tuesday night. Superstars started arguing amongst 'em sens, Driven by Captain Marvel, Redders, then, Barnsley came in waves, again and again - proved it t't money men, we were better than them. Linesman's periscope bobbed up through the quag, Knees knocking like a day old foal, he could run could Bullock; had tricks, Wi' that dribble off a mighty 'ump from our flat cap between t'sticks, he launched a perfect cross - Johnny Hendrie let one go . . . The Perfect Storm erupted in the Ponty end. Cheers went on, far into t'neet, tall tales told, from red-faced believers both young and old. “So he leathered that theer quagmired casey … scored a wonder goal ! Manchester United didn't win the cup. We won 1-0, so it's back t'local. where legends are lengthened; fiction renewed, old heroes honoured; and great times reviewed. Odejai's salmon leap - sinks Chelsea lark, Marcelle fires us to the Premier League, as we played Bradford City off the park. Then Georgie says Barnsley women are dogs; bet he never went into t'west stand bogs. Tarn centre had a problem wi' Parkin; it were getting him on t'pitch and art o' t'pub. Impotent front-line, Rank and Dire – Isiah and Bruce, If they'd have been in a war, they'd have called it a truce. Who was the best you ever saw? I asked my dad. George Robledo – me and your Uncle Charlie went to church with him. Good player, and that brother he had. This game is one, and it were also many, such is cloud of mist upon memory. But what I remember most is the joy, Barnsley won the cup when I were a boy. Dad sat where he always did, right beside, sharing all the love, them moments of pride. We both know it our hearts they'll come again, because we believe, so we'll wait till then. I know what you're gonna say – Pélé did play for Barnsley. It were on FIFA '98. A year later, we won't world cup with Nepal. The Dalai Lama were a brill keeper ! Them were t' days . . . Daft things happen when you roll a reefer ! <<<
Heroes: David Mallinder
He built the Alamo in our back garden for John Wayne, who never needed to reload. I'd sit under a tarpaulin listening to wet bullets drum, wind whipping bare legs, imagine a furnace in my belly. Dad was a Mining Surveyor who knew subsidence, Scargill, and Spurrier. I imagined that Jeff was half-man-half-sparrow. Dad made a table tennis table, grew vegetables, burned damp weeds. It was The Good Life. Auntie Jan being Margot Ledbetter. Dad's mum, Nannan, played Newmarket, drank cuppas, ate rich tea. Dad took us to Porlock. While Daley Thompson won the Decathlon, a swimming gala happened in the harbour. I loved the landlady's daughter. We pretended to be slugs slorming down windy cottage stairs in sleeping bags. My dad mends things, paints sheds, cuts hedges, digs borders, washes cars. We dug a pond together, populated it with buckets of frogs from Pottery Pond. To Paris and Venice we went, beside the Alps, Auronzo ; that sleeper coach, our groaning crick-necks crossed the Europa Bridge. We cycled, rode chairlifts through snow-capped scenes. Back home, with company, overlong we'd sit for slide-shows. Coniston Old Man , Striding Edge, Jacob's Ladder, we climbed mountains - rode Eskdale's tiny railway, stayed at Ambleside CHA. Whist drive, barn dance, I lived for the table tennis competition - John Salmon beat me one year. I haven't forgiven him yet. One year, we hired a cabin cruiser down the Thames, took my sheepdog Ben. As the lock-keeper boarded our vessel, his jovial face became grip-jawed granite. We later discovered why, in the shower cubicle. Exploring Dad's loft, I found a six-foot long canvas case tied with string. A Yeoman Lion, – recurve, carbon fibre, best longbow of its day, A gold archery medal with his name on it. 1963 Don and Dearne. He's the world's best dad and my best friend - taught me more about peace than Ghandi, Half of my degree I owe to him. I hope you were loved way back when, because it sure affects your mindset, and modus operandi.