92. Andrew Stott
Ex-caver and climber with a passion for poetry
Andrew Stott is a retired teacher, with a wife and a dog, sons and grandchildren. He was a keen caver and climber but has had to cut back on this due to the rigours of getting older. He has written on and off throughout his life, but has only recently started to think about putting his work in front of a wider audience.
Poems
Blink
It is a short but bitter list the things most dear to me that have slipped surreptitiously away a soft litany of treachery gone in a blink I keep my eyes wide open now now it is too late < < <
An Act of Kindness
She hid behind the pillow in her hands, The bed, a golden wedding from the door, The muffled clock, a tick for every year , A shuffled, slippered march across the floor. The future lay in front and broke her heart, The mouth as gaping as the eyes were dead, Aghast at how they’d come to such a place, A last betrayal of the life they’d led. The lowered pillow held her cradled hands, No pressure needed for a life to cease. Its deadly softness stained from either side, On either side they found some desperate peace. < < <
The Don
Full of innocence and guile, it starts its journey. Its gentle rippling and dappled light, A seduction of the senses, As it moves through rocks and trees. Flowing, it meanders and grows, Its banks swollen by a thousand streams, Its power growing With each added swirl. Ageless, its depths hide secrets, Its waters once darkened By the sludge of broken lives And grinders’ lungs. Now, the scream and thump of engines Break the rhythm of the surface That swirls and eddies On its timeless march. Down to the sea. < < <
Pretentious - toi?
I like to hear good poems read, By poets who look straight ahead, Not those who search horizons far, Adopt expressions quite bizarre, And acting like some silly arse, Imbue each word with gravitas. You’ve heard those dotty sods that tend, Extreme significance to lend To every word that they expound, As if there’s hidden depths they’ve found, That are denied to mortals mere, For whom those depths are quite unclear. No, give to me please, any day, Poets who walk and don’t sashay. Who talk with mouths that have no plums, Who don’t say derrieres but bums, And hold their listeners’ attention, Without relying on pretension! < < <
The Promise
A girl in a cafe, stirring her coffee, Head is bowed down, with too many cares, Lifting her head, she looks out of the window, But there is no hope to find there. Her plate pushed away, the food lies uneaten, Tears flow from her eyes, that are filled with despair, The phone on the table is dark, and is silent, There is no hope to find there. She gets to her feet, her body is weary, Her belly is swollen, too much to bear, She heads for the street, that is too full of strangers, There is no hope to find there. The dreams in her head had painted a rainbow, Across a clear blue sky, The love that they had would go on forever, Never grow old, and die. But the child in her body has already broken The promise their future did hold, And the light in his eyes had faded away, And the smile on his lips had grown cold. Her mind is made up, there’ll be no tomorrow, Life for them both she has to forswear, At least when it’s done, there’d be no more suffering, At least there’s some hope to find there. At least there’s some hope to find there. < < <
In Search of the City of Steel
Now I am not from around these parts, yer can tell from ‘ow I speak, ’N’ that air o’ sophistication, n me clothes that are so chic, But though I’m of a better class than folks from here abaat, I’ve settled here, I’ll tell you how, if you’ll just hear me aat. I come from t’other side of hill, that’s Lancashire tha knows, A place of class and elegance, as thou might well suppose, So what is there could tempt me, to cross the great divide, Well I’ll tell yer, I’ll be honest, ‘cos I’ve got nowt to hide. Thing is, in God’s own county, we heard tales from Yorkshire folk, (Though some are just so barmy, we take ‘em for a joke) That if you think in Lanky, of everything tha likes, They’ve got much better over there, according to the Tykes. I’ll give yer an example: they brag of Yorkshire grit, But that’s because, we reckon, that the air is full of it, And if, through pain it causes, you look up at the skies, You’ll see ducks flyin back’ards to keep it out their eyes! Not just that, I’d heard some talk, about a place o’er yon, A sort of El Dorado, by’t side of River Don, But it weren’t made of gold they said, such things are just not real, This were a livin’ breathin’ city, that were made of nobbut steel. Well this I really had to see, so I packed me sen a bag, And I made some drippin butties, which I wrapped up in a rag, Then I gave me clogs a polish, ’n’ I filled me purse with brass, Said goodbye to me mam ’n’ dad, ’n’ set off up t’Snake Pass. Now I knew where I was ‘eadin were about 30 mile away, That’d take a likely lad like me best part of half a day, And there were rain that threatened, n then started by and by, But I moved so quick, I dodged the drops, ’n’ got there nice n dry. Well . . . I searched for that Steel City, everywhere I could, Of concrete I found plenty, ’n’ likewise brick ’n’ wood, But could I find real buildings, built from steel as such? Nah, not a single one were there, not even a rabbit ‘utch! So then I knew, without a doubt, I’d been a fool to roam, And the only thing for me to do was to get mesen back home, So I packed me bag, without delay, ready to seize the hour, And off I went, feet flying, on the road to Ladybower. Me mind was full of dreams of home, I knew it’d be good, To have hotpot in my belly, not that awful Yorkshire pud, But imagine my blind terror, the horror haunts me yet, When I found despite me trying, that I couldn’t take one step! First thing I did, in panic, was to telephone me dad, To ask him what was ‘appenin’, he said to me, “Poor lad! I said no good would come of it, and now you’re trapped o’re there, You’ll ‘ave to live in Yorkshire now - it is too much to bear! The trouble is tha’s tainted lad, from being there too long, Can’t have thee back in Lanky, nah, tha must just stay strong, And make yer ‘ome in Yorkshire, and there I know yer would, Civilise those savages, and be a force for good. Thank yer blessin's,” he carried on, “ if you were really cursed, You could be stuck in London, that’d be ten times worst, Imprisoned in that hell ‘ole, with simply no way out, You’d cut yer wrists or ‘ang yersen, of that I have no doubt!” So, now yer know the story, of ‘ow I landed ‘ere, Me ‘eart it felt full broken, and me eyes shed many a tear, But time has passed, it’s better now, and as the years slip by, I do a lot more laughin’, and ‘ave no need to cry. I met a lass from Sheffield, ’n’ now we’ve gotten wed, An we look forward ‘appily, to the years that lie ahead, Now I’m not sayin’ she’s stubborn, I really wouldn’t dare, ‘Cos with what I say about her, I take the greatest care, But in a way the circle’s closed, as you can plainly see, ‘Cos when she makes her mind up, she’s got steel enough for me! < < <
Love them
Loved reading these Andy! Fabulous ❤️