Little Boy Lost - Stoke Poetry

S.P.A.M (some poetry & music)

2012-11-10T11:55:00.000+00:00

Poems & thoughts group in conjunction with Stoke writers website are holding a night of poetry, music and writing at the BAD EDITgallery in Burslem on Wednesday 14th Novemer 2012 at 8pm. This time it's under the banner S.P.A.M (some poetry and music)

You are invited by local artist and poet Tracy Henham to bring along your poems and writing to read, to listen to others and to discuss.

Tracy says '' The last event was absolutely amazing and we had music from Stephen Harvey and Steve 'Doc' Batchelor as well as the poetry from the members of the poems and thoughts group. There was also poems from non members including John Mills and Kerry Taylor who called in on the night'

'This time we're hoping to double the audience and participators' added Tracy, and thwere

The hosts have once again offered to read your poems and short stories for you if you are worried about reading aloud, so come along and share your work!!

There is a fully stocked bar and tea and coffee available.

Entry is just £2 on the door

VIEW MAP

John Baskeyfield

2012-11-06T19:45:00.000+00:00

From the first spark of life,
to the last glimmer of life.
The bravest of hearts stand triumphant.
A mother town son,
Stood proud by his gun.
An hero we lost in the Arnhem.

Melancholy

2012-10-29T16:46:00.000+00:00

Winter had died a slow and lingering demise.
As springs subtle silhouette hinted at better times.
Warmer fruit filled days will soon come,
and the sun will break from behind the clouds.
This was a promise that mother nature,
had never once failed to deliver.
She will lighten my mood just as quickly as winter had dampened it.
but: inevitability the seasons return
and that will remain forever more.

A version of this poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5

The Liver Bird

2012-10-28T22:43:00.001+00:00

Measure each day using sighs alone,
And yet, she still she turns my heart to stone.
The silence is too often too loud to bare.
But, when all is said and done,
We both know that she still cares.

Bad start

2012-09-15T08:43:00.005+01:00

Just when you thought
'It can't get any worse'
Oh My God!!
Toothpaste down my shirt.

Last throw

2012-09-05T17:04:00.000+01:00

From the dirtiest of clay
A potter forms his treasure
With our own hard toil
our perseverance and imagination
We can often create a future
That far excedes our measure

Motionless

2012-09-02T10:23:00.002+01:00

Love is action, not new erosion
Life is angst never none emotion

Poems and Pints at The Leopard

2012-08-14T14:16:00.000+01:00

The Leopard Inn Hotel in Burslem, Stoke on Trent is the superb venue for the monthly ‘Poems and Pints’ night, that is hosted by the well-known musician Richard Faulkner in partnership with the City Voices Writers from Hanley.
The night is being advertised inside the venue as taking part on ‘the last Tuesday of the month’ and has so far been quite well attended by the 20 or so regular members of the City Voices forum.

The group is probably better known for its festival of words and music, which again has been held at the Leopard Hotel for many years, and has been so popular it has even brought them to the attention of The Sentinel ‘our hero’ awards for their hard work raising funds for many local charities.

This is the first time the group has ventured out into the ‘pub scene’ in Stoke on Trent. With many similar ‘poetry nights’ springing up all over and around Staffordshire and The Moorlands, they will certainly have their work cut out to both entertain the general public and to have the many local poets flocking to share their own work to both their fellow writers and with an eager and attentive crowd.

For me the night was quite ‘sterile’ when it is compared to the many ‘poetry slams’ and hip hop nights that I have attended over the years, but that said; this is Stoke on Trent so maybe my expectations are far too high just yet

My only ‘real gripe’ was that the vast bulk of work read on the night was by members of City Voices reading comedy verse, various ‘meaningful prose’ and some recollections of the 1950′s that I have heard many, many times before (being a former member of City Voices for many years)

My concern is this: If this night is to survive and to flourish with so many similar ’open mic nights’ that also cater for poets and comedians, it will surely need a constant and varied influx of ‘new blood’ and ‘new ideas’ to keep it interesting and not quickly become ‘just another city voices meeting, in a pub’

Stephen Harvey

Departed

2012-08-07T10:18:00.001+01:00

Termless love

Dreams are never easily kept.
The summer has all but gone my love,
and all the swans have left.

All Sorts

2012-06-03T10:18:00.003+01:00

The new anthology by City Voices Writers Forum is now ON SALE and features 7 of my poems from this blog and one new one.

She

Riots

Murder in Crabtree Field

Rainbows

2012-05-16T18:06:00.001+01:00

I believe that every smile holds a secret.
A promise of a story untold.
I daydream in rainbows, and I gaze at the stars.
I follow the magic that's wherever YOU are

The Via Dolorosa

2012-04-07T10:58:00.001+01:00

I walk the way of the suffering

With a weight opportunity lost
The burden of grief too heavy a load
Deny aids that may carry my cross
The truth has become my accuser
It controls the enemy knew
Grey clouds descend o'er questioning eyes
And answers believed to be true

The Chained Oak

2012-04-04T13:15:00.002+01:00

A Legend speaks of an ancient rite

Which befell to an Earl by a witch one night?

He was travelling to Alton from lands far away

When a lady stepped out so was blocking his way

'Alms for a beggar’ was the plea that was heard

While passing her path with not one single word

'A curse on your family' she called to the night

'When wood kisses dirt' your children will die

The Earl plotted wisely and ordered a chain

That would hold fast the oak and her branches retain

So tricking the fate that was placed on his head

The curse was defeated and no one was dead

This story is true and the curse has been broke

A true Alton legend, of the old chained oak.

featured in my new book - Staffordshire - Strange tales - The myths and legends of the potteries and beyond by Stephen Harvey

Available NOW on Kindle store

Passion

2012-03-12T17:52:00.001+00:00

Spring unfolds a secret romance
It restores truth like an opening bloom
The winters long gone now my love
and the swans returns here soon
They appear from o'er the fire red skies
from a tune I play in dreams
effortless flight to souls entwined
to my Englands field of green.

Stolen moments

2012-03-11T17:09:00.001+00:00

I wait patiently, planning the next move
As the girl of my dreams, sits just across the room
Patiently waiting, for the perfect moment to arrive
When quite by chance her eyes will meet mine

She

2012-03-03T13:43:00.000+00:00

She was the most gentle and yet,
the strongest woman I have ever known.
She could maintain a theme and hold it for days at a time,
with silence as her only weapon.
Her strength had been nurtured from a life of toil,
a hard life, that had become her closest of friends.
She could turn her old iron mangle with just one arm,
but on occasions could just as easily rotate the atmosphere,
with nothing more than a single smile or whispered word.
Her name, was Grandma.

Ad lib 2012 collection

2012-02-15T15:20:00.002+00:00

I am pleased to announce that six of my poems have been published in the Rising Brook Writers poetry collection 2012. The poems are from this BLOG which has had an amazing 5620 views so far and most of these from the USA and Canada.

I absolutely over the moon to be noticed so 'thanks Rising Brook Writers its fantastic to be involved1

Ad Lib is a culmination of library workshops and online contributions and is supported by The Arts Council.The anthology features twenty four poets from all over Staffordshire and will be launched in August this year.

Rising Brook Writers

The Healing Stone

2012-02-15T09:58:00.000+00:00

The Gawton Stone - Knypersley

In woodland copse where fawns did roam
Here lies the wondrous Gawton Stone
That rests middling those waters deep
from ancient tor where magic seeped
It holds a cure from bygone days
That broke a mind but cured a plague
An hermits life within hard rocks
A show for lords who stood and watched.

Information

The Gawton stone lies within a country park that is north east of Knypersley reservoir in Biddulph, Staffordshire.The stone is approximately 15 cubic metres in size and is thought to weigh approximately 40 tonnes. It rests on three smaller stones and it must have been quite a feat of engineering to put it in place. It is also very near to other sites of interest including: Gawtons well and Druids Grove, both of which have been long regarded hold mystical significance.

The Gawton Stone siite dates back as far as the dark ages and is possibly pre-historic in origin. It is regarded as a healing stone, said to have magical powers. Excavation work in the nineteen hundreds revealed it had once been used as a burial site. There is a legend of a man being cured of the plague after submerging himself in Gawtons well and living the life of a hermit thereafter, sheltering underneath the Gawton Stone for many years and being of much amusement to the guests of the local land owners who often ate picnics near by.

The Ghost Of Charnes Hall

2012-02-14T13:17:00.003+00:00

During the 17th century Charnes Hall in Stafford was owned by the very well respected Yonge family,who had lived there for many generations as master and mistress of this most splendid of stately homes and grounds. They were a wealthy family, and they enjoyed the service of many servants and grounds men who helped maintain their lavish and enviable lifestyle as Master and Mistress of Charnes.

Mrs Yonge was in good health at the time, and so it came as a great shock to all that knew her, when on a cold day in winter she was suddenly and mysteriously taken quite ill. It was an illness that nobody could quite explain at the time, and so, as the poor unfortunate lady of the house grew steadily more weary she was very quickly taken to her bed in the hope she would soon recover.

Fearing that the worst was about to happen, she called for all her family and servants to gather around her so that she could speak to them all one last time, before it was too late. It came as quite a shock to everyone gathered when she gave her last will and testament, much as you would do just minutes before your death, but they accepted her wishes and gathered near to her bedside.

She announced to everyone that she feared that the time had come to say her farewells, and that her only wish was that her favourite piece of jewellery would not be removed after her death, so when the sad moment did arrive, and Mrs Yonge sadly drifted away, the large ring on her finger that many had claimed to be ‘priceless’ was left where it was to comfort her on the other side.
However, not all the servants were as honest as they should have been and believing it to be 'a most terrible of waste' one of them was already plotting to take it off her dead corpse when she was placed in the family vault later that day.

The coachman was a greedy and loathsome man, and so when he spotted his window of opportunity he stealthily crept down to where she had been placed. Carefully he removed the lid from her coffin, trying his best to keep his plot as secretive as he was. The only sound that was heard was a sardonic sneer to himself, as he put his wicked plan into action.

He was now looking down on the cold body, her arms placed across her bosom laid to rest. He spied the prize for which he had come, the most precious of jewels was there for the taking. It glistened in the dim light of the oil lamp that he had carefully placed on the dead woman’s chest, as he tried in vain to remove her most precious possession from her. He pulled and twisted, but to no avail, as the ring stood fast, seemingly determined to stay put and remain with its owner for eternity.

The coachman began to perspire in pure exhaustion as he tried and tried to pull the ring free from the finger, but to no avail. Finally in pure desperation he reached down to his pocket, and holding her ring hand firmly in place, he quickly took his coachman’s knife from his pocket to finish the task.
He then began the unenviable task of cutting the woman's finger from her hand. He carefully sliced through the skin, only to be taken back in pure horror as blood spurted from her mutilated hand and onto his clean white shirt and face, as Mrs Yonge sat bolt upright in her coffin and gave out the most terrifying of screams as the finger was finally cut free. The now petrified coachman quickly fled, still holding tight to the ring finger and fleeing from the vault in pure horror.

With some difficulty Mrs Yonge managed to clamber from her coffin, blood still pouring from her badly severed hand. Her pure white burial shroud splattered with her warm red blood, as she slowly but surely managed to stagger from the vault that very nearly became her last resting place. She then made her way across the grounds to the Hall, where her husband was sat, still in terrible mourning for the loss of his most beloved wife.

He roused from his sadness by a banging at the window of the room where he was sat. This was then followed by the most awful of wailing. Quickly he rose from his seat and ran to the window. he threw back the long curtains as quickly as he could manage, to see a sight that made his blood run cold and freeze him to the spot in terror .

There he saw the ghostly apparition of his dead wife tapping on the window and crying out into the cold night air ‘let me in, I’m terribly cold’ 'let me in dear husband, let me in I pray'
The terrified husband spotted with utter disbelief his wife's badly mutilated hand and quickly realised that his beloved wife was very much still alive and well, and he joyfully ran outside to comfort her in a loving embrace that he wished would never end.

Mrs Yonge recovered from this most terrible ordeal over the next few days and went on to live for many years to come, however, this is only the beginning of this most gruesome of tales.
Some years later when Mrs Yonge finally was laid to rest in Eccleshall churchyard, the locals claim a ghost with a severed hand still wanders the area to this day, seemingly still searching for her lost ring on the stroke of midnight.

The End

This story is based very loosely on a real legend and will be included in my next book.

The haunted radish

2012-02-12T15:17:00.001+00:00

The churchwarden's wife, in condition was said

To beg of her husband, to make her a bed

With an harvest of radish, too early in spring

When other town folk, would not see such a thing

'Dear Ann' he replied, 'Shall be done in a trice'

With soil from the graves, that I feel shall be nice

I shall dig it at midnight, for fear of the clowns

That may vex me and tease me, with most terrible frowns

So the seeds that he brought, became seeds that he sowed

And within a short time, several radish he grow'd

And the scores of the table, were very soon brought

And his Madam selected, the finest she thought

So with mouth wide open, and taste did regale

The radish screamed out, 'Please don't bite off my tail'

'The top of my legs, and arms I bewail,

But Please Madame Ann, 'don't dare bite off my tail'

To the sextons house go, and the rest of me lie

I beg of you please, that my tail be near by

Then the radish stopped speaking, and it vanished from sight

leaving the warden and wife, near half dead by the fright

The soil was returned, and the souls laid to to rest

And the church warden hailed, 'To be honest is best'

Information

This poem is loosely based around a churchyard legend from Leek in the Staffordshire moorlands. It tells of a Church warden called Robert Emerson who was accused of using soil from the graveyard as compost to grow vegetables for his wife Ann.

Unfortunately for the unlucky couple the finest radish of the crop was haunted by the soul of the deceased from where it was taken, and it was said to have spoken out and plea for it to be re-buried from where it had been taken from. This tale was apparently written down by either Eli Cope or Alfred Fynney shortly after his death at the age of 56 in 1820. The gravestone can be seen in the graveyard of St Edwards in Leek.

It is to be included in my new book North staffs legends

Animus

2012-02-07T19:16:00.000+00:00

A brave universal sadness envelops days
Cheating hearts in loves deranged
By ritual order keeps each nearby
Hellion emerg'd a rapist trapine

Never fails

2012-02-05T11:22:00.000+00:00

Love I, and never not elope
The passion remains, along with the hope

Shield me

2011-11-30T10:49:00.001+00:00

An umbrella can shield from the snow and rain
But it blocks the sun that may brighten again.

My poetry FOR SALE

2011-11-27T10:06:00.000+00:00

A collection of words, stories, folklore and poetry from the heart of North Staffordshire. Stephen Harvey is a poet and author from England and this book of differening genres will interest the historian, poet and lover of verse in equal measures. The poems are often inspired by real life characters from the 'potteries' and these include the Burslem witch Molly leigh, Tommy Meaykin the man who was buried alive and The tams skin legend of the drummer boy skinned alive during the rebellion led by Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Web Store - Stoke Writers

Julie

2011-10-09T08:36:00.000+01:00

Jewelled undying love I endure
You will hold my heart for evermore