Th' Col Year's Teal: a poem in Potteries dialect, by Terry Williams

Th' dee shiftoe werin th' pub, th' nate shiftoe a twom,
Anthem onnoonz weroe setdine, fer snappin tarm adcum.
 Yung Alfad polish toffees chaze, anwishy need gotmower,
Woz draineen draimz, thee rin thed ark, ov th'wen choo livd nexdower;    
Wen from thepitch blakov thepit a neery owl run gite,
A figger glued - anuther owl! twoz Alf's tern nah tershite!
"Gerroff!" eeyeld. Iz feece wozwait benee thowth grarm andert.
"Yermus beed after cummindeer injusyer owd nateshert!"

Th'goost justud angeez atAlf, 'ntarm beunterd rag.
Atlas teaspoke - inlung intoonz - "Yerannergorrafag?
"Ah binyneer nah fowty ears, wi' neethet fagsner eel,
"Anwimeen dunner cumdine th'pit. Yerseynah whar ahweel?

"Ma misseseze twoz wotdunmey in, erneva cud mashtay.
"Er lefther sugger ite meef lask - an thaswot peesnt may!"

Yun gAlf beegunter fail rates a ert yon owd col year's platr,
Antwonnwe lung afower eethote awotud put goose trait.
"Ear, averse wigger this", eesed, anchucka crosserd rink.
"Thisl warmyer innerdzup - andooyer gudahth ink!"

Th'goostay finny shtoff therlot, anthen letite asie.
"Bah, tha twerg rand!" thowl goostsed, "Mah throte wozrailly drigh!"
Ayterndiz bacca namble doff interth' dar kergen,
Anoo shudkumfrum saymar cole butyun gulAlf swerkmayt Len.

"Ayjus saynAynok", Len eesez, "Ay luct azwarm aztoost".
"Tha twerner Aynok!" Alfry plied, "Thatwerra col year's goost!"
"Nay, tha twerAynok," anserd Len, "Ayz pleed tha twoonon may,
"Ay skeers yerstif, then swigs yerrum. Tiz owert rick dussay!"

"Buttah cud seyim glue!" sedAlf, "Aranna blahn dowdsun!"
"Accoe say glued, yer greet daftwerp! Eed jus drun coe yerrum!"

 ......................................................................  

COMPREE YENSHUN

Aser follerin kwes chuns:-

1. Worrad Ay nok bindoo infer fowty ears?
2. Did goost glue afower eedad owt ferd rink?
3. AdAlf seyn coe lammer?
4. AdLen enny chaze feriz snappin?
5. Costel Stoke from buttah?

.....................................................................

(N.B. When I entered this, a message appeared offering to translate it into English! Now that really would be something!)

A Worm Turning, by John Garland

John was the sort of man, ladies said, who filled them with an urge to straighten his tie for him, or to smooth down the tuft of hair which was always sticking up at the back of his head, no matter how recently he had combed it. Margaret was always doing this for him: it was probably what had attracted her to him in the first place. She also chose what trousers and socks he should put on; or rather, she had a way of glancing pointedly at what he had chosen for himself, so that he knew she would prefer him to wear something different. “I only want you to look nice, dear!” she would explain. She was always being helpful in other ways too; taking care that he didn’t eat or drink too much, and reminding him to be careful of his weight. She asked bright questions about how he was getting on at work, and suggested ways in which he might improve his chances of promotion. Sometimes when he was speaking she corrected him on minor points of grammar or pronunciation, or suggested that his friends had probably heard one of his favourite anecdotes already. She was also always brightly helpful in suggesting ways in which he could improve his hobbies, and would draw his attention to how much better the results were when he acted on his ideas.

          She herself wasn’t always completely happy with the way things turned out. At times she found him distinctly evasive about what he had been doing when she wasn’t there. It irritated her that he wouldn’t let her know his computer password, making some feeble excuse about “security” and she was suspicious of the way he closed down the screen when he heard her approach, when all she wanted to do was help him. There might even have been a faint trace of sarcasm in the way he proposed that it might save time if she laid out his clothes for him, valet-fashion, instead of waiting for him to dress and then disapproving of his choices. On the whole she didn’t feel that it was anything much to worry about; at least, not yet. Nevertheless, someone more sensitive than Margaret might have detected the subterranean rustlings of a worm finally turning

A Question of Memory, by Peter Morford.

I’m in my wife’s doghouse. The children’s attitude has changed from normal indifference to outright hostility and it’s not my fault.
The other day the head of our Department called us all into the meeting room to make an announcement.
“The Minister had authorised us all to attend a memory training course on Wednesday. A coach will pick us up at 8.30 and take us to the Conference Centre. Please bring a book and a pack of cards. I have no idea why. That’s all.”
Out he went, leaving us to speculate. Why cards? Why book?

**

At 9.55 we took our seats. 10 o’clock exactly a tall bald man stood before us. It was Mr Mnenomic, the memory man. He told us we were here to develop our minds. He asked us to stand up, one by one, to introduce ourselves. He then named three people to bring a pack of cards to the stage.
“I want you to shuffle your cards thoroughly, then, in turn to deal them on the table, face up. I will remember the order. Do not shuffle the cards again.”
“Thank you. Now will Mrs. Evans, Mr Trevor Jones and Miss Posselthwaite bring me their books. Open your book at random and let me read one page.”
He read silently.
“Thank you. We’ll have break for coffee. I’d like to circulate among you.”
In the next 20 minutes he managed to speak to each of us. He talked about books, the Test Match and Anderson’s 500 th wicket; the hurricanes in the USA and who knows what else. As you would expect, he greeted us each by name. You know what happened next. He called the cards in the right order forwards and backwards. He recited, with total accuracy, the pages he had read in each book.
He said “Thank you. I am not a magician. I’m not a genius. I’m just a man with a trained memory. It’s very useful. Knowledge is power. Your smartphones may provide the information you need – but it’s not much use to you if you forget what you’ve read. Now I’ll show how it’s done.”
He did.
We practised our new skills and we were amazed.
He said “I hope you are pleased with your progress. What you have learned today will stick – if you practise. We will now have dinner and have a brief session afterwards.”
Freddy Hughes said, “We’ll be late getting home.”
“Accommodation has been booked for you at this hotel and we’ll have a full session tomorrow.”
“But we weren’t told to bring overnight cases.”
“A change of clothes will be in your room. Everything will fit.”
It did.
My wife was not pleased when I phoned her.
“Jeremy’s Headmaster wants to see us about his behaviour. And Doctor Pearson is worried about Mother. And you’ve got a dental appointment at 8.30 and in the afternoon we’re going with the school outing to Alton Towers.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be.”
It was planned for tomorrow, but I had forgotten.

The Impersonators, by David Bingham

Sixties all-leather or seventies white flared-trousers?

Trace used to help him with things like that. Always supportive. Washed and ironed his stage clothes. Even let him have that extra wardrobe to keep them in. Went with him on a road trip from Vegas to Gracelands and they were always the winning couple in local jive contests.

Funny though, what her sister had said, about how deep down Trace had always preferred Orbison to Elvis. Never told him mind. Made you think what else she didn’t say.

Things had changed a lot since she left. In the old days they’d have to turn people away at the door on an ‘Elvis Night’ and he could make a steady living touring the clubs. But now, Ted, the landlord, had to ring round and chivvy the old gang to come. And when he performed, he looked out over an audience of pensioners. Young at heart, yes; but sadly, a generation on the way out.

As this was to be his last gig he’d finish with Are You Lonesome Tonight.  Dedicate it to Trace. ‘It was always her favourite,’ he’d tell them. 

© David Bingham, 2017

The Nose, by Bill West

Tobias oft told how the fairies stole his nose one night when he was sleeping off the booze under an arch of Welshman's Bridge. But I'd heard that it was syphilis that left him with that hole in his face. Plenty of coves strut around Gay Meadow sporting saddle noses, looking for the world like pugilists or bare knuckle fighters. Tobias just looked a mess. You didn't want to be near him when he sneezed.

He should go to Grindley, the blacksmith, I said, and take with him some old spoons that could be beaten fine and drawn out into a metal nose.  Tobias complained that the whore son blacksmith was a Ranter and was likely to quote the Bible at him before kicking him out the door. 

I felt sorry for him. Or at least I was sick of beholding that face or being in range of his purulent breath. Besides, I thought he might slip me a few coppers if I did him a good turn. I proposed to make a new nose for him out of wax if he could come by some candles.

The candle was a big expensive-looking one, much better than those tallow candles. I didn't ask where he got it from.

Not trusting Tobias to hold still, what with him looking like a fighter and all, I ordered him up to his bedchamber where I tied him to his cot with a length of rope. That done, I wound a length of linen tight under his chin to keep his head still. He wriggled and kicked when I stuck two straws where his nose should be but as I said, if he wanted to breathe through his new nose he'd have to trust me. I lit the candle and dripped wax into the hole in his face, taking no mind of his muffled oaths, stopping every once in a while to make sure the straws were keeping him breathing. Soon there was a large carbuncle of wax where his new nose would be. I took a hot knife and cut and smoothed the wax until Tobias sported such a nose as might have adorned the face of a Roman Emperor.

When I untied him and showed him his reflection in a mirror he seemed well pleased with the result, apart from the two straws sticking out of his face. These I trimmed with a paring knife. Then we were ready to go out to hit the taverns.

We had a fine evening at The Anchor with many a doxie eager to take the arm of the tall handsome man with the Roman nose. 

Things went well until Tobias decided to smoke a pipe. The clay pipe he pulled from his waistcoat had a stem clipped so short it barely poked beyond the end of his new nose. He was well oiled by that time and in no mood to listen to advice.

Likely it was the heat of the pipe that loosened his nose, and the sneeze when it came didn't help. The nose shot off his face and arced across the smoky tavern towards the fire grate. A mangy Turn Spit dog was nosing around the sawdust for food scraps. Quick as a flash it jumped up, caught the nose  and gulped it down.

Tobias chased the dog out the door roaring with outrage and accompanied by  hoots and catcalls from all around.

I finished my ale, and his, and slipped quietly off home.

No one knows what befell Tobias. He was never seen again. But sometimes in the day's gloaming, or in the half light of a Winter sunrise when river mist cloaks the bridge, a hunched figure emerges from the bridge's shadow, picks its way along the foreshore, combs the river's edge, examines and discards small objects. 

Perhaps it is the shade of Tobias, searching for a nose.

For My Grandfather, by Peter Shilston,

I never knew him,
he died when I was five,
but I have his watch and chain;
silver, made by a local firm 
in Keighley, where he lived his entire life,
inscribed 
"Presented to Thomas Midgley
on his 21st birthday
Oct. 25th 1903".

He was, I'm told
a man of the highest moral standards;
he disapproved of pubs
and scruffy dress;
he played the piccolo in the town orchestra,
he had a windup gramophone
and some good books
(Dickens, Walter Scott, Dumas).
He was an early member of the
Independent Labour Party,
he knew Philip Snowden,
the first-ever Labour Chancellor,
and he read the "Daily Herald"
the Trades Union paper 
(now defunct).

His wife, my grandmother, was
a mill-worker, very houseproud,
and a vegetarian (unusual in those days).
Before getting married they
saved up for years
in order to buy good furniture.

He would have described himself as
proud to be
working-class, 
Yorkshire, 
and respectable.
Do people like him exist today?

I found a recent picture of his house
(terraced, outside loo, near the railway).
It looked sadly run-down.

The watch runs erratically.
Nowadays it would be valued
solely by its bullion content.

Ladies of the Wood, by Georgia Kelly

Two oaks lie in a collapsed embrace,

Shrouded by inconspicuously

By creeping claws of ivy;

Seared limbs line bruised bodies

 resting, peaceful,

on their bed of moss.

Amber confetti dampens

Ablaze. A blur.

Over mirrored

Hips.  Lips.

Take me to your woods

Where buds bloom at our touch,

Where dew melts like ice

On warm tongues;

Wher our song plays soft at first.

Not seven inches of

Dull notes, blaring

To bands of woozy teens,

Drunk on the hopes of

Holy matrimony.

Here the trees play

Only for us. A birds song

 interjected with every

pulsing breath.

Coiling,

Twisting,

Into a torrent;

Teasing. Until it

Slices open our

Goosebumped skin.

Revealing only our

Beating. Bleeding hearts.