Wigan World Poetry Competition 2012...

Open to everybody.

Put yours in here. No silly comments or Crazy Gang.

One poem for each poster.

The WW members will judge the winner on Saturday April 21st.
This thread will be open for 10 days.

I will put a "special" voting thread on here on Saturday April 21st...Just post your votes on it then.

The winner gets to recite their winning poem at the next WW do...

I'm exempt...For obvious reasons...

Good luck...

I wondered lonely as a poet
in the streets around Bryn
I'm thinking of a poem
that I might enter in.

It not that I'm a writer
though I'd like to be in time
Its just a thing to do at night
if I can get the words to ryhme

so I take my pad and pencil
as I walk around the streets
and people gawp and stare at me
so I keep away from't leets

and after several hours
not a word I've written clear
I get meself off back to wom
and try again next year

I like pie and i like chips
I like them both together,
but after time they make you fat
and you stay like that forever,

a pon o lobbies for me tey
wi haife a loaf o bread
I've got to get the hell from leyth
before I wake up dead,

Jarvo, someone is already struggling with the 'one poem for each poster' rule.

oh eck I did't see that bit,
I'm glad you let me know.
cos i'd be here half o neet
till half past three or four,

They made me smile anyway.

It's funny what you think of,
when you're sat there all alone.
Looking round and round the room..
..in the place that you call home.
I noticed just quite recently..
..that the paper on the wall
didn't look quite right in places
upon the chimney breast so tall.
I stared and stared but couldn't think
just what made me frown..
.. and then it came, just like a blast..
.. I'd hung it upside down!!!

Horace

Much to his Mum and Dad's dismay
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn't stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
"We can't have this his Dad declared,
"If that lad's ate, he should be shared."
But even as he spoke they saw
Horace eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes...
"Stop him someone!" Mother cried
"Those eyeballs would be better fried!"
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong...
"Oh! foolish child!" the father mourns
"You could have deep-fried that with prawns,
Some parsley and some tartar sauce..."
But H. was on his second course:
His liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
"To think I raised him from the cot
And now he's going to scoff the lot!"
His Mother cried: "What shall we do?
What's left won't even make a stew..."
And as she wept, her son was seen
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay: a boy no more,
Just a stomach, on the floor...
None the less, since it was his
They ate it – that's what haggis is.

A week left...3 entrants so far...

Jarvo, could you please clarify for us. Does the poem submitted have to be your own work

Yes

Nicko has been a naught boy then. But I do like the poem

THE OLD HOUSE


I came home to the old house,
found my way back.
I'd walked the Sahara desert first,
and almost died of thirst.

The birds are singing here,
and purple flowers cover the ground.
They are sleeping in the old house;
I enter,

making not a sound...


Jarvo 2012

wigan poetry society got a stall in the market hall

today,looks plenty of interest in it.

AN ODE TO DOG WALKERS

On the towpath of the canal
Rode a Wigginer with camera in hand.
His bike wheel hit a rut
He ended up on his butt.
He was lucky it wasn't the cut.
To his knees he did struggled and fight,
Trying to get him self upright.
He did no more but slip to the floor
And fell with his face in dog shite.

he broke the rules, that jarvo bloke.
It really is't fair
he wrote the rules himself tha knows
but he does't give a care,

I know I broke them too. as well
but just hang on a minute,
till eddie said one man one post
till then I had't sin it,

ANGELS

When a door quite suddenly opens
And no one seems to be there
When something seems to rush pass you
And lovingly touches your hair
Don't be afraid never show any fear
They mean you no harm at all
It's someone who dearly loves you
Just letting you know they're still here

The shape of a cloud that forms in the sky
The breeze that blows on your face
The kiss on your cheek from a butterfly
Is something quite hard to erase
The sound of a bird trying to make itself heard
The one perching high in a tree
Could almost be saying you're never alone
Just stop and listen to me

When sometimes trouble surrounds you
And things get too hard to bear
An Angels wing wraps around you
Although you won't know that they're there
An Angel will always be with you
You'll never be apart
Always there to love and protect you
They're someone who's close to your heart

Sue Ward

Lovely

Love it Susieq:

I am the ultimate plagiarist

‘OR JEM
(A cautionery tale)

‘Or Jem, 'e wer a bonny blade
As an iron moulder he plied 'is trade.
Mary wer is good and faithful wife,
Her an't kids, wer't comfort of his life.

They had two childer, Joe a lad, an' Jane a lass
An at wickends, on’t common, mony hours they’d pass.
Their life it wer ard, an at times they hadn’t much t’eat
Yet thy’d see Jem in his local, on each Friday neet.

Mary, ofe’n grieved, and wer ofe’n thinkin,
How for't stop Jem from his pay day drinkin'
Then one Christmas Eve, at 5 o’clock, when foundry whistle blew,
To mark t’end of Jem’s shift, un rest of his black faced crew.

They aw lined up near t’office door to claim their well earned pay
“Hurray” they sheawted “No work tomoro. Fo' tomorrow it’s Christmas Day”
An after slaving all wick, casting ingots of iron,
Wi brass in his pocket, nae Jem wer off t’Red Lion.




“I’ll just aw a couple or three, maybe four,”
Jem said to himsel as he walked thro t’pub door.
It wer t’TAP ROOM. MEN ONLY, no women or gals,
An sat in t’corner, Jem spied a group of his pals.

“A pint of best bitter Joe?” Jem, t’landlord did ask,
“An I don’t want no slops. I want it from t’cask”.
“Drinks all round”, Jem proclaimed, and his pals they did cheer
As it wern’t every day they wer given chance o’ free beer.

As’t day reached its end, so did Jem’s cash.
Eee wor'a neet. It wer one hell of a bash.
What would Mary do, he’d drunk away aw ‘is pay,
An as Jem staggered wom, he planned wor'ed say.

“I wer set on wi robbers. They took all mi dosh
They came at mi wi a club, a knife, and a cosh”.
What could I do, it wer four onto one,
I bashed a few yeds then I didn’t half run”.

Mary looked in his face and wi tears in her eyes
Sobbed, “Gi me no tales Jem, don’t tell me no lies
Thy’s bin boozin wi thi mates deawn at Red Lion.
I can smell beer on thi breath I know that your lyin”


“NEY I’VE NOT” Jem cried, as his ire grew worse
As at his wife he started to shout and to curse
It wer t’drink that wer makin Jem t’scream and t’swear
An wi is yed in his hands he slumped into t’armchair

But Mary was still at him, “Your nowt bur'a foo’ ,
Or Joe has mooer sense, an he’s just started scoo’.”
Summat snapped inside Jem as he sprang from his chair,
And the next he knew, he wer alone, standing there.

Wi't poker in hand and Mary on’t floor, at his feet.
“Oh worrava done to my darling, my sweet”?
Jem bent deawn by't side her, and lifted her yed,
But by the look on her face, Jem knew she wer dead.

Buyin ale, all neet fer his pals, an playin the CARD,
The result of his folly naw hit Jem so hard.
Jem‘s only thoughts now wer, for his childer to see,
Joe wer only five years old and Mary but three.

Two little angels, they wer Jem’s pride and joy,
His gorgeous little girl an' his handsome young boy.
He tried not to make no noise on the floor wi his tread.
But the two empty stockings hangin at t’foot of the bed,


Wer to much for Jem, and he brast into tears,
What was to become of ‘em all, no hope, only fears.
Jem climbed in t’bed, praying for sleep, please to find,
But th'appenings that day played all neet on his mind.

The next thing, Jem heard wer a familiar voice, from afar.
“Cum on owd lad, it’s time thy went wom. I want to shut bar”.
It wer Joe’s voice he wer hearin, Joe, landlord t’pub,
“An 'ere, tek this Five Pound. Thy’s won Christmas Raffle at club,

Thy’s bin a sleep fer two ‘ours. Thy’ll ‘ave your Mary so mad,
But to have thi wom i' one piece, I’m sure she’ll be glad”.
“Dust mean I’ve bin sat ere all neet, I’ve never left this ere place?”
“Aye, an thy’s supped plenty ale” Joe said, wi a grin on his face.

Well Jem jumped up a dancin an laffin, then he cried wi relief,
His heart, now brastin wi joy, not like before, full o’ grief.
Like a dog frae a trap, Jem ran from yon room.
“Thank You God” Jem prayed, “Please get me wom soon”.

As he raced along t’streets, to get wom to his kin
His sparkin' clog irons on cobbles didn’t half make a din.
As he lifted door latch, thinking, “what within will I find?"
“Jem is that you” came a voice, sounding ever so kind.


“Mary my Mary”, Jem grabbed her, an' kissed her again, an’ again.
This neet I’ve sin wot cud ‘ave bin, and wot drink can do to poor men.
An he towd ‘er ert nightmare he’d had, frae t’time he’d got his wicks pay,
An' how, he’d drunk, along, wi his pals, all t’money he’d just drawn that day.

He looked ‘ard at Mary, wi luv in his eyes,
An wot he said next to her, cum as a surprise.
“I promise thi this, on paydays to cum, in t’Red Lion, I’ll ne'er be found.
It’s gooin't be best Christmas yet. We can ‘ave a bloody good time wi Five pound”

Absolutely brill...

Tears here, Ron...

That was more than a poem it was a story and I loved it

Hey John I've e.mailed you twiceDid you read the other stories that I wrote, which I sent to you, yet?

Ron, Yes..."Bommie Night" had me in stitches...Brilliant.

Ron, thanks for the thought, but this is dying a death as a sticky....

Perhaps a bit of culture doesn't go down very well...

Never mind.

Bye thee eck Ron, that's a bit deep. But very good.

I don't like these stickies. They seem to be apart from the main threads.

I'm not one to mince me words
I tell it like it is
I'm no good at making rhyme
But Jarvo is the biz

Mac didnt make an entry
Although he loves to post
He frequents Chipping Sodbury
Of which Dostaf likes to boast

Jo anne is always helpful
Her posts a joy to read
But she doesnt like to iron
So we wind her up indeed

Peawapp well he's a Leyther
He likes his beloved lobby
But we reckon he spells it wrong
Cos in Wigan its called lobbies

Tomplum well hes a plumber
As if that wasnt plain
He'll come and fix yer pipes fer you
And perhaps yer toilet chain

Veg grower well thats what she does
Her posts are full of humour
She grew a giant pumpkin once
Or perhaps that was only rumour


Cant think of any more to write
I'm about to throw a paddy
I'll enter my little rhyme tonight
To keep Jarvo a happy laddie

Well I tried

One bright and sunny Autumn morn
in a dirty little town
this 1950s child was born
And given half a crown

I blink my eyes and looked around
It happened in a flash
what happened to the last 10yrs
I didnt want to dash

I'll take it slower thats a must
no need for me to hurry
time for fun and games you see
no time to sit and worry

The seventies they came and went
the eighties did so to
before to long it was ninety three
and now its two "O" two

The moral of this story is
dont close your eyes for long
Dont blink to much for you will find
Your life is almost gone

So think off all the things you've done
And the things you've yet to do
dont hesitate or take to long
Coz time wont wait for you.

I'm not a poem writer or reader of them but I've been reading
everyone on here and enjoyed them all. thankyou.

We went into Wigan
And there we saw a sign
It said 'Historic Quarter'
And we thought that sounded fine,
My friend got quite excited,
'Let's have a toot' she said,
But all we saw was a big glass box,
And a ruddy metal yed.

Remember Wigan in '62?
We were nine then, me and you.
When nights drew in and brought a haze
Of magic to the Autumn days;
A tingling feeling in the air,
And on the old spare land....the fair!
Noses pressed to lit-up shops,
Penny arrows, lollipops.
Jumble-sale on Friday night,
"Take Your Pick" in black-and-white.
Nights when Jack Frost bit your nose,
And fog hung low in terraced rows;
We told ghost-stories in our den,
Of skeletons and bogey-men.
Penny-for-the-guy was fun,
And daring games of "ring-and-run"...
Carol-singers, mild and meek,
Always told "Come back next week"!
We're growing old...it's getting late;
The time passed by, it wouldn't wait,
The fair has gone...on that spare land
Now a hundred houses stand.
And in the front room of a house,
A child holds a computer-mouse,
Staring at a screen for hours,
On the spot where we picked flowers.
Is this how her life will be...
Computerised technology?
Or will she step outside today,
So we can teach her how to play
the games that came with lighter nights?
Summer pleasures, Spring delights.
Playing two-ball on the wall,
Chanting songs I still recall...
"Old Mother at Hindley Fair,
Get some papers to curl my hair".
Remember, too, the skipping rhymes,
Jumping into Mam's clothes-line?...
"Eeper, Weeper, Chimney-sweeper,
Had a wife but couldn't keep her".
Hopscotch chalked out on the flags,
Marbles kept in draw-string bags.
May-Queens formed all over town,
Mam's net curtain, cardboard crown;
Remember Wigan in '63?
We were ten then, you and me.

Brilliant Irene

Thanks, Flaggy; I think they all are. I loved yours about the glass box and the "yed" in Millgate.