Saturday, 11 April 2015

A Poem - No Escape

A comment on an earlier blog post asked whether I wrote poetry. I do indeed, though it seldom gets an airing and is even more rarely submitted to publishers.

I do quite like to write poems in Yorkshire dialect (known as Tyke). Back in 2010 when I belonged to the Falkirk Writers' Circle I was impressed by the ability of some members to write poems in Scots. Now my original dialect was not Scots but Tyke. For one meeting we were asked to write a poem on the subject 'No Escape'. This was the poem I wrote for that meeting.  Sorry - no photographs of an Ark handy!





No Escape


Owd Noah ‘ad a magic cloak wi’ ‘ygroscopic properties,
That is ter say ‘e wore it when ‘e wanted it to rain.
E got it from the weather clerk, the archangel ‘ose job it is
Ter turn them ‘eavenly sprinklers on, and ter turn ‘em off again.

Nar listen ‘ere, owd Noah,” says the archangel ‘oo give it ‘im,
This ‘ere’s a mighty BIG job that The Lord ‘as given thee.
No matter what’s on TV, or if the football’s rivettin’
Jus’ thee mind an’ tek thy cape off, lad, afore thee ‘as thy tea!”

Nar Noah was a good soul, though some would say a wally. ‘Ey,
For years and years ‘e did the job and never would complain,
E organised the sunny spells so folks could go on ‘oliday,
And then ‘e put ‘is cape back on, an’ ‘e give the farmers rain.

When Noah turned six ‘undred, ‘e were old an’ a bit silly, like,
An’ ‘e got a bit forgetful, as very well ‘e might,
E went up Blackpool Tower wi’ ‘is cape on, ‘cos ‘t were chilly, like,
An’ e sat down in a deck chair, an ‘e fell asleep all night.

When Noah woke next morning, ‘e saw all the world were water,
An’ t’ top of Blackpool Tower were the only bit left dry.
The angel said “’Ee Noah lad, there’s been an awful slaughter,
An’, there’s thee wi’ thy cape on still as t’ floods are risin’ ’igh.”

Oh dearie me!” says Noah, an’ ‘e jumped up from ‘is deck chair,
E took is cape off straight away; ‘e’d ‘ad an awful fright,
What shall we do? All Lankyshire is waterlogged and wrecked; there
Is not a chance Old Trafford’s pitch’ll be playable tonight!”

I’ll tell thee what,” says t’ angel, “’Ere’s what’ll see us through lad,
We’ll cut off top o’t’ tower, like, and mek a kind o’ boat
An’ tha’ can bring all t’ animals that live in t’ Tower Zoo, lad
An’ we can call it Noah’s Ark an’ eastward we shall float.”

An’ when we’ve crossed o’er t’ Pennines ‘igh, then we shall find an ‘ome, lad,
In t’ West Riding o’ Yorkshire; we’ll in God’s county dwell,
Meanwhile I’ll shove this water ‘ere, right out in t’ ‘lantic foam, lad,
An’ if ’n t’ sea gets deeper, well, be years ‘fore they can tell.”

So all thee long-‘aired scientists, wi’ thy dire prognostications,
Wi’ all thy glaciers meltin’ fast and and all thy stats on tape,
It’s nowt ter do wi’ isobars, or green’ouse emanations,
An’ it’s nowt ter do wi’ climate change; it’s ‘cos of Noah’s Cape!