"Let it Rock"

430 Kings Road, the birth of SEX

Leather punctured by a train track of pins

slogan-sloshed t-shirts, uniform.

Two fingers up to British conformity.

"Too fast to live, too young to die"

70's free-thinkers join the fashion picket line

straight jackets and bondage bursting with spirit.

A rebellious attitude Angolmania fans inherit.

Tartan and tweed, tuliped and tailored

History stitched into the red and gold label.
From corsets and crinolines to stripes and pirate boots                                                                           
The stamp of the orb is the biggest clue.   

The high priestess of punk, the queen of seams
sits regally swamped by material reams.
Chalky white skin, orange hair asserting caution,
strapping up her platforms its Ms Che Guevara.                  

In the distance

The jolting skyline, jutted shapes
Reach for the slated skies.
A horizon, a sunset of concrete chaos.
Which path to choose from the "streets in the sky?"

Some may call it grim.
To many this is home
A place invested with dreams.
A dormant eyesore of rabbit holes
or breeding ground for Yorkshire pride?

Bard street, Claywood, Hyde Park and Embassy Court flats
Push chairs rattle on the layered decks above.
Salt of the earth or plagued with scallies?
Dubbed "San Quentin" by its residents within
Security fencing keeps them hemmed in.

A crumbling heritage? Or hindrance to the city?
Level it to the ground or let it stand tall?
Kicked to the curb like a punctured football.

Game Over

The fixture was drawn
A day that would haunt
the history of sport.

April 15, 1989.
The queues of lines
Create question marks,
Stamping into the nations hearts.

The time had come
chanting their rhymes
they snuck through the turnstiles.

Took those steps
with a queue they were met.
3 minutes to 3, nobody could see
The pitch for the multitudes of heads.

2 minutes to 3 and the gates had collapsed
Leaving many to breathe their last.
Plunged into chaos, gasping for the surface
Their Love of the game leading to murderl

3.09 and by this time
Dawned the panic of the crowd behind
Tearing down signs to act as stretchers,
spilling out onto the grass.

Those that entered the tunnel of death
Were united by love for their team,
Heroes past and present take the lead.


Don't be bitter, don't condone
Just remember those fans will never walk alone.

No smoke without fire

"Mate got a
Light"

Drag
after
drag.

Slumped in
a euphoric
rush.

A flick
of ash

and the
light
was
gone.

Castle Calibre

If you want to be called a "duck"
And get your bargains by the lot,
The head to the darker side of town.
Where they're "rate" willing to do you a deal
On meat, cigs or even steel.

"12 for a fiver, 2 for a pound"
A working class breeding ground
Out looking to earn a crust.
There's your Northern Dell boys
but keep an eye out for Fulton's Fagin.

They;ll have you when you're not watching
So grip your bag and hold on tight,
for the rocky road of Castle Markets delights.
Get yourself a dodgy charger,
For half the price if you're willing to barter.

Watch out for the oncoming traffic
The convoy of buggies will ram you down.
Their sovereign clad drivers
will take no prisoners,
championing the pavements for mothers and kids.

Chavs perch on the security fencing
Like twitching pigeons they survey their lot.
Their peaked caps like open beaks
dominating the streets
ready to take on their next feat.

Its a no frills job
down the darker end of town
where eccentrics and townies find common ground.
So shed some light on your dull assumptions
and get to grips with Castle Markets customs.

The Great Inundation

Bradfield's borders seeped
A city flooded village by village.
A geography of colour
Scribbled over in black.

The sky and land merging into darkness
11.30 pm, "the world' at an end".
Children sleep, their dream washed away
Damflask, Kelham Island, Hillsborough, The Wicker,
Awoken by pangs of danger.

Nature vs. humanity in a tug of war
Flickering lights simultaneously washed out.
The pigs screamed.
Destruction 8 miles long.
Mother nature rejecting her brood.

Steel city drenched in darkness
Deprived of light.
Drowned in the black well of obscurity.

Wrath of the Mill

"Sheffield, I suppose, could justly claim to be the ugliest town in the old world" (George Orwell)

Patch-worked horizons, stitched with black smoke.
Dull, depressed clouds.  Strangled, intoxicated.

Roaring furnaces attack the fragile skies
Fused with the dim pounding of hammers.

The clanging of pipes and steel.
Blistered, crucible, melted and welded.

Sooty faces and rining ears
expressions plagued with fatigue.

A weed-filled grave of rusting remains
broken chains, free from industrial bain.

City of Steel

For three years I lived in Sheffield whilst at University, the city is one of raw charm and uniqueness.  A breeding ground for poetic inspiration through personal experience, research or observation.  I found it easy to write about an environment which I was in contact with everyday, and became inspired by everything about the city from both the past and present.

There is a great deal of history embedded in Sheffield and I enjoyed researching the famous steel industry for my poem "Wrath of the Mill".  I came to understand that though this industry has brought the city glorification it has also caused pollution and devastation.  In 1937 George Orwell quoted Sheffield to be "the ugliest town in the old world", a statement the reader can reassess at the end of the collection.  Whereas some of the more light-hearted poems into he collection rhyme playfully, e.g. "Castle Calibre", I wanted to adopt a less obvious rhyme scheme, concentrating more so on assonance.  The second history based poem is entitled "The Great Inundation", in reference to the original Sheffield flood in 1864.  This devastating flood is surprisingly unknown of and I thought it would be an interesting topic to tackle, with the possibility of a follow up poem discussing Sheffield's second flood in the summer of 2007.  This poem has no rhyme scheme, a conscious decision I made due to the nature of an unexpected disaster.  I wanted to place emphasis on the imagery of the piece without the reader being distracted by a structural pattern. 

A subtle merging of past and present can be noted within my poem "In the distance", about Park Hill Flats.  When I first visited Sheffield it was those flats which intrigued me the most.  Their dominance of Sheffield's skyline makes them almost intimidating, set back within unknown territory.  "In the distance was the first poem I wrote in this collection, simply because I was inspired by their notoriety and legacy.  I wanted to explore the history of the flats and though there is a negative stigma attached to Park Hill, much is mis-conception.  My original version of the poem was a little judgemental and was directed from an outsider's point of view.  To tackle this I chose to integrate two opposing ideas, presenting both a positive and negative view.  The final line of the poem "kicked to the curb like a punctured football", is representative of Park Hill residents whose right appear to have expired.  As I have done with many of the other poems I used specific street and block names to avoid vagueness and misunderstanding.  As Park Hill flats are such an iconic feature of Sheffield's skyline I thought it would be fitting to dedicate a poem to them, especially as they are soon to be demolished.

I was eager to show as much breadth and variation of styles of writing in my collection.  I wanted to include a list poem which I found difficult to approach with confidence as it was a totally new style for me.  Though it is a short poem it took a re-shuffling of single words to make it flow and work as an effective piece.  I feel most comfortable writing in a relaxed, playful style which is demonstrated. most clearly in "Castle Calibre".  

Castle Square is a part of town which I walked through everyday and I would observe the daily goings on.  I wanted to create an impression for the reader, and to play with the idea of stereotypes to which they can relate.  It portrays a modern vision of Sheffield and a working class culture which is often looked down upon.  I had to re-structure this poem to keep up the 5 line stanza and feel that this has ensured fluidity within the piece.  I have chosen to conclude my collection with a poem about fashion veteran Vivienne Westwood who hails from the nearby market town of Glossop, Derbyshire.  The poem was inspired by her exhibition which took place at the Millennium Galleries in Sheffield.  Choosing to hold such an event in Sheffield marks its acceptance as a modern and artistically inclined city, a far cry from Orwell's damning quote.  I hope my collection shows Sheffield in many different light, but most prominently to be a progressive and enriched gem of the North.

The Waiting game...

A sea of heads we joing the back
Wishing we wern't the last
Halted, stopped dead in our tracks
And soon an hour had passed

I lean against the postured wall
Bass vibrates down my spine
The night is nearly over now
Oh God, how much more time?

Townies with hands in their pockets
Out looking for a fight
Girls scantily clad in high heels
Not a jacket in sight

Nearly there, the bouncers ahead
"Right, pretend we're talking"
"You're joking, really he said that?"
Pout out and keep walking

"Ey you got any ID love?"
"I'm here every week mate,
Second of the third eighty eight"
As I guessed, took the bait.