Keep Poetry Local

When considering a poet,
There's oft nothing worse
than those works immortalised
in insipid verse
So don't think of Browning
and them other dead coves,
What about Wirksworth, Melton,
Macclesfield, La'kin and Groves?

Now William Wirksworth hailed from Leeds
and died not worth a string of beads
yet left us these immortal rills
about the world and daffodils,

" I wandered Moseley in a crowd
with a bird I'd pulled in Pateley Mill
Her name was Mary Hortense Stroud,
She'd the IQ of a daffodil"

Or Macclesfield,
who with passion toyed
and brought us all the taste of salt
held in yesterday's tabloid
where all the vinegar was malt,
and words soaked straight into the skin
The Sun lit up for you and me,
as he held a Mirror to the sea,

" I must go down for the cod and chips,
For the mushy pea and pie,
And all I ask is a firm chip,
Not a Burger King french fry "

And Melton,
Born not far from Wath
Establishment soon felt his wrath
When found him prisoned to a bench
for marrying too soon a wench
To write was always his intent
but on his column she was bent
'til she ran off with his brother, Gerald
and he found a post on
The Mexborough Herald
where he ripped the world with his daily column
best described as Musick Solemn,

" O' Blest pair of sirens
Pledges of Heaven's Wrath.
One sounds for clocking on
And t'other for clocking off "

But more to mind, and planet shakin'
come the words of Philip La'kin
In Barnsley where he grew to fame,
first day o't' week still bears his name
He choked with emotion
like a bunged up drain
About his days down Manvers Main
spent getting coal in waist deep sludge
and the future wouldn't R J Budge,
But pithead closed, his last coat on,
he wrote this;
" Going, Going, Gone"

" I thought that it would last my time
The sense that, beyond the town,
there always would be pits, not farms
and spoil-heaps to the sky would climb
and winding-gear not be cut down
and houses without burglar alarms "


So when to a poem you next aspire,
throw out the books
of the dead and the dire,
we don't want our vowels
strung out on wires
to read poems that come from
Home Counties or Shires
so if you have the urge
to stand up and be vocal,
remember, in Yorkshire,
Keep Poetry Local.