Civic Society London

Poetry for Peterbrough

Civic Voice – the new national charity for the civic movement - held its first national convention and AGM in Peterborough on 8th and 9th October 2010. As part of the event we heard from Peterborough‟s Poets Laureate, past and present, in a series of performances which evoked the special qualities of Peterborough and the Fens as a place to live. Civic Voice is passionate about what makes places attractive, enjoyable and distinctive and the power of poetry to evoke and describe the feelings people have about where they live. We thank all those who contributed to making this a memorable event, especially Toby Wood, Mark Grist, MC Mixy and Keely Mills whose poems we share below.

Tony Burton Director, Civic Voice October 2010

Where is Peterborough? Toby Wood 2

Come to Peterborough Mark Grist 3

Peterbronx MC Mixy 4

Dear old Dogsthorpe Toby Wood 6

Be better home soon Keely Mills 8

John Clare MC Mixy 9

Peterborough People MC Mixy 10

The Fens Mark Grist 11

Fenland love poem Toby Wood 13

Civic Voice AGM 2010 Toby Wood 15

Civic Voice is a company limited by guarantee, registered in England number 7142946 | Charity registration number 1134476 WHERE IS PETERBOROUGH? Toby Wood

Where is Peterborough?

Easy It‟s south of the north north of the south west of the east and east of the west but certainly not in the Midlands or in East Anglia I hope that‟s quite clear.

2 COME TO PETERBOROUGH Mark Grist

Come to Peterborough! A place of unusual beauty With houses so cheap most don‟t pay stamp duty Our team may be called „the posh‟ but believe me they ain‟t snooty Cos they still head out to Liquid when they want to shake their booties

Come to Peterborough! The birthplace of astronomer George Alcock MBE We‟re one of four environmental cities thanks to our Greenery You can dine at pizza express then take in a play at The Key Or check out the 70s style sexist writing in a copy of the ESP

Come to Peterborough! For romantic nights at the dog track or walks in Southey wood We don‟t have a Uni, though we know that we should The connecting trains to London are really pretty good Although our multi coloured bin system is poorly understood

Come to Peterborough! See Longthorpe tower – it‟s protected by law Why have one local radio station when you can have four? Our regional college doesn‟t offer A levels any more And we‟ve got an IKEA distribution centre but no bleedin‟ store

Come to Peterborough! Let the ET‟s reporting fill you with apprehension Revel in the barbs of our racial tension Our vibrant ranger of pound shops really do deserve a mention The shopping centre ain‟t big enough, but we‟re building an extension!

Come to Peterborough! We‟ve got hundreds places for you to go out and dine The cathedral looks amazing when it‟s bathed in the sunshine So what if our manufacturing is currently in decline? Come to Peterborough! Come to Peterborough! It ain‟t always a pretty city But it‟s mine.

3 PETERBRONX MC Mixy

I‟m from a town where when u walk around you hear the sound of 100 different cultures out loud, all blended into the background of a city that‟s packed out, full to the brim of individuals that act out. The characters that crash in a crack house, lads on the lash that chat crap an scrap with a smacked mouth, the class that take tax an kick back in a phat house, mans from all around have found their path in while most of us want a path out. Sometimes I get so frustrated I could pass out, we can blame the different cultures an we can have row‟s, or we can chat about an laugh it out, the fact of how most of us came to be here is that of the crowd that we actively pound. Still we stand proud, me I welcome with my hands out but don‟t just come for hand outs, if England was a land of drought or slum with no chance to sprout, the chances are we may not be where we‟re at now.

Welcome to diesel city Welcome to peterbronx Welcome to Peterborough where the scene is long An the heat is gone The people want feeding from the weak and strong We see it‟s wrong but the greed is on

I love my home town though I complain about it, it‟s a crowded town which is packed out with global residents that have found it, I love it but doubt it is a mutual feeling from all of those that now live. It‟s amounted, people keep getting stacked and mounted, on top of each other in council paid council houses, surrounded with opportunities they‟ve gone without since they‟ve been alive but look how they now live They work hard for pennies not knowing what the value of a pound is, they get here an get grounded settled into the easy way of life we‟re bound with, still some seem to think out of towners should be rounded up an thrown out quick I‟m astounded, in this United Kingdom where the crown fits, there‟s a lot of racists in these places an their mouths big, an it‟s not just the white and brown brits that have spoken out with their opinion, everybody wants to stand and be counted

So this is it now this is my city, where the kiddies speak different languages and you can‟t tell if they‟re lippy, around town you get the smack heads, groups of youths, hippies, and on the outskirts where the sticks be you get farmers and gypsies Plenty of back roads if you ever wanna go for a quickie, but let your heaters blow and keep your windows closed cos you know that it‟s nippy, still see vans with mans selling cones of Mr.Whippy, bruv it‟s too cold and how can those 99‟s cost £1.50? What‟s going on with these shifty characters there‟s a lot more now than there was when I was 15, and back in the day girl‟s were giddy, now everywhere I see bitchy, stuck up pissed queens acting silly

4 It‟s gritty, and grimy and dirty and sticky, slimy and sticky, sometimes it‟s a pity that boro life fly‟s by so quickly, we find time for misery, when if we cut the crap we might realize that it‟s pretty

5 DEAR OLD DOGSTHORPE Toby Wood

Dear old Dogsthorpe. I remember all those years ago when Dogsthorpe was new. We lived in Eastern Avenue, the long curved road at the edge of the estate. We lived about half way up or half way down depending on which way you looked at it. The mile-long road seemed to go on forever. I knew the place must have been special: coach loads of architects and town planners used to arrive and stop near our house. They would get out, look at their maps and plans, and even take photographs of the street and its people. I wondered why so I asked my dad. He told me that the estate was renowned for having wide grass verges which meant that there were yards and yards between one side and the other, between the odds and evens.

I would play in the field at the back of our house and, come harvest time, we would be careful not to leave the doors open. If we did mice would come scuttling into the house for refuge and my mum would get upset.

Between four and half past five in the evening the road would become a sea of cycles as wave upon wave of workers came home from Perkins Engines. It seemed like you couldn't cross the road for ages as the men with haversacks slung across their backs pedalled home to their families.

Nowadays there is just an intermittent residual trickle.

My mates and I would play near the phone box in the small grove of bushes and shrubs near the edge of the road. Gradually, over the years, this exciting play space grew smaller and smaller until it vanished completely, to be replaced by flat muddy grass or a parking space.

Some of the original families still remain, men and women retiring gracefully. Their children are long gone but some of the mums and dads are there.

We nod, sometimes speak, reminisce and catch up on the news about

6 Paul in the Army or Trevor in Australia.

Dear old Dogsthorpe – still here.

7 BE BETTER HOME SOON Keely Mills

Faces that look similar cast sombre shadows across the church. The same ears, noses and cheeky grins, All stare back from past photographs. Some roots are older than others, their hair grey or brows lined, from growing in time.

Younger shoots of the family retain the same sense of humour. I stand laughing at childhood jokes and orange swimsuits. Memories and ambitions lock together like an unseen jigsaw. Connecting branches of the family with many different names and travelled roads.

The aisle of St Matthew‟s is full and the pews are heaving with the same culture. We follow the traditions of carrying the coffin and filling the church to capacity. I am proud to walk through the Village with my family, stopping the traffic on the way to the cemetery.

I listen to my cousin telling me „This is where you belong‟. In this flatland, in this half land, in this where the sky never ceases land. You will grow here again in this soil of understanding. You will flourish in its fields of support.

Strengthened and watered by clear, red sunsets and your Uncle‟s laughter in the local.

8 JOHN CLARE MC Mixy

All I know about John Clare is I used to go to the wreck to get drunk Till the day I was old enough to drink in John Clare pub So I had to learn a little bit about who John Clare was But right now I don‟t really like John Clare much What can I find out about this man? He never used punctuation but he did use a lot of local slang Now I see similarities to the way I am I mean I use punctuation but I say things like „what‟s good fam?‟ He might say „I need a lady cow that is crizzle Not a pooty but a throsle with whom to be civil‟ Which means „I need a lady bird that‟s too crisp to fiddle Not a snail but a song thrush that gives me pleasant times like when I was little‟ He was born in Helpston from where I live that‟s just down the road He left school to look after a farm when he was 7 years old He was very poor the peasant poet was how he was known He drank away all his money and ended up in a mental home I keep a beat like a metronome He throws his lyrics out I work a call centre He was a gardener at Burghley house He was a pot boy in the blue bell pub I sold pot by the ounce I‟ve stayed in a caravan But he tried camp life with gypsies just to see what it‟s about John Clare is a poet and I guess so am I There are obvious differences we‟ve lived our lives in very different times But we both express ourselves by writing these little lines While his are classed as artistic and mine are known as urban rhyme He argued with his publishers about how his work should be published And the way it should be displayed to the public A lot of people around that time cussed it Still 100 odd years down the line everybody loved it His financial worries and attempts to write like other poets of his time Put a very great strain on his mind And at the age of 44 he was admitted to a mental asylum He‟d escaped by the age of 49 He ran home Northamptonshire under the delusion He‟d be reunited with his wife „Mary Joyce‟ but there was no reunion Writing his best material in that mental home that‟s what he‟d been doing Mary Joyce was long past but it‟s that thought that kept him moving I‟m starting to think John Clare was like me He wasn‟t rated in his time and I‟m hated very few like me I‟m short but he stood at about 5 feet I‟m trying to take over the 21st century well he ran the 19th And £45 a year that‟s all he got paid Back in the day that was actually a pretty good wage He died in a mental home 71 was his age I went to his grave and on the stone it says „A poet is born not made‟

9 PETERBOROUGH PEOPLE MC Mixy

From Glinton to Orton, Southey to Thorpe wood, The train station, to the bus stop, to the job centre you‟ll see hordes stood. Waiting for a way in an taking any job they can get, Not afraid of slaving for low pay an getting hot dirty or wet. I hear complaining from the same men saying this city is over run, With Asian, Polish, Lithuanian an a number of other cultures under the sun. Since the day when we were young kids playing racisms been about, It‟s not a game when these men‟s are getting old an grey an still dealing with it now. People are slating the mixed population of Millfield saying it makes the city bad, I don‟t agree with your thinking, your entitled to your opinion but remember who drives your cabs. Winging about the state of England foreigners in better jobs with better wage or pay, You‟re kicking up a stink an still happy for them to clean your house and deliver your takeaway. Look at the criticism from these hypocrites an try to understand, We hold a vivid vision compared to the city they may have lived in this is a wonderland. Locals full of apparent wisdom regardless men women or children they don‟t care, People come from the pit of hell where life is not a given, we got plenty, still we wont share. We‟re a city of stubborn citizens just too stuck in our trends, To realize we are discriminating against ourselves our family and friends. We all wanna say our piece, we all think we can bring peace to the world, Some wanna beat foreign men, but they all wanna sleep with foreign girls. We all strut around and mutter about how we think it all should be, Now there‟s hundreds of thou‟s of muttering crowds that will never all agree. Some wanna chuck em out from the love they found but where do you draw the line, We‟ve come too far to cut it now we should adjust what‟s allowed an maybe it can be restored in time. There‟s kid‟s in the gutter outside with hungry mouths left to bare the cold, An elders with their shutters down in there cluttered houses growing old with no one to hold. We‟ve got culture now an many others have found happiness in what we have, Still we splutter sounds an conger rows for no reason some get cross or mad. This is our dumb little town an I‟m wondering how we all take it for granted, We‟ve crossed the path we don‟t want it back so what‟s so bad if they want to have it. We can share, there‟s nothing wrong with that, I can get on with that it‟s cool, But the sombre fact is no matter how strong I act I‟m just another wishful fool. Walking the longer track looking onwards at the unseen future, One day I'll wander back down memory lane to the familiar sights that I‟m used to. An see my friends from all races plenty of places an all religions, To say this is wrong or try to change this requires some serious thought before decision. Some get carried away with their claims which I find insulting and rude, Basic racists for some reason assume that I‟m on board with their views. Talk about immigration this thing they‟re hating should be stopped dead in its tracks, That everyone not from England that came in should not be staying but sent back no questions asked. What about the kids enslaved from living in pain would you turn them back to die? Or is it just a thing you say cos the visions play but don‟t reach the gap of your eyes? It makes me sick to see the opinions of these bigotry people it seems such a waste, If before 1953 my pappy hadn‟t shifted the Riccardi family from Italy, I wouldn‟t be here to plead my case.

10 THE FENS Mark Grist

Meet Beth Twenty three Excellent dresser, She reeks style weekends she gets cheeky, necks WKD recklessly she never expected the sheer hell reserved when she entered The Fens Ten twenty Beth left Ely Sped her VW beetle west, Swerved screeched her steed Beep beeped the steer wheel Stephen peers meekly, He resembles Dexter Fletcher except he‟s weedy Sheep pressed between Spencer‟s vest Beth yells “Hey! Let‟s see the fens, then get wed!” Stephen remembers the decree Keen, he enters the beetle delves gently, seeks the belt Beth revs They cheer then speed freely When they enter The Fens green, fresh smells Meet Beth‟s senses Creeks, weeds, trees, levees Greet them sweetly Speechless, they creep The elements stem themselves Bend themselves wherever they step except every step gets denser deeper the greenery seems endless Stephen feels creeped pretends the scheme‟s serene yet secretly Every Tree leers Endless, eyeless the enemy peers, Stephen‟s Nerves melt jellyblended He Regrets he needs the strength The steel we reserve When we remember Pele.

Then, When the deep sky gets speckled Beth preps her reedy bed Stephen shelters level Nestles, Edgy sleeve tenderly

11 pets her flesh Well! Beth‟s eyes needle When she sees the tent he‟s erected Breeding needs rejected Stephen sleeps neglected

When sleep ends, They peel themselves free By eleven The Fens get even denser The weeds Bleed scenery fermented Beth tells herself They‟ll never flee the fens, Yet, Ten weeks spent, Beth emerges enters the next settlement She teeters, energy levels receded Her dress shredded, perm demented, feet wet Yet she‟s free! Except where‟s Stephen? Well Lets expel the mystery Heed Beth‟s well fed belches Her greedy belly swelled She fended when needs expected When she felt empty her Stephen merely resembled beefy yet nerdy entrée

12 FENLAND LOVE POEM Toby Wood

It was one of those days in early Somersham. I was Stanground in the turnip field Waiting for my Wisbech St. Mary. The evening mist made the flat Fen fields look Earith. There was a chill in the air and my teeth were Chatteris. She was late. "Farcet," I muttered under my breath. Then, from the distance, Eye saw a car approaching; Manea this was her. The car stopped and she got Outwell. "About time too," I thought. She walked over and stood beside me; Next to me she looked so Littleport. "I'm sorry I'm late," she said. "Never mind," I replied, "who brought you here?" "Oh, the Parson Drove me here. I'm glad you're here," she whispered, "You're my kind of Guyhirn." Before I knew it we were lying in the Thorney thistles At the edge of the field. She hesitated. "Look - I'll be Bluntisham with you; Please don't think I'm an Eastrea lay," she warned me, "I don't do this with all the Warboys But I know that you like to Soham wild oats." She snuggled closer to me and felt me. "My goodness - you're a big boy - a real Ramsey!" "I know," I replied with a smirk, "At Holme the girls call me Ramsey Forty Foot!" "Blimey!" she said as she Abbots Ripton my clothes off. Our bodies heaved together near the drainage channel. Upwell - Outwell - Upwell - Outwell And as we reached the Emneth of our love making She gripped me and shouted, "Turves! Turves! Turves!" "Oh," I said, "I love it when you talk dirty." We lay back and I told her that That was the best Whaplode I had ever Haddenham. We got up and put on our Coates And walked back down the road, her hand Holbeach mine. We went to the local pub. The landlord brought us our drinks, "A pint of Methwold for you, sir And a Terrington St. Clement for the lady." We were Sutton in the corner, both feeling a bit Downham Market. I Pondersbridged what she felt about me. She got up to leave. "Will you still love me to Murrow, my Dereham?"

13 I asked. She turned and smiled. "Whittlesey," she said, "Whittlesey."

14 CIVIC VOICE AGM 2010 Toby Wood

An event at Peterborough‟s Town Hall Could have turned into a brawl But organisers avoided drivel By inviting attendees so civil The whole things turned into a ball