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    • In its defence
      I was asked today to write about a hat! Please click on the arrow button above to hear this poem   The good thing is that it travels well. It has little style only patterned stitch work marks its drab coarse surface. Khaki cover for a nascent bald patch, a guard against the mid-day sun. […]
    • Last Orders
      Writers always ‘mine’ their childhood, but the gleanings can be thin.      Please click on the arrow button above to hear this poem Every night at seven, he shed the family skin took off the shirt he had worn one day washed at the kitchen sink in his vest, the clean shirt  ironed and waiting. Not once […]
    • Voices in the Reeds
      The Blythburgh Estuary, such a wonderfully calm landscape, or is it?     PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   The Blyth snakes down to the brine soothing our senses as it idly curls grazing  past  tall murmuring reeds, stirred to voice by a gentle breeze.   We mishear that […]
    • Spot the Hat
      This poem started in a session of poets writing together, with Michael Laskey and Dean Parkin. Dean produced a ‘Spot the Ball’ page from an old newspaper, and we all enjoyed marking our X.    We all missed!   PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   Do you remember ‘Spot […]
    • A Sieve with no Mesh
      What madness is this, in old age — trying to rationalise your relationships as a child? PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   Skimmed  thoughts rise from lost time, flotsam — teasing incompleteness, fragments of fractured memories jigsaw pieces with no mapping image, random glimpses I sift for my father. Six […]
    • Black Friday
      Who considers this American import matches the idea of ‘Seasonal Goodwill’?   Black Friday, the official day to be suitably depressed by buyers and sellers greed. Not to be confused with The Black Death, but similar in effect.        
    • A Young Ornithologist’s Primer
      This poem was written after my wife Jean said that she would write a children’s book called ‘That Bastard Bird’   PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS READ.   See the big bird. The big bird’s name is Percy. Percy has big feet. Percy’s big feet scratch in the garden. See […]
    • Simple Joy (for Jacqui Jones interactive artwork at The Undercroft)
      This poem is itself an interactive response.  Jacqui liked the reference to ‘simple joy’ in my poem Migration Counterpoint and decided that concept would be the subject matter of the interactive installation she was to display in The Undercroft in Norwich, for the 2015 Norwich Fringe Festival.  When she told me that I wrote and […]
    • Cycles of the Light
      National Poetry day’s theme this year was Light, and Suffolk Poetry Society invited me to join some of the other members to read poetry and celebrate the day in Aldeburgh.  We took turns to read on the circular staircase of The South Lookout on Aldeburgh beach in perfect weather, warm sun with the light shining off […]
    • Migration Counterpoint
      Sandlines  ( www.breakingnewground.org.uk ) operated a series of writers workshops in The Brecks, to promote the rich variety of landscape, fauna and flora that can be found in this special landscape.  I took part in one, which was based in the BTO centre in Thetford, and led by Lois Williams and Melinda Appleby.    In spite of […]

Tiffling acrorst

The Suffolk Poetry Society  organised an excellent event called ‘Soundings’ on  June 25th 2011,  under the leadership of Cameron Hawke Smith.  It considered the variety of ways that words can sound in different languages and in dialect.  Catalysed by this approaching event my Suffolk origins encouraged me to write this poem about weed control in farming, but setting it before the discovery of pesticides when weeds were pulled by hand and when the Suffolk dialect was commonplace.

PLEASE PRESS ABOVE KEY TO HEAR THE POEM READ

 Rye grass in a wheat crop – HGCA image

 

Hoad yew hard bor!
Yew hint no one hoss race.
The end of this row
hint gowan no place,

Tiffle about bor!
There’s nawthen more
til six weeks arter
the dawg rose flower

Yar sorft in the hid bor
if you believe that squit
that the money start to coom
when the snipe begin to drum.

This fild’l bait us bor!
Thas alus fare fulla tare
att’l pay us a tidy bit,
wal – do at don’t at did.

Let your maul miss bor!
We marnt claw ‘old of all
now trod that one in –
haps att’l coom agin.

Thas wholly roight bor!
Suffen gotta gew in
for us ta git suffen out.
Bank acrorst the fild bor
roight under gaffer’s snout.
 

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2 Comments

  1. Ar, bor, but that thar pome dew remoind me a them good ol’days afore Oi gone furren. Oi in’t niver bin able ter make up a good loin with “dew ‘at don’t ‘at did” in’t noither – tho’ I ‘member ‘et bein’ said many a toime – so yer hev moy amiration thar.

    Oi’m very glad to discover this whole soite, tew: dew Oi vis’t et enough Oi moight git moy owd accint back agin, an’ the pomes int ‘alf bad neither.

    Dew you keep et up bor.

    John (ex-Ipswich, 30 yrs in Texas, and 20 more in a whole lot more places).

  2. I’m rite pleased to git yor little messige, thas whooly good you can read, so many of us ole boys niver learnt proper. Dew yew keep on a coming onta moi site, mostly I’m writin posh, but yew’ll git the drift bor, as loike yor old hid’l smart a bit, but there int no jiggery pokery – like in that furren talk.

    Ivor

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