Poetry
DIGGING IN THE MEADOW (Letter to the Genealogists #WhoDoYouThinkTheyWere?)
Beneath this fallow meadow of compacted soil, gnarled roots twisting, twisting in eternal toil
Remembrance for butterflies that once charmed you in flight, and rekindling images of passion and delight
Of endless golden days and rolls in the grass, just another shy dreamer and his favourite lass
Of when Manchester's skies shone honest and blue, before the Tempest of progress rained down upon you
Waiting to reap secrets of a harvest long past, and grow new branches to your forgotten tree at last
Shedding light on this neglected corner of foreign field once more, a once mighty oak weighed down by heavy sandstone door
Yet demanding of a key to raise you from your state, your carved epitaph signed and sealed by your fate
An inscription to those who followed and then left, and to those who didn't stay leaving others bereft
This silent Orpheus in song of the battles once fought, beside his legion of lost soldiers whom Charon had sought
Voices silenced by obols for crossing o'er the river, their instruments laid down with no dirge to deliver
His Eurydice by his side in a cold fixed embrace, softly sobbing and reeling from her own fall from grace
But by clearing the leaves which had hidden your glory, we're igniting bytes of energy and revealing your story
Scraping back all the moss which grew over your name, to the clatter of new looms, stitching you together once again
Revealing sadness and joy within woven cobweb scrawl, and in old yellow tomes which recorded your fall
And you still entombed in the presence of now, singing choral refrain of what, where and how?
An answer to prayer that your memory might live on, and hoping we'll flower too in this place once we've gone
RichardPaulLong
Beneath this fallow meadow of compacted soil, gnarled roots twisting, twisting in eternal toil
Remembrance for butterflies that once charmed you in flight, and rekindling images of passion and delight
Of endless golden days and rolls in the grass, just another shy dreamer and his favourite lass
Of when Manchester's skies shone honest and blue, before the Tempest of progress rained down upon you
Waiting to reap secrets of a harvest long past, and grow new branches to your forgotten tree at last
Shedding light on this neglected corner of foreign field once more, a once mighty oak weighed down by heavy sandstone door
Yet demanding of a key to raise you from your state, your carved epitaph signed and sealed by your fate
An inscription to those who followed and then left, and to those who didn't stay leaving others bereft
This silent Orpheus in song of the battles once fought, beside his legion of lost soldiers whom Charon had sought
Voices silenced by obols for crossing o'er the river, their instruments laid down with no dirge to deliver
His Eurydice by his side in a cold fixed embrace, softly sobbing and reeling from her own fall from grace
But by clearing the leaves which had hidden your glory, we're igniting bytes of energy and revealing your story
Scraping back all the moss which grew over your name, to the clatter of new looms, stitching you together once again
Revealing sadness and joy within woven cobweb scrawl, and in old yellow tomes which recorded your fall
And you still entombed in the presence of now, singing choral refrain of what, where and how?
An answer to prayer that your memory might live on, and hoping we'll flower too in this place once we've gone
RichardPaulLong
ANGELS WITH DIRTY WINGS
The Meadow is rocking
people slotting into every space
get your mortgage provider
to help you reside there
a compact community of
back to backs side by sides one on top of the others
town houses apartments mews
with stunning aspect and mill views
and for those who like alternative living
we're giving you the chance of a cellar apartment
breathtakingly close to the Irk's famous vapours
or step up the property ladder to a first floor house-share
animal-friendly, lice a speciality
en suite facilities combine with fragrant utilities
the possibilities of fatalities are second to none
floor to ceiling ventilation
open wc irrigation
everything the first-time buyer could require
sign your x on the line
put the deposit in my pocket
one bare foot on the property slum
work for you work for your children
abandon the school run
get them in the mill
instill a good work ethic
it's atmospheric, carcinogenic
watch how they scuttle between shuttles
that steal their fingers
break their arms
stoop their bodies
disposes of the expense of outgrowing their clothes
you're on the doorstep
if you've upgraded to doorstep luxury
so walk to your 13 hour day
the daily commute has never been so polluted
take the Angel challenge
spin those unlucky wings
can you tolerate cholera
ride the typhoid tide
survive cotton fibres
stitching up your lungs
lip read in deafening machines
resist the temptation of open aspect sanitation
we offer a selection of
south-facing open-plan sewers
all bespoke so you can choke in
sell-by air that coagulates in shared spaces
ideal for al fresco eating and barbecues
made UV safe cos the sun can't find you
state-of-the-art water pumps
off-road parking for a dozen children
rats are in your complimentary pack
for after- work nibbles with a quinoa snack
all set to the rhythm of the Spinning Jenny rap
gin palaces and laudanum providers on site
keep those screaming babies quiet
it's a northern slaughter
sought-after area
buy to let leave to die
when your threadbare life has been ripped out
get rehoused with a free downgrade
in our multi-storey as yet unpaved communal grave
room for 40,000 men women and children
and children
and children...
Lynn Walton
ANGELS IN THE MEADOWS
Outflows the breaths infected by bad air
The Cholera of these times has taken hold
No font of vinegar can cleanse this space
nor values of puritan endeavour
Their bones fertilise these meadows of failed harvest
laid under flags to silence dissenting voice
You destroyed your altar with their sacrifice made
leaving fallow all hope for redemption
before moving yourself right out of their view
No more the rattling looms bring early death
for death here is a slower process and much less mechanised
RichardPaulLong 2011
Outflows the breaths infected by bad air
The Cholera of these times has taken hold
No font of vinegar can cleanse this space
nor values of puritan endeavour
Their bones fertilise these meadows of failed harvest
laid under flags to silence dissenting voice
You destroyed your altar with their sacrifice made
leaving fallow all hope for redemption
before moving yourself right out of their view
No more the rattling looms bring early death
for death here is a slower process and much less mechanised
RichardPaulLong 2011
DUE NORTH XII: ANGEL MEADOW
Angel Meadow, mass graves paved with tombstones
the overflow cemetery under the forecourt of Victoria Station
destitute Irish fleeing the famine, those who survived the crossing,
Ashkenazi Jews fleeing central European pogroms
The Rookeries at Ancoats, the dark continent . . .
Angel Meadow: the face at the window (Kertesz)
How shall we sing our song in a strange land? (Passionately!)
Infant mortality among the Manchester 'Low Irish' 1830s: 50%,
among the Kalahari Bushmen 1970s: 50%
. . . the angel of
Angel Meadow that shall pull me out of this sink
or toss me into the death traps we call home, our
promise to love and our infant mortality rate, our lives
renewed and cancelled ten times a day.
Peter Riley
FULL POEM CAN BE HEARD HERE
Angel Meadow, mass graves paved with tombstones
the overflow cemetery under the forecourt of Victoria Station
destitute Irish fleeing the famine, those who survived the crossing,
Ashkenazi Jews fleeing central European pogroms
The Rookeries at Ancoats, the dark continent . . .
Angel Meadow: the face at the window (Kertesz)
How shall we sing our song in a strange land? (Passionately!)
Infant mortality among the Manchester 'Low Irish' 1830s: 50%,
among the Kalahari Bushmen 1970s: 50%
. . . the angel of
Angel Meadow that shall pull me out of this sink
or toss me into the death traps we call home, our
promise to love and our infant mortality rate, our lives
renewed and cancelled ten times a day.
Peter Riley
FULL POEM CAN BE HEARD HERE
The angels in Angel Meadow
woken by cries and alarms
opened the gate to death's orphans
laid them in flower beds
folded their wings
and slept, then woke again.
David Keyworth 2017
woken by cries and alarms
opened the gate to death's orphans
laid them in flower beds
folded their wings
and slept, then woke again.
David Keyworth 2017
ANGEL MEADOW
Dark steps beneath a leaden sky,
Rain falls incessantly, coating the steps in dull silver
Shawls bob along wet streets,
Their wearers fighting the cold rain rain falls incessantly, coating the steps in dull silver
Frozen baskets carry little comfort
For the kitchen table and waiting stomachs.
Children die before having the chance
To escape from the dark slums.
Daily trains, barely half a mile away,
Offering escape from their dark doors, are a dream.
The city creates its own darkness
On the grimy streets, strangling them.
Faces stare out of squalor
With wide eyes and thin hands
Tenement houses offer little warmth
Except by dint of numbers, but it's still cold
Spring, Summer, offer little change
To the cramped hovels - dry, dusty, sweaty, dark.
Invisible walls offer no escape
For the innocent inmates of this prison.
Hope fails, as daily life
Grinds the poverty even lower. People die.
Burial grounds fill up quickly here
Life is cheap, poverty is expensive
Life's grindstone works easily on this corn.
There is little resistance to the millstone.
It hangs over all heads,
The old aren't really old, just ground down.
Angel Meadow: The name is a lie.
Angels never came here, not even for the dead
Angel Meadow: An evocative name
Hiding the truth from a deaf city
Alan McKean
Dark steps beneath a leaden sky,
Rain falls incessantly, coating the steps in dull silver
Shawls bob along wet streets,
Their wearers fighting the cold rain rain falls incessantly, coating the steps in dull silver
Frozen baskets carry little comfort
For the kitchen table and waiting stomachs.
Children die before having the chance
To escape from the dark slums.
Daily trains, barely half a mile away,
Offering escape from their dark doors, are a dream.
The city creates its own darkness
On the grimy streets, strangling them.
Faces stare out of squalor
With wide eyes and thin hands
Tenement houses offer little warmth
Except by dint of numbers, but it's still cold
Spring, Summer, offer little change
To the cramped hovels - dry, dusty, sweaty, dark.
Invisible walls offer no escape
For the innocent inmates of this prison.
Hope fails, as daily life
Grinds the poverty even lower. People die.
Burial grounds fill up quickly here
Life is cheap, poverty is expensive
Life's grindstone works easily on this corn.
There is little resistance to the millstone.
It hangs over all heads,
The old aren't really old, just ground down.
Angel Meadow: The name is a lie.
Angels never came here, not even for the dead
Angel Meadow: An evocative name
Hiding the truth from a deaf city
Alan McKean
THE ANGEL MEADOW LESSON
Once: the Angelic Meadow
above which skylark sang;
And sound of Sunday's call
when Saint Michael's church-bell rang.
But then came a defilement
of cholera and grime;
Of poverty and squalor
and every sordid crime.
What brought about this cruel intent
of meadow-land defiled:
No skylark or church-bell
or vista that beguiled.
The pull that some call progress
impelling humankind;
Spreading brick and slate and mortar
without a decent mind.
And hordes of rural people
not knowing how to live;
In harsh and alien setting
that had nothing good to give.
Reject bad brick and mortar
where bird and flower should stay.
Let not Angel Meadow's lesson
be allowed to fade away.
William Kenneth Jones
Once: the Angelic Meadow
above which skylark sang;
And sound of Sunday's call
when Saint Michael's church-bell rang.
But then came a defilement
of cholera and grime;
Of poverty and squalor
and every sordid crime.
What brought about this cruel intent
of meadow-land defiled:
No skylark or church-bell
or vista that beguiled.
The pull that some call progress
impelling humankind;
Spreading brick and slate and mortar
without a decent mind.
And hordes of rural people
not knowing how to live;
In harsh and alien setting
that had nothing good to give.
Reject bad brick and mortar
where bird and flower should stay.
Let not Angel Meadow's lesson
be allowed to fade away.
William Kenneth Jones
I was once an Arab boy and lived on the street
without either stockings or shoes on my feet
And at night cold and hungry, in dirt and in rags
I have cast myself down and slept on the flags
Anon. Charter St Ragged School pupil (circa 1900)
without either stockings or shoes on my feet
And at night cold and hungry, in dirt and in rags
I have cast myself down and slept on the flags
Anon. Charter St Ragged School pupil (circa 1900)
KING OF THE SCUTTLERS
He was born in a slum down on Angel Meadow
Grew up wild with even wilder oats to sow
An' in each street an' in every back yard
He had to prove himself tuff an' prove himself hard
With his belts an' chains, his knuckles an' his chivs
Gonna be a scuttler for just as long as he lives
Just as long as he lives
An' he joined in every fight an' he led the line
Never worried about police or about doin' time
From St Michael's flags all the way to Hanky Park
He'd knock them down an' he'd leave his mark
The King of the Scuttlers with his scarred up face
A cauliflower ear an' a nose that's outta place
A nose that's outta place
A Bengal tiger to the left
A Salford to his right
A fella from Adelphi
Screamin for a fight
With his belt round his knuckles
His hat pulled down
He's King of the Scuttlers
The hardest man in town
One day in Gould Street he put on the captain's band
Went after the Bungall boys in a way they'd understand
He laid out their leader with a buckle to the eye
Took a chiv in the chest thought he was gonna die
He staggered to Ancoats in his blood soaked clothes
Seen the police arrive an' he took it on his toes
He took it on his toes
The Bungall boys were drinkin on London Road
The Captain's eye was patched the pain it showed
The King of the Scuttlers with his wound stitched neat
Walked in laffin' an' said "come out on that street"
The Captain he fled an' the Bungall boys lost face
An' his reputation as top boy was cemented in place
It was cemented in place
A Bengal tiger to his left
A Salford to his right
A fella from the Plattin'
Shoutin' for a fight
With his belt round his knuckles
An' his hat pulled down
He's King of the Scuttlers
The hardest lad in town
On the steets of Manchester his name got known
Fight after fight well he won them on his own
The girls they loved him, in the Meadow revered
Walkin' down Rochdale Road and everybody cheered
One night against Adelphi an' his belt took four
When he got through it was a blood covered floor
The blood it covered the floor
The police needed witnesses but nobody dared
Salford an' the Heath' an' Ancoats runnin' scared
The McElroy mob would flinch at his name
Where ever there was a scuttle he got the blame
But fate it was against him an' a bolt from above
He met a factory girl an' then he fell in love
The Scuttler fell in love
A Bengal tiger to his left
A Salford to his right
A fella from Fairfield
Ready for a fight
With his belt round his knuckles
An' his hat pulled down
He's the King of the Scuttlers
The hardest lad in town
Well she was an Irish girl from Cheetham Hill
Who worked in the card room at Murray's Mill
He was head over heels an' he wanted no other
Put on his Sunday best an' went to meet her mother
But she was a catholic who had seen the light
She told the Scuttler that he must never fight
The Scuttler must never fight
Walkin' home by Red Bank lost in his dreams
He heard a fight an' a young man's screams
The lad was from the Meadow so he went to his aid
Stood over the lad's body on the cobbles it laid
Lifted his belt heard the words of his would be wife
An' froze in his tracks an' was killed by a knife
He was killed by a knife
Bengal tiger to his left
A Salford to his right
As they carried his coffin
Nobody wantin' a fight
With his belt round his knuckles
An' his hat still on
He was King of the Scuttlers
But now he is gone
Mike Duff
He was born in a slum down on Angel Meadow
Grew up wild with even wilder oats to sow
An' in each street an' in every back yard
He had to prove himself tuff an' prove himself hard
With his belts an' chains, his knuckles an' his chivs
Gonna be a scuttler for just as long as he lives
Just as long as he lives
An' he joined in every fight an' he led the line
Never worried about police or about doin' time
From St Michael's flags all the way to Hanky Park
He'd knock them down an' he'd leave his mark
The King of the Scuttlers with his scarred up face
A cauliflower ear an' a nose that's outta place
A nose that's outta place
A Bengal tiger to the left
A Salford to his right
A fella from Adelphi
Screamin for a fight
With his belt round his knuckles
His hat pulled down
He's King of the Scuttlers
The hardest man in town
One day in Gould Street he put on the captain's band
Went after the Bungall boys in a way they'd understand
He laid out their leader with a buckle to the eye
Took a chiv in the chest thought he was gonna die
He staggered to Ancoats in his blood soaked clothes
Seen the police arrive an' he took it on his toes
He took it on his toes
The Bungall boys were drinkin on London Road
The Captain's eye was patched the pain it showed
The King of the Scuttlers with his wound stitched neat
Walked in laffin' an' said "come out on that street"
The Captain he fled an' the Bungall boys lost face
An' his reputation as top boy was cemented in place
It was cemented in place
A Bengal tiger to his left
A Salford to his right
A fella from the Plattin'
Shoutin' for a fight
With his belt round his knuckles
An' his hat pulled down
He's King of the Scuttlers
The hardest lad in town
On the steets of Manchester his name got known
Fight after fight well he won them on his own
The girls they loved him, in the Meadow revered
Walkin' down Rochdale Road and everybody cheered
One night against Adelphi an' his belt took four
When he got through it was a blood covered floor
The blood it covered the floor
The police needed witnesses but nobody dared
Salford an' the Heath' an' Ancoats runnin' scared
The McElroy mob would flinch at his name
Where ever there was a scuttle he got the blame
But fate it was against him an' a bolt from above
He met a factory girl an' then he fell in love
The Scuttler fell in love
A Bengal tiger to his left
A Salford to his right
A fella from Fairfield
Ready for a fight
With his belt round his knuckles
An' his hat pulled down
He's the King of the Scuttlers
The hardest lad in town
Well she was an Irish girl from Cheetham Hill
Who worked in the card room at Murray's Mill
He was head over heels an' he wanted no other
Put on his Sunday best an' went to meet her mother
But she was a catholic who had seen the light
She told the Scuttler that he must never fight
The Scuttler must never fight
Walkin' home by Red Bank lost in his dreams
He heard a fight an' a young man's screams
The lad was from the Meadow so he went to his aid
Stood over the lad's body on the cobbles it laid
Lifted his belt heard the words of his would be wife
An' froze in his tracks an' was killed by a knife
He was killed by a knife
Bengal tiger to his left
A Salford to his right
As they carried his coffin
Nobody wantin' a fight
With his belt round his knuckles
An' his hat still on
He was King of the Scuttlers
But now he is gone
Mike Duff
THE BALLAD OF OWEN CALLAGHAN
(some time Captain of the Meadow Lads)
Owen "Owny" Callaghan
With his face scarred mean
Workin' fifty odd hour weeks
Loadin' up a cardin' machine
The pride of the Meadow
Just a child of the night
Lost to John Joe Brady
In a twenty shillin' fight
Callaghan took it to heart
Cos you gotta understand
The can't be no second fiddle
When you wear the Captain's band
He never feared the Adelphi
Or the Tigers this is true
He took on the Bungall boys
An all the Deansgate crew
Dint know how to walk away
Had to stand his ground
A chip off the old block
An' as sound as a pound
He fought them all gamely
With his belt round his hand
Cos there ain't no second fiddle
When you wear the Captain's band
The night it blew crazy
An' blood was in the air
Screams an' cries of neighbours
An' scuttlers everywhere
Owen went after Brady
Stabbed him to his death
Laffed at the dyin' man
As he breathed his last breath
The Meadow never mourned
Owen had made his stand
Cos there ain't no second fiddle
When you wear the Captain's band
Owen "Owny" Callaghan
Wanted on a murder charge
The posters in the City sayin'
"this man still at large"
They cornered him in Bradford
An' they put him in a dock
"twenty years' penal servitude"
He nearly died of the shock
He came out insane an' beaten
No longer in demand
But you can't be second fiddle
When you wear the Captain's band
Mike Duff
(some time Captain of the Meadow Lads)
Owen "Owny" Callaghan
With his face scarred mean
Workin' fifty odd hour weeks
Loadin' up a cardin' machine
The pride of the Meadow
Just a child of the night
Lost to John Joe Brady
In a twenty shillin' fight
Callaghan took it to heart
Cos you gotta understand
The can't be no second fiddle
When you wear the Captain's band
He never feared the Adelphi
Or the Tigers this is true
He took on the Bungall boys
An all the Deansgate crew
Dint know how to walk away
Had to stand his ground
A chip off the old block
An' as sound as a pound
He fought them all gamely
With his belt round his hand
Cos there ain't no second fiddle
When you wear the Captain's band
The night it blew crazy
An' blood was in the air
Screams an' cries of neighbours
An' scuttlers everywhere
Owen went after Brady
Stabbed him to his death
Laffed at the dyin' man
As he breathed his last breath
The Meadow never mourned
Owen had made his stand
Cos there ain't no second fiddle
When you wear the Captain's band
Owen "Owny" Callaghan
Wanted on a murder charge
The posters in the City sayin'
"this man still at large"
They cornered him in Bradford
An' they put him in a dock
"twenty years' penal servitude"
He nearly died of the shock
He came out insane an' beaten
No longer in demand
But you can't be second fiddle
When you wear the Captain's band
Mike Duff
THE MANCHESTER ANGEL
It's coming down to Manchester to gain my liberty,
I met a pretty young doxy and she seemed full of glee.
Yes, I met a pretty young doxy, the prettiest ever I see.
At the Angel Inn in Manchester, there is the girl for me.
Then early next morning, just at the break of day,
I went to my love's bedside, my morning vows to pay.
I hugged her, I cuddled her, I bade her to lie warm;
And she said: "My jolly soldier, do you mean me any harm?'
"To mean you any harm, my love, is a thing that I would scorn.
If I stopped along with you all night, I'd marry you in the morn.
Before my lawful officer, my vows I will fulfil."
Then she said, " My jolly soldier, you may lie as long as you will.'
Our rout came on the Thursday, on the Monday we marched away.
The drums and fifes and bugles so sweetly did play.
Some hearts they were merry, but mine was full of woe.
She says: "May I go along with you ? " " Oh no, my love, oh no."
"If you should stand a sentry go, on a cold and bitter day,
Your colours they would go, love, and your beauty would decay
If I saw you handle a musket, love, it would fill my heart with woe
So stay at home, dear Nancy." But still she answered, "No!"
"I'll go down to your officer, and I'll buy your discharge,
Ten guineas I'll surrender if they'll set you at large.
And if that will not do my love, along with you I'll go,
So will you take me with you now?" And still I answered:"No."
"I'll go down in some nunnery and there I'll end my life.
I'll never have no lover now, nor yet become a wife.
But constant and true-hearted, love, for ever I'll remain,
And I never will get married till my soldier comes again!'
From The Penguin Book of English Folk Songs, Williams and Lloyd
Collected from S. Gregory, Dorset, 1906
In 1745 Bonnie Prince Charlie's Jacobite Army camped by the River Irk by Scotland Bridge on their way to try to seize the English throne.
The Angel Pub mentioned was close to the cathedral and it is their ownership of the fields around St. Michael's Church which likely gave the name to the area.
It's coming down to Manchester to gain my liberty,
I met a pretty young doxy and she seemed full of glee.
Yes, I met a pretty young doxy, the prettiest ever I see.
At the Angel Inn in Manchester, there is the girl for me.
Then early next morning, just at the break of day,
I went to my love's bedside, my morning vows to pay.
I hugged her, I cuddled her, I bade her to lie warm;
And she said: "My jolly soldier, do you mean me any harm?'
"To mean you any harm, my love, is a thing that I would scorn.
If I stopped along with you all night, I'd marry you in the morn.
Before my lawful officer, my vows I will fulfil."
Then she said, " My jolly soldier, you may lie as long as you will.'
Our rout came on the Thursday, on the Monday we marched away.
The drums and fifes and bugles so sweetly did play.
Some hearts they were merry, but mine was full of woe.
She says: "May I go along with you ? " " Oh no, my love, oh no."
"If you should stand a sentry go, on a cold and bitter day,
Your colours they would go, love, and your beauty would decay
If I saw you handle a musket, love, it would fill my heart with woe
So stay at home, dear Nancy." But still she answered, "No!"
"I'll go down to your officer, and I'll buy your discharge,
Ten guineas I'll surrender if they'll set you at large.
And if that will not do my love, along with you I'll go,
So will you take me with you now?" And still I answered:"No."
"I'll go down in some nunnery and there I'll end my life.
I'll never have no lover now, nor yet become a wife.
But constant and true-hearted, love, for ever I'll remain,
And I never will get married till my soldier comes again!'
From The Penguin Book of English Folk Songs, Williams and Lloyd
Collected from S. Gregory, Dorset, 1906
In 1745 Bonnie Prince Charlie's Jacobite Army camped by the River Irk by Scotland Bridge on their way to try to seize the English throne.
The Angel Pub mentioned was close to the cathedral and it is their ownership of the fields around St. Michael's Church which likely gave the name to the area.