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PART OF ROTHERHAM ART EVENTS

THE WORD PIT
Compile by : chris bilton
THE WORD PIT
COMPILE BY : CHRIS BILTON
SUPPORTING  LOCAL LIVE MUSIC AND ARTS IN SOUTH YORKSHIRE
SUPPORTING  LOCAL LIVE MUSIC AND ARTS IN SOUTH YORKSHIRE

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CONTRIBUTIONS FROM OUR GREAT  SUPPORTING WORD SMITHS

LOVE

Bad times show the truth

true friends hug with the right words

your soul mate just hugs.


© Carol Robson 2012

HERE’S A POEM FROM MY SON JACK.  CIRCA 2002 AND WAS PUBLISHED IN A BBC COLLECTION OF POEMS WRITTEN BY YOUNG PEOPLE.

FOREVER BLUE

The forbidden yearnings of vulgar sins, hang

Greater than life,one I will never see to be

Lost among the lost, ever in the waves of yearning;

Longing in what seems to be a forever sea.

Breaking me down, wanting to drown in you:

In the distance, clenched through the wheels, burning

Visions of a future foreign land, only you

Can take me towards there:unsheathe the sword,

Strike me down from up here, life is nothing now,

Lower your axe, for it matters not no more,

Life can only be dreamed to be however You

See it deemed to be, But as the setting

Sun ends with me, know I will wait for you,

As long as my soul remains Forever Blue.

JACK W. MILLARD

Single Awareness Day

by

Carol Robson


February fourteenth is! Valentines Day

Another chance to fill the coffers

A card, flowers, presents to give

Commercialism filling their pockets

One day just to say, I love you


Promotion, advertising

Pushed at you since the New Year

Magazines, newspapers, television too

Just to say on that one day

I love you


Emphasis on couples,

Sharing their love

Why do they need a special day?

Everyday should be special

If you love someone so much


How does it feel to be single?

Grown tired of all this hype

Many different reasons, for being single

Cherish your life, cherish your friends

February fourteenth is! Single Awareness Day


© 2011 Carol Robson


This poem came my way from a brave young lady who has had her whole life turned upside down by a terrible twist of fate or human error.  A developing and respected musician, she can no longer play any instrument.  

There was no title to this poem - but I’d like to call it


Reaffirmation

I lie awake,

and contemplate,

the route to my success,

for I am a great believer ,

in believing that I can,

succeed in my own interest ,

my thoughts and my ideas,

Though lying here it puzzles me,

the path I will surely find,

as it is locked inside my body,

my soul and my mind.


My body maybe broken now,

and the past can not change,

for time is a wicked master,

such a thing won't rearrange,

they say that this is fate,

what will be will be,

but I will built my fate,

because I believe in me.


LisaMarie Fitzpatrick

Andy Senior

Bring our lads home,

let the flags fly high before more have to die.

so bring our lads home.


bring our lads home

no more deserted airfield,

and last post salutes.

so bring our lads home.


bring our lads home,

no more poppy wreaths on union jack covered coffins.

so bring our lads home.


bring our lads home.

politicians, sit back and stare,

while our lads die over there .

so bring our lads home.

''UNTITLED''


YOU'RE INSIDE ME SO DEEP,SO DEEP INSIDE ME!

WHEN,OR WILL YOU EVER LET ME GO?

I FEEL YOU SO DEEP,SO DEEP INSIDE ME,

I NEED TO MAKE MY FEELINGS REALLY SHOW,

WE GAVE EACH OTHER PLEASURE

SOMETIMES WE CAUSED EACH OTHER PAIN,

AND NOW EVEN THOUGH NOT LIVING TOGETHER

THIS FEELING OF YOU INSIDE ME I CAN'T CONTAIN,

THE NEARNESS WHEN YOU'RE CLOSE TO ANOTHER,

THE CLOSEST YOU CAN FEEL WHEN MAKING LOVE,

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD,AND BE DEEP INSIDE ANOTHER,

LIKE THE PROVERBIAL HAND INSIDE PROVERBIAL GLOVE,

WILL YOU EVER KNOW AGAIN THIS AWESOME FEELING?

WILL YOU EVER BE AS CLOSE AS TIME'S YOU'VE BEEN?

WILL YOU SOMEDAY FIND YOUR SENSES ALMOST REELING?

''TEMPUS-FUGIT'' I'M SOMETIMES SCARED OF WHAT

THOSE TWO WORDS MEAN!


C.M.TURNER. 2010


THE SCORPION’S TALE

Life under the volcano always remains a risk when the peace and tranquillity that has reigned for tens, hundreds or even thousands of years can be overturned, in moments, by natural, thunderous fireworks, which will change the landscape forever.

This is not to say that the dark shadow, which lays to waste with its glowing, grey ashes, is not without redemption.

At the edge of destruction, there is a new beginning.

From the same force, seen only to destroy, seeds of life will emerge, perpetuated by the sulphurous hot springs that ascend through scorched and blackened earth. Resolution remains intact and only the most tenacious souls know that they will survive to enjoy the benefits that the volcano will bring.

Time, the great healer, can never restore life as it existed before but, helped by the sun, ice, the wind and the waves, it will gently break down hard, unforgiving rock into rich and fertile soil. Fear may linger, but against this must be balanced faith and hope. If these are lost, death will follow, for the very source of life is gone forever.


SCOTT ENGINEERING

A HEDGEHOG POEM

'm Hedgehog with handgun

you should worry.....cos I'M PISSED!

I've been dodging cars all evening

and thank God they all just missed

Well now the worm is turning

(at least the one I ate)

You should maybe run for cover

before it.. and you.. are LATE

JESUS! I’ve got the needle

what’s happened to this place?

When I went sleep, a quiet road

Now there's a By-pass in its space!

So now I'm armed and bloody mad

and there ain't no going back

'cos they've made a six lane highway

from "off the beaten track"

I thought about The Ball response

but it didn't seem quite pat

'cos other hogs have tried it

and they're out there..dead and flat!

So there's gonna be some shootin

I've brought extra rounds as well

OK I'll scandalise the neighbourhood

But it’s already gone to hell

The next car that comes around that bend

I’m gonna take the bastard out

Gentle nature hasn’t worked

So it’s time to use some clout!

You never know it might catch on

Could give them quite a scare

It would bring a different chill to road kill

If they had to take their share


BILL MITTON

SLAMFEST
ROTHERHAM CONTEMPORARY  MUSIC YOUTH FESTIVAL

SPONSORS AND PARTNERS

YOUR COMPANY / BUSINESS LOGO COULD BE FEATURED HERE

FIND OUT MORE..............

THE BRIDGE  ROTHERHAM

“And about time to” they say.  OK I’ve been a bit slack with this spot recently.  But with a BRAND NEW, Editor of the page, in the near perfect form (his words) of Chris Bilton, I expect the page to take on a whole new perspective.  

Got something going on? Open Mic? Slam? Competition?  Email Chris HERE and he’ll make the World aware of it……………….    Or those checking out the pages of Acoustic Rotherham and there is around 1,000 of those per week.  



WELCOME EVERY ONE


Bear with me a moment. (Drum Roll...) Imagine if you will, a pair of silver scissors hovering in mid-air, the said implement cuts through a tape stretched across cyberspace, a beaming face materialises and the turns to the viewer, with flashing teeth and shiny chin it announces: “I now pronounce this Written Word OPENNNNN !!!


So there we have it, my name is Chris Bilton and I hope to lead you through some of the coming month’s events where the written word is...er... written and/or performed. This covers a multitude of sins so please email me with your contributions of events and the written word to: biltonwords@hotmail.com.


We are here to encourage ‘local’ talent but we welcome contributions from anyone with enthusiasm and something to say. It’s a real privilege to be one of the small cogs that makes up the Rotherham arts collective, so let’s get this word machine in motion.





NEWS : NEWS : NEWS : NEWS


WORDLIFE 6th BIRTHDAY  -  8TH December @ The Riverside.


Roundabout, Sheffield a charity for young homeless people in Sheffield. On Tuesday 11th December we are screening We Are Poets at Showroom Cinema at 6pm. Tickets are only £5, and available from the Showroom box office and all money raised will go to the refurbishment of our emergency hostel. It's an incredible film about Leeds Young Authors who enter a poetry slam. It would be great to see you there!


and a message from Ben Potts and the Rotherham Photographic Society

The President of the Rotherham Photographic Society, Craig Turner has asked ROMP for volunteers to write poems to go with photos produced by him and his colleagues, at an exhibition on 26th February.

Craig can get the images together by the end of next week (8th Dec). So who wants the challenge of writing some words to go along what will no doubt be cracking, thought-provoking and professional photos?!
Those that do volunteer, if we can arrange a get together soon in one of Rotherham's fine hostelries (sure I know a couple of places...) to meet Craig and discuss next steps that would be bloody marvelous.
(watch this space for more info)

Ben Potts



Onwords and Upwords……
is for anyone who likes to play with words; that means those who like writing, but also those interested in word games and reading too. It doesn’t matter if you’ve never written before, as along as you’re up for having a go! We have a number of afternoon sessions as follows…

HOYLAND, 1-3pm, Mondays, 10th, 17th December, and the 14th, 21st, 28th Jan 2013
WOMBWELL, 1-3pm, Tuesdays, 11th, 18th December, and the 15th, 22nd, 29th Jan 2013



Creative Writers/Story tellers/Volunteers/Tutors Wanted:

Rotherham has a new and exciting venue in the town centre - a 'Pop-Up Story Shop'. (Next to Wilkos) The shop is a creative writing and story space for people of all ages to use, to meet to share ideas, listen to the stories of others and of Rotherham and for the young to harness a love of stories, reading and writing. Inspire Rotherham would like to invite you along to bring your creative ideas and support in whatever way suits you as this is a community venture. To find out more, use the venue, join a writing group or to volunteer to help others please contact Deborah on info@inspirerotherham.org or look at the website http://www.inspirerotherham.org/



Saturday 8th December the button tin would love to invite you to the imperial arts market....i will be having an open studio day so you are all welcome inside my bubble the button tin. i will be launching my furniture range available on the day. i will also be selling lots of beautiful vintage bits and pieces and my quirky pieces of art too....find a gift that is different. there will be a £10 discount off all gift vouchers bought on the day and all workshop bookings too....i would love to see you there!


++++++++++++++  We will be having an amazing hog roast and other fine fodder all from the Yorkshire Man's Deli...cakes, tea & mulled wine and other wintery drinks!

Live music all day from amazing local talent including Papa Legbas.....the beautiful Steph Little and many more to be confirmed...poetry is on the cards too!

our neighbours at old market gallery will be hosting an array of art and craft stalls courtesy of roar, plus artist open studio trail...

also a special surprise awaits you as you walk through the imperial art space....i promise you won't be disappointed.....just wrap up warm and come and hang out with us.....


SEE DECEMBER LISTINGS PAGE FOR MORE DETAILS






FIND WHAT’S GOING ON AND WHERE PAGES TO THE NEXT FEW MONTHS

NOVEMEBER

DECEMBER

The Nozulator


I’ve got an invention ready to go, patent pending of course. I call it the ‘The Bilton Non-Rust Nasal Dilator’ otherwise known as The Nozulator. Just plug it in and et voilà a snore free night. The device consists of two small vibrating ball bearings which are placed into the nostrils before retiring for the night. The (Nozulator) balls are connected to an electric toaster and kettle. There’s also a fully integrated home entertainment system with a six speaker digital sense-surround package, sub-woofer facility optional but recommended. It goes without saying; the computer will be tuned to Acoustic Rotherham available in all good ears.


Lost


Wandering.

Wishing.

Anger.

Fear.

Plastic smiles adorn my empty soul

As I search for...I just don't know.

I am present

Yet my spirit hovers a distant land

As my mirrored image returns.

Yesterday I knew worthlessness, despair

An underground world filled with lack of care.

But this was home you see

That place was me.

Today my plastic smile seems all I have,

I am not here even when I laugh.

Even when I walk.

Even when I cry.

Did "I" die???


Sally Leuenberger Rochester, New York


Ponderment 2


Summer days have scampered down the alley

Autumn wind

With its bitter edge

Is plotting to steal my hat

I could leave it by your fire

But I have to grab it

When I kiss you on the cheek

And have to bid you good night


We could sit here talking till dawn

Ponder all yesterday’s thoughts

The yellow moon

As faded into a snow white face

Tomorrow this will all make sense


I've been questioned an queried

My smallest of intentions

Tho I wear a differing hat

Everything's still as it was meant

Tho I'm unsure just what I want

Here's still where I'm at


So I'll sit by the fire pondering

Watching the all the folks go dashing by

Like demons in the pouring rain

For its so warm in here

So cold an insane out there

And guess tomorrow

This will all make sense


Bob Roberts


THIS IS THE WORD PIT
Compile by : chris bilton
THIS IS THE WORD PIT
COMPILE BY : CHRIS BILTON

Fate


Engulfed as the showers upon the trees

Falling helpless

As the autumn leaves

Atop the hill where thousands had walked

Over aeons

Certainly thousands of years

Drinking your coffee

Amassing the view in your thoughts

Skies that'd blackened

Now reflected the colour of your eye's

An at that moment now knew

Pointlessness of fight

For nature will have its way

As across the table

Fate deals its hand.


Bob Roberts


Force of Nature

Before you get down

to that place again,

imagine you are a God

with the world in your hand.

Spin it with slight touch

and go where you want.

Light up the deep ocean

with part of a star.

The fault lines, with crack

of tectonic plates

bleed super-heated water,

and vent sulphur and silicon.

These are your veins

that drag themselves

upwards, rippled and flexed

pieces of rope.

Say hello to

the heart of a tropical

cyclone in east Asia,

sit and watch as two charges,

one positive and one negative

split apart at sub-atomic level.

Slow down the lightning bolt and

warm yourself with the point of

silently expanding light

that stitches across the sky.

Grow tired of it's growth,

speed it back up.

Sit back and enjoy the thunder

rolling around your mind.


Go to the desert,

the sun has cooked the ground

and split it like a stale cake.

See the wind blowing over

ridges and bringing dust devils

to life. Dance with them all

like a drunk at a party

and play marbles with stones

the size of cars.

Are you not happy, like a boy?


Ben Potts


Winter (Everything Is Fine)


I sat myself down
old closed book on the rocking chair begging me to read
I blow away the dust and turn the page,
intoxicated from the liquor of last winter,
my squinting eyes try to focus as my hands cling so despairingly
to this old grey book I always meant to read but never did,

Chapter 1

Kitty knew all about the winter she had seen it before as I had,
we held each other close and watched the white and
in the dark of night in the cold,
we lit a fire in our hearts,
a burning ember to see us through the frost of December

we made a snowman together,
dressed him a really nice hat, woolly coat and gloves, never forget the gloves.
A carrot for a nose, you laughed and said it looked like mine, I didn`t mind.
We made another, we figured why should he be alone,
we threw snowballs and watched more snow fall on old stalls,
in our silent humble town.
Once filled with joy and cheer now bare and lifeless,

littered with empty beer can, old news and regret and

I bet as a child you always hoped you would fly
so high, so very high,
touch the tops of trees with our feet as we ascend to clouds,
no crowds, no screeching of cars,
no screaming child to drive you wild,
no poster of hate, no leave it to fate,
no tears no crime, no lemon or lime nothing bitter
just love and peace a sweet release.
I smile and take your soft hand in mine and everything feels fine,
it`s the winter but everything`s fine.


Greg Muscrof


A very short story


Father Gibson Keeps a Termite Farm


1974, Manchester YMCA, the cheapest place I could find for the night and the bed was hard. I followed the dust light rippling through a crack in the curtain.

My ears tuned to the world outside. A train passed the building and proved Doppler was alive and well and contributing to my general ‘no sleep tonight feeling.’

The passage was walked, a water pipe gurgled, a door was opened, another one slammed.

Somewhere down the hall voices crackled and popped with nonsense.

Thin walls meant good one way conversation straight to me and the Plaster Pre-Raphaelite angels framed in judgement over my bed.

Light feet slapped down the passage, knuckles rattled on a hardboard door next to mine, keys played a tune in the lock and the door opened.

’Have you got them? Said a man with a bare foot voice.

A bag is rustled, ’I’ve brought you these’, a babies rattle hits the floor, the door is slammed, my ears strain for more.


The sink started to repeat on itself and I considered putting a glass to the wall.

More feet feet ground down the passage.

Morse messages rang along radiator pipes then disappeared into the ceiling, that place was a percussionist’s dream.


A whispering conversation started in the other room.

‘Father Gibson keeps a termite farm to study structural engineering, he once worked with Buckminster Fuller...,’ then silence.


Yes... and ... I say under my breath,

I had ears like a chameleon’s eyes,

the other room breaks the silence:

‘I’ve brought some nappies, your size.’


I wanted to shout: ‘okay, stop now I don’t want to hear anymore, but Pandora had arrived and I wanted to share her junk.

The conversation was impossible to follow when a rhythmic rattle began in the other room. Syllables stuttered, words began and finished too soon turning over and over and over like a car trying to start, but never fired, the rattle snaked a tune in my head, weeping staccato voices fired on all cylinders, then...

Ear splitting silence


It was a day-long-night and still only half past two.


Chris Bilton


Tunnel Vision


I sit in my chair dreaming of what had been,

Replaying memories of what I had seen.

Sun setting over the horizon,

Or deep in the depth of the castle’s dungeon.

Of all the scenes and sights

Nothing is worse than being plunged into light.

As I remember this I shiver and quake,

For this is the thought that makes my heart break


Alex Bilton aged 12


Canvas

Stars glistening on a dark canvas
pictures shining on their colourful canvas
poetic words illuminating a white canvas
all you need is a blank canvas
to share your wonderful creativity.

Carol Robson 2012



CHRIS’S CHRISTMAS CHUCKLE

BORN IN JUNE DIED IN MAY. BORN IN MAY DIED IN JULY!

Be yourself my lovey, she said, not what others want you to be,

Be yourself my lovey, poppy said this to me, poppy the lovely Alice

My aunty for ninety nine years, a month short of her century she

Left us and I shed tears, and now my mum, her sister, left us in July,

I know she was eighty seven but she didn’t have to die, ''care home''

Left her to dehydrate unable to reach a drink, hospital ward again,

But this time we never saw her blink, her breathing done for her via

A machine, a steady drip now supplies her fluids to keep her on the

Brink, in the mean. . . . . While we stood, and waited, and watched. . . . . .

And I hated to go but . . . . . . . . I didn’t want to hear all the ins and outs

And the medicators doubts that she would make it through the night,

It didn’t seem right but . . . . .. . . I did, I took flight, could anyone guess my

Plight? I walked unseeing out of sight, I’d said my goodbye, I couldn’t yet

Cry, I got home alone clutching my mobile phone, I’d left! I'd left! Already

I felt bereft, I felt like a sciver who form somewhere guiltily had scived,

And then . . . . . . . . I heard a duet of a single ''ting'', ''ting ting!'', message!

I first saw the name, Marie Edwards, sis, spare me please from this,

I read . . . . . . . 8.10pm . . . . . . and then . . . . . . . . .two words. . . . .. . . .

''she's gone'' ! ! !


Christine May Turner


Ghosts on the Towpath


We walk on the towpath

in the gruel of evening light.

The dog finds a plug of tobacco

long, aromatic and pipe ready.

I read the Braille smell harbouring flesh

tones and see men, briers gripped

with morgue white teeth clop the path

pass blasphemous after shift chit-chat.

I ratchet up the pace of steps

And tobacco smoke erased my eyes.

With a mortal urge to breathe I gasp

away the smoke from burning lungs.

We shoal from the path as high-winds

part the fumes as fresh night air returns.

Again on the path and into the light,

the dog and I walk quickly on.


WORD PIT 2 OUT NOW HERE

THE WORD PIT 2