Within this the 'official' web site you can not only
read about 'Sullivan the Poet' himself; but you can also read and, hopefully enjoy, some of the specially selected variety of poems from his currently available published poetry collections...
In addition: Sullivan's very latest poetic work, as it becomes available, will be published here in full on this, the 'Home' page of his site, for your approval and, we trust, your pleasure... Enjoy!
Within this site:
'T’t Best Days o' Yer Life..’
Me Fither said.
As teary eyed an’ full o’ dread,
in bright brown boots wi’ pen and rule,
I faced me first day ‘gone to school’;
“Son work ye hard and divn’t skive!”
Me Fither said. When I was five.
“Now cease yer greetin’ - off ye gan,
an’ ye’ll come ‘ome a little man;
Yer ma’ll see ye to the gate,
now ‘urry on afore ye’m late!”
Me Fither said.
But one eye blacked an’ nose all bled,
it didn’t feel, this schoolday strife,
like best days of me infant life;
“Ye ‘spects to take a couple licks!”
Me Fither said. When I was six.
“Them’s just ‘igh sprits, in’t no ‘urt,
a bruise or two, a bit o’ dirt;
A bit o’ take; a bit o’ givin’
wait til ye’ve to make a livin’!”
Me Fither said.
I guess e’d never ‘ad ‘is ‘ead,
shoved down t’t bog in mornin’ break,
or ‘is ass kicked for kickin’s sake;
“Yer school days then’ll seem like he’m!
Me Fither said. When I was se’m.
“Ye stand yer ground lad; ye knock back,
boot fer boot ‘n crack for crack;
If ye can’t cope wi’ lads in school,
the pit’ead boy’ll treat ye cruel!”
Me Fither said.
But fightin’ back swift vengeance bred,
when torn up books and broken nibs,
turned sharp to sticks ‘n three cracked ribs;
“Ye’ll wish ye’d kicked ‘em back then mate!”
Me Fither said. When I was eight.
“When ye’m in prop house scrapin’ bark,
or breakin’ seams out in t’t dark;
Them time ‘n quarter ‘eartbreak jobs,
cause ye won’t front t’t charge hand’s yobs!”
Me Fither said.
I said I’d rether work instead,
that for t’t most part school was shit,
and I’d be best off down Fell pit;
“An’ rise wi’ lungs as black as mine!”
Me Fither said. When I was nine.
“From breathin’ dust off blood soaked coal,
two dark miles down some stink black ‘ole;
Ye’ve not a care!” ‘E said with scorn.
“Ye divn’t kna ye’re fuckin’ born!”
Me Fither said.
When note came ‘ome that tersely read,
“Thee son will likely ‘mount to nowt!”
And round me ear another clout;
“Ye’ve let thee family down again!”
Me Fither Said. When I was ten.
“That Satan’s ‘ole ‘as done fer me,
ye shall’nt let it do fer thee!
Now fetch thee books an’ get inside,
afore I tans yer useless ‘ide!”
Me Fither said.
T’t day his ‘awkin’ cough turned red,
‘e told me we was movin’ south,
as Ma wiped blood froth from ‘is mouth;
“To breathe some clean sea air in De’m.”
Me Fither said. When I was ‘le’m.
In Wes’country we’ve bought us ‘ome,”
through spits and spots of scarlet foam;
“I ‘ope your learnin’s better the’re,
ye canna fare much worse than ‘ere!”
Me Fither said.
All sold t’t ‘ens, an’ pig, an’ shed,
and left behind them miner’s whelps,
the’ir kicks an’ thumps, the’ir taunts an’ skelps;
“Or ye’ll look back ‘n curse yerselve!”
Me Fither said. When I was twelve.
“If ye scorn thees, a free fresh start,
ye know ye’ll break yer Ma’s old heart;
and curse ye this, to die blood sick,
from wasted years bent ‘hind a pick...”
Me Fither said.
An’ ‘fore my thirteenth birthday dead.
Bare fifteen weeks t’t sea scent air,
‘fore black lung took ‘im from us there.
“I curse the’ir filth, the’ir coal black sod.”
Me Fither said. To me and God.
‘E touched me ‘and a final time,
a maul all cut and crazed with grime;
“Take up yer life boy, spend it well,
and spare yer Ma t’t ‘cave in’ bell!”
Me Fither said.
All failing ‘pon that old brass bed.
Dim, dim t’t lights in them old eyes,
as set ‘is sun, no more to rise;
“Ye’ll be a fither too anon.”
Me Fither said. And then was gone.
So ‘neath t’t Devon skies ‘e stayed,
where pleased ‘im live, so there ‘e laid;
“Far, far t’t stink of white hot steel,
and shadow of t’t windin’ wheel.”
Me Fither said.
‘Is voice still soft within me ‘ead.
As teary eyed and full o’ woe,
me own son ‘gone to school’ must go;
“Son work ye hard and divn’t skive!”
Me Fither said. When I was five.
And on that tiny head a prayer,
please God they treats ye gentle there;
Live friend to all and foe to none,
na thought that you’re t’t pit boss’ son.
“Now cease yer greetin’ - off ye gan,
an’ ye’ll come ‘ome a little man;
Me Fither said.
© Sullivan the Poet 2012