John Baskeyfield

From the first spark of life,
to the last glimmer of life.
The bravest of hearts stand triumphant.
A mother town son,
Stood proud by his gun.
An hero we lost in the Arnhem.

Melancholy

Winter had died a slow and lingering demise.
As springs subtle silhouette hinted at better times.
Warmer fruit filled days will soon come, 
and the sun will break from behind the clouds.
This was a  promise that mother nature,
had never once failed to deliver.
She will lighten my mood just as quickly as winter had dampened it.
but: inevitability the seasons return
and that will remain forever more.



A version of this poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers. 
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5

She

She was the most gentle and yet,
the strongest woman I have ever known.
She could maintain a theme and hold it for days at a time,
with silence as her only weapon.
Her strength had been nurtured from a life of toil,
a hard life, that had become her closest of friends.
She could turn her old iron mangle with  just one arm,
but on occasions could just as easily rotate the atmosphere,
with nothing more than a single smile or whispered word.
Her name, was Grandma.

The Healing Stone

The Gawton Stone - Knypersley

In woodland copse where fawns did roam
Here lies the wondrous Gawton Stone
That rests middling those waters deep
from ancient tor where magic seeped
It holds a cure from bygone days
That broke a mind but cured a plague
An hermits life within hard rocks
A show for lords who stood and watched.

Information

The Gawton stone lies within a country park that is north east of  Knypersley reservoir in Biddulph, Staffordshire.The stone is approximately 15 cubic metres in size and is thought to weigh approximately 40 tonnes. It rests on three smaller stones and it must have been quite a feat of engineering to put it in place. It is also very near to other sites of interest including: Gawtons well and Druids Grove, both of which have been long regarded hold mystical significance.

The Gawton Stone siite dates back as far as the dark ages and is possibly pre-historic in origin. It is regarded as a healing stone, said to have magical powers. Excavation work in the nineteen hundreds revealed it had once been used as a burial site. There is a legend of a man being cured of the plague after submerging himself in Gawtons well and living the life of a hermit thereafter, sheltering underneath the Gawton Stone for many years and being of much amusement to the guests of the local land owners who often ate picnics near by.

The Ghost Of Charnes Hall

During the 17th century Charnes Hall in Stafford was owned by the very well respected Yonge family,who had lived there for many generations as master and mistress of this most splendid of stately homes and grounds. They were a wealthy family, and they enjoyed the service of many servants and grounds men who helped maintain their lavish and enviable lifestyle as Master and Mistress of Charnes.

Mrs Yonge was in good health at the time, and so it came as a great shock to all that knew her, when on a cold day in winter she was suddenly and mysteriously taken quite ill. It was an illness that nobody could quite explain at the time, and so, as the poor unfortunate lady of the house grew steadily more weary she was very quickly taken to her bed in the hope she would soon recover.

Fearing that the worst was about to happen, she called for all her family and servants to gather around her so that she could speak to them all one last time, before it was too late. It came as quite a shock to everyone gathered when she gave her last will and testament, much as you would do just minutes before your death, but they accepted her wishes and gathered near to her bedside.

She announced to everyone that she feared that the time had come to say her farewells, and that her only wish was that her favourite piece of jewellery would not be removed after her death, so when the sad moment did arrive, and Mrs Yonge sadly drifted away, the large ring on her finger that many had claimed to be ‘priceless’ was left where it was to comfort her on the other side.
However, not all the servants were as honest as they should have been and believing it to be 'a most terrible of waste' one of them was already plotting to take it off her dead corpse when she was placed in the family vault later that day.

The coachman was a greedy and loathsome man, and so when he spotted his window of opportunity he stealthily crept down to where she had been placed. Carefully he removed the lid from her coffin, trying his best to keep his plot as secretive as he was. The only sound that was heard was a sardonic sneer to himself, as he put his wicked plan into action.

He was now looking down on the cold body, her arms placed across her bosom laid to rest. He spied the prize for which he had come, the most precious of jewels was there for the taking. It glistened in the dim light of the oil lamp that he had carefully placed on the dead woman’s chest, as he tried in vain to remove her most precious possession from her. He pulled and twisted, but to no avail, as the ring stood fast, seemingly determined to stay put and remain with its owner for eternity.

The coachman began to perspire in pure exhaustion as he tried and tried to pull the ring free from the finger, but to no avail. Finally in pure desperation he reached down to his pocket, and holding her ring hand firmly in place, he quickly took his coachman’s knife from his pocket to finish the task.
He then began the unenviable task of cutting the woman's finger from her hand. He carefully sliced through the skin, only to be taken back in pure horror as blood spurted from her mutilated hand and onto his clean white shirt and face, as Mrs Yonge sat bolt upright in her coffin and gave out the most terrifying of screams as the finger was finally cut free. The now petrified coachman quickly fled, still holding tight to the ring finger and fleeing from the vault in pure horror.

With some difficulty Mrs Yonge managed to clamber from her coffin, blood still pouring from her badly severed hand. Her pure white burial shroud splattered with her warm red blood, as she slowly but surely managed to stagger from the vault that very nearly became her last resting place. She then made her way across the grounds to the Hall, where her husband was sat, still in terrible mourning for the loss of his most beloved wife.

He roused from his sadness by a banging at the window of the room where he was sat. This was then followed by the most awful of wailing. Quickly he rose from his seat and ran to the window. he threw back the long curtains as quickly as he could manage, to see a sight that made his blood run cold and freeze him to the spot in terror .

There he saw the ghostly apparition of his dead wife tapping on the window and crying out into the cold night air ‘let me in, I’m terribly cold’ 'let me in dear husband, let me in I pray'
The terrified husband spotted with utter disbelief his wife's badly mutilated hand and quickly realised that his beloved wife was very much still alive and well, and he joyfully ran outside to comfort her in a loving embrace that he wished would never end.

Mrs Yonge recovered from this most terrible ordeal over the next few days and went on to live for many years to come, however, this is only the beginning of this most gruesome of tales.
Some years later when Mrs Yonge finally was laid to rest in Eccleshall churchyard, the locals claim a ghost with a severed hand still wanders the area to this day, seemingly still searching for her lost ring on the stroke of midnight.

The End

This story is based very loosely on a real legend and will be included in my next book.

Animus

A brave universal sadness envelops days
Cheating hearts in loves deranged
By ritual order keeps each nearby
Hellion emerg'd a rapist trapine

My poetry FOR SALE

A collection of words, stories, folklore and poetry from the heart of North Staffordshire. Stephen Harvey is a poet and author from England and this book of differening genres will interest the historian, poet and lover of verse in equal measures. The poems are often inspired by real life characters from the 'potteries' and these include the Burslem witch Molly leigh, Tommy Meaykin the man who was buried alive and The tams skin legend of the drummer boy skinned alive during the rebellion led by Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Web Store - Stoke Writers

Julie

Jewelled undying love I endure
You will hold my heart for evermore

The headless corpse of Harecastle tunnel

Many years ago when the canal system was still in its infancy a young lady was travelling from Liverpool to London on a journey to be re-united with her husband who had been earning his living in the docklands of the capital. He had sent his wife a guinea for what was in those days a very long and dangerous journey. 

She had packed up all she owned into two very large trunks and had somehow managed to travel all the way to Stoke-on-trent on the back of a horse and cart which was carrying a load to the mill up at Hardingswood. It was at the Canal Tavern in Kidsgrove that this young lady made an error in judgement that would eventually lead to her untimely death.

A group of boatmen that had spent the day getting very much the worse for wear drinking at the popular public house had overheard her trying to arrange her further transportation south by road and on spotting her two large trunks that needed to go with her had decided on a most awful plan for both her and all that she owned.

They made her an offer she could not refuse, free transportation as far south as they could take her on their longboat. An offer that she gladly accepted with her guinea fast running out and the prospect of an extremely long and uncomfortable journey ahead on the back of a cart, so with a pint of porter in hand the three boatmen loaded her luggage and the four of them set off towards the Harecastle tunnel.

When they arrived at the mouth of the tunnel and the pony was led away along Boat-horse Road the ghastly plot would begin to unravel, and when the three remaining men were finally reunited at the other side the woman would be dead and nobody would be any the wiser. The two drunken boatmen told the young lady to make her self comfortable and they began the task of legging the longboat into the darkness of the longest canal tunnel in the country.

When the boat was far away from the sight of any witnesses and had reached the coal landing stage known as Gilbert's hole the two men brutally attacked their passenger so brutally she lost her life and after removing her head by hacking it from her torso with a large piece of slate they threw the body into the culvert and went about their journey. The body was eventually discovered some days later by an unfortunate barge owner and when the men were finally found they were both hanged for this most terrible of crimes.

The story does not end there though and the legend of the Kidsgrove ghost has been handed down by colliers and boatmen for generations. There are tales of mismatches in the numbers of boats going in at one end of the tunnel when compared to the records of boats coming out of the tunnel and some barges will take extremely long detours to avoid the tunnel completely.

Local colliers tell the tale of a ghost that they call Kit Crewbucket; a female apparition that has fore-warned them of many pit explosions and therefore saved many a life in her time. There is also a legend of a headless woman that rides a white horse along the Boat-horse Road on the full moon at midnight.

Whatever you may believe; there is documented evidence of the death of Christina Collins in 1839, a young lady travelling from Liverpool to London whose body was found in the Trent and Mersey canal. Her gravestone can still be seen today in the churchyard of St Augustine's in Rugeley.

The story was also the inspiration for the Inspector Morse novel 'The wench is dead' by Colin Dexter.

Think?

Silence is my enemy,
I don't need time to think.
My thoughts betray my emptiness,
then deeper down I sink.
I hide myself in masquerades,
behind a serpant smile.
On the outside often gladsome like,
On the inside just a child.
You've never seen the real me,
he's trapped inside my head.
Exploring paranoia,
reviewing whats been said.
He seeks out hidden meaning,
disguised in words of love.
looking for a normal life,
that he knows wont be enough.

This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5

Castles

Why do we build castles,
that wash away with the tide?
It's because life is a journey.
You pay for a ticket,
Climb aboard.
Then, hold on tight for the ride


This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5

Still Waters - AVAILABLE NOW

Rising Brook Writers presents 'Still Waters' 2011 poetry collection.

The collection features 4 of my poems written in 2011 alongside Stoke On Trent's best local poets. It is available to purchase from the registered charity

RCN :11117227 for £5.00

The book and group is supported by their patron and renowned poet Ian McMillan

ISBN 978-0-9557086-8-8

Purchase here

Down and out

Vincent Riley (left)

He sang of his mother
In the Emerald Isle
He walked the streets
With a spirited smile
He was an hero in battle
Who had just lost his way
We remember him fondly
Vincent Riley his name

Vincent Riley was one of the potteries true characters. He was seen wandering the streets of North Staffordshire, usually the worse for wear from drinking methylated spirits. He would also sing songs that were usually about his mother who had lived in Ireland, and whom he hadn't seen since he was a very small child.

He was a military man and was said to have been something of an hero during the war, sadly he had become an alcoholic after leaving the armed forces and quickly fell into homelessness.Some say the demise of his mental health was because the army had denied him compasionate leave to go to the funeral, and that he never truly got over her death. We will never know for sure, but in those days mental health and drink dependancy were seen as social taboos and were not treated with the same degree of care as we enjoy today.

He slept rough at the brickworks in Cobridge most nights of the week and was often found either by or in the kilns keeping warm. He was found dead on top of a kiln in 1951

Vincent Riley has been the inspiration for many local artists who have tried to capture his personality in paintings.

BAREWALL ARTWORK

Thanks to The Sentinel for info and picture

Link

The Tommy Knockers - Stephen Harvey

Knock, knock, tap, tap! What’s that sound?

The soul of a collier trapped under ground.

He'll stays down there till the end of time.

Buried under mountains of darkness and slime

Knock, knock, tap, tap! Who goes there?

A Tommy Knocker whispers in the midnight air.

The sound of his tapping will serve no doubt

To warn us of a danger when it's time to get out

This poem is loosely based on an old skiping song of unknown origin - If you can discover the original poet/author I would love to find it out this information.

Information

The 'Tommy Knockers' were believed to be the souls of colliers that had been killed in the mines, and would warn other miners of impending danger. The mining industry was filled with lots of superstitions including 'Blue devils' 'mining dwarfs' and the 'Whistling witches' who all warned of dangers in the pit.

They believed that they had been given a 'token' or a 'chance' by the ghosts of miners lost or trapped underground and to ignore them would bring on impending danger. Some miners also believed in their dreams, and dream about a 'burning shoe' was one such warning to stay at home the next day.

Common superstitions

If a pitman met a pig or a woman on his way to work, for example, it was a sure indicator of disaster, and he was to return home and miss his shift. 

Another belief was that if the pitman set off for work and found he had forgotten an important Item, he should not return to fetch it; he should either carry on to work or go home and stay there. 

Certain acts were unlucky: in parts of the North-East it was not safe to use the word ‘pig’ (but the dialect equivalent ‘guissie’ was allowed); to rob a robin’s nest could lead to an accident at work, etc.

Such superstitions held less and less power in the 20th century, but recently I heard from an old collier that the term "blue devil" was used for “the ignition of localised pockets of gas" 

It doesn't take much imagination to turn a blue flame into a devil or imp, and when your are a mile underground with only a candle as company, they must have been a very frightening sight.



This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5



Contact the author

The old man of Mow

He sits alone in his old arm chair,
the guardian of all he surveys.
His quarried featureless expressions,
are a constant in an un-certain time.
A world where he has no voice,
only time to kill and weather to storm.
He lives only for the now.
His ancient morals like granite stand,
the mighty man of Mow.


This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5



The Old Man O’Mow is situated on the site of an ancient cairn that was said to be a burial mound, and linked to the Bride Stones of Cloud End, approximately 3 miles away to the North. However it is more likely to have been just a boundary marker separating two counties and two manors on the Cheshire side of the hill, Rode Hall Estate and Moreton Hall Estate. It was described in about 1530 as a `Roke of old stones that of old times have been reared'.
The cairn disappeared as centuries of stone quarrying took its toll; this however does not give us much insight as to just why a large rock edifice of some 65ft in height was left. I have heard several theories as to why it was left, the first to aid lifting the large grit slabs, the second that the stone was not of the right quality. It is more likely however that it was just left as ground marker, out respect for the old cairn. If any reader can offer me proof for any of the above it would be appreciated.
The top of the Old Man O’Mow stands 65 ft high, with its top some 1100 ft above sea level. Its shape from certain angles does look like the form of some giant man, thus giving us its name

http://www.mowcop.info/htm/industry/oldman.htm

Princess

Daughter of the red giant Jupiter
Princess of Sun and grantor of life
Your embrace radiates warmth my way
I find myself dreaming within your light
Yet, hopelessly lost for perfection in prose
A name I dare only to whisper in sleep


This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5