Saturday, November 10

S.P.A.M (some poetry & music)

Poems & thoughts group in conjunction with Stoke writers website are holding a night of poetry, music and writing at the BAD EDITgallery in Burslem on Wednesday 14th Novemer 2012 at 8pm. This time it's under the banner S.P.A.M (some poetry and music)
You are invited by local artist and poet Tracy Henham to bring along your poems and writing to read, to listen to others and to discuss.
Tracy says '' The last event was absolutely amazing and we had music from Stephen Harvey and Steve 'Doc' Batchelor as well as the poetry from the members of the poems and thoughts group. There was also poems from non members including John Mills and Kerry Taylor who called in on the night'
'This time we're hoping to double the audience and participators' added Tracy, and thwere
The hosts have once again offered to read your poems and short stories for you if you are worried about reading aloud, so come along and share your work!!
There is a fully stocked bar and tea and coffee available.
Entry is just £2 on the door

Tuesday, November 6

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.

Monday, October 29

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


Sunday, October 28

The Liver Bird



Measure each day using sighs alone, 
And yet, she still she turns my heart to stone. 
The silence is too often too loud to bare.
But, when all is said and done, 
We both know that she still cares.

Saturday, September 15

Bad start

Just when you thought
'It can't get any worse'
Oh My God!!
Toothpaste down my shirt.

Wednesday, September 5

Last throw


From the dirtiest of clay
A potter forms his treasure
With our own hard toil
our perseverance and imagination
We can often create a future
That far excedes our measure

Sunday, September 2

Motionless


Love is action, not new erosion
Life is angst never none emotion

Tuesday, August 14

Poems and Pints at The Leopard


The Leopard Inn Hotel in Burslem, Stoke on Trent is the superb venue for the monthly ‘Poems and Pints’ night, that is hosted by the well-known musician Richard Faulkner in partnership with the City Voices Writers from Hanley.
The night is being advertised inside the venue as taking part on ‘the last Tuesday of the month’ and has so far been quite well attended by the 20 or so regular members of the City Voices forum.

The group is probably better known for its festival of words and music, which again has been held at the Leopard Hotel for many years, and has been so popular it has even brought them to the attention of The Sentinel ‘our hero’ awards for their hard work raising funds for many local charities.

This is the first time the group has ventured out into the ‘pub scene’ in Stoke on Trent. With many similar ‘poetry nights’ springing up all over and around Staffordshire and The Moorlands, they will certainly have their work cut out to both entertain the general public and to have the many local poets flocking to share their own work to both their fellow writers and with an eager and attentive crowd.

For me the night was quite ‘sterile’ when it is compared to the many ‘poetry slams’ and hip hop nights that I have attended over the years, but that said; this is Stoke on Trent so maybe my expectations are far too high just yet

My only ‘real gripe’ was that the vast bulk of work read on the night was by members of City Voices reading comedy verse, various ‘meaningful prose’ and some recollections of the 1950′s that I have heard many, many times before (being a former member of City Voices for many years)

My concern is this: If this night is to survive and to flourish with so many similar ’open mic nights’ that also cater for poets and comedians, it will surely need a constant and varied influx of ‘new blood’ and ‘new ideas’ to keep it interesting and not quickly become ‘just another city voices meeting, in a pub’

Stephen Harvey

Tuesday, August 7

Departed

Termless love
Dreams are never easily kept.
The summer has all but gone my love,
and all the swans have left.

Sunday, June 3

All Sorts


The new anthology by City Voices Writers Forum is now ON SALE and features 7 of my poems from this blog and one new one.

Riots














Wednesday, May 16

Rainbows


I believe that every smile holds a secret.
A promise of a story untold.
I daydream in rainbows, and I gaze at the stars.
I follow the magic that's wherever YOU are

Saturday, April 7

The Via Dolorosa


I walk the way of the suffering
With a weight opportunity lost
The burden of grief too heavy a load
Deny aids that may carry my cross
The truth has become my accuser
It controls the enemy knew
Grey clouds descend o'er questioning eyes
And answers believed to be true

Wednesday, April 4

The Chained Oak


A Legend speaks of an ancient rite
Which befell to an Earl by a witch one night?
He was travelling to Alton from lands far away
When a lady stepped out so was blocking his way
'Alms for a beggar’ was the plea that was heard
While passing her path with not one single word
'A curse on your family' she called to the night
'When wood kisses dirt' your children will die
The Earl plotted wisely and ordered a chain
That would hold fast the oak and her branches retain
So tricking the fate that was placed on his head
The curse was defeated and no one was dead
This story is true and the curse has been broke
A true Alton legend, of the old chained oak.

featured in my new book - Staffordshire - Strange tales - The myths and legends of the potteries and beyond by Stephen Harvey

Available NOW on Kindle store

Monday, March 12

Passion


Spring unfolds a secret romance
It restores truth like an opening bloom
The winters long gone now my love
and the swans returns here soon
They appear from o'er the fire red skies
from a tune I play in dreams
effortless flight to souls entwined
to my Englands field of green.

Sunday, March 11

Stolen moments


I wait patiently, planning the next move
As the girl of my dreams, sits just across the room
Patiently waiting, for the perfect moment to arrive
When quite by chance her eyes will meet mine

Saturday, March 3

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.

Wednesday, February 15

Ad lib 2012 collection


I am pleased to announce that six of my poems have been published in the Rising Brook Writers poetry collection 2012. The poems are from this BLOG which has had an amazing 5620 views so far and most of these from the USA and Canada.

I absolutely over the moon to be noticed so 'thanks Rising Brook Writers its fantastic to be involved1

Ad Lib is a culmination of library workshops and online contributions and is supported by The Arts Council.The anthology features twenty four poets from all over Staffordshire and will be launched in August this year.

Rising Brook Writers

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.

Tuesday, February 14

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.

Sunday, February 12

The haunted radish

The churchwarden's wife, in condition was said
To beg of her husband, to make her a bed
With an harvest of radish, too early in spring
When other town folk, would not see such a thing
'Dear Ann' he replied, 'Shall be done in a trice'
With soil from the graves, that I feel shall be nice
I shall dig it at midnight, for fear of the clowns
That may vex me and tease me, with most terrible frowns
So the seeds that he brought, became seeds that he sowed
And within a short time, several radish he grow'd
And the scores of the table, were very soon brought
And his Madam selected, the finest she thought
So with mouth wide open, and taste did regale
The radish screamed out, 'Please don't bite off my tail'
'The top of my legs, and arms I bewail,
But Please Madame Ann, 'don't dare bite off my tail'
To the sextons house go, and the rest of me lie
I beg of you please, that my tail be near by
Then the radish stopped speaking, and it vanished from sight
leaving the warden and wife, near half dead by the fright
The soil was returned, and the souls laid to to rest
And the church warden hailed,  'To be honest is best'

Information

This poem is loosely based around a churchyard legend from Leek in the Staffordshire moorlands. It tells of a Church warden called Robert Emerson who was accused of using soil from the graveyard as compost to grow vegetables for his wife Ann.

Unfortunately for the unlucky couple the finest radish of the crop was haunted by the soul of the deceased from where it was taken, and it was said to have spoken out and plea for it to be re-buried from where it had been taken from. This tale was apparently written down by either Eli Cope or Alfred Fynney shortly after his death at the age of 56 in 1820. The gravestone can be seen in the graveyard of St Edwards in Leek.

It is to be included in my new book North staffs legends

Tuesday, February 7

Animus


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

Sunday, February 5

Never fails


Love I, and never not elope
The passion remains, along with the hope

Wednesday, November 30

Shield me


An umbrella can shield from the snow and rain
But it blocks the sun that may brighten again.

Sunday, November 27

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

Sunday, October 9

Sunday, October 2

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.

Monday, September 26

Night Demons


Hagridden visions that haunt my rest.
Peepers close tight my screem supressed.
Saul's light breaks my prayers now blessed.
A mind now eased that scarred my flesh.

Image from Night terrors

Sunday, September 11

Laconism - Stephen Harvey


What is she thinking?
Her smile reveals nothing to me now.
No hidden words.
No glances with twinkled eyes.
No history.
The clock seems too slow in time with my heart,
It still remembers better times.
A day when her eyes aluminated life,
A day when our secrets were king,
Furtive and camouflaged.
She was the queen of cloak and dagger,
But now Silence is her weapon.
I have no reply.


This poem has been published in 'Still Waters 2011 poetry collection'
ISBN 978-0-9557086-8-8

Saturday, September 10

Rancor





I am slowly drowning,
in a messiah complex flame
I cant escape these rancor thoughts,
that try to me make me sane.
So veil yourself in shadows,
When verity holds no shame.
Hellion rising best beware,
When past becomes my blame.

Monday, August 22

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

Little Boy Lost - Stoke Poetry

Poetry from Stoke On Trent. The various verses within this blog explore my changing reality and mood swings. Verses that meander around domestic violence, self harm and mania, then return to enjoy happier thoughts and emotions from my childhood and the local area and its fantastic history and heritage. This is truly subversive and thought provoking literature from the heart of England that will live with you forever.

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