Time Traveller Poems
From the Jorvik Centres May Arts Festival
The poems displayed here were written by children and adults who attended the Arts Festival and worked with Adrinskald Samssun (writer Adrian Spendlow).
Further contributions are always welcome. There are is a prompt sheet to help you, or indeed your group, write a poem for us.
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“A big thank you to all of you for your exciting contributions” – Adrian
Kim in Charge
Chief fighter
Hairy beard
Long hair
(Really, Really knotty)
Fierce and fightful
Big bulging steps
Flat feet
Big movements
‘I give you a big stare’
‘I always shout,’
“If you want to win
keep fighting!”
Otherwise,
Your heads will be torn
And fed to the wild boars.
Kim
Tenth Century Ireland
Standing by the sea
Hear the seagulls
Smell the ozone
I care
for my home
my children
Waiting
for my husband
I wear
long woollen clothes
against the wind
I wait
He will return
from the sea
I wait
Jane
Time Traveller
Why am I carrying coals?- dust blacking my hands,
my face, my clothes, black hod barking my calf,
upstairs, downstairs, filling grates not my own?
The pump is stiff, ice creaks in the morning air. My foot
slips on the scullery step; my chapped hands freeze,
downstairs, upstairs, filling jugs not my own.
My skirt smells of wear, a cousin’s hand-me-down.
Serge chafes my neck, chilblains purple my toes, boots pinch,
upstairs, downstairs, opening curtains not my own.
Some years the chimney breast is warmer, the bed softer.
I learn to love a little, minding children, playing games
downstairs, upstairs, rocking babies not my own.
But the years are cruel, and soon I am wet with steam
again, lighting boilers, possing shirts, mangling sheets,
upstairs, downstairs, carrying linen not my own.
My head aches with sleep. I long for my cruckle bed,
the casement square bright with stars, but voices demand -
downstairs, upstairs, serving needs not my own.
I am become my ancestors: grandmother, great grandmother,
and her mother before, maids of all work, trudging the years,
upstairs, downstairs ... and my modern self despairs.
Pauline Kirk
Oblivious
I, Oblivious
Walk where others have walked
And feel what others have felt
Breathing
Smelling
Tasting
Atmosphere filled with pain
Apprehension
My sword bloody and blunted
By the bones of my ancestors.
"Hail, Oblivious".
"You who salute me, are about to die".
"Be brave my friend".
Should I choose to lose?
Or kill to live
In a world stained
With the blood of my ancestors.
Long live the games.
David Johnson
Shop News
Dusty pinny
Buttery fingers
Serving up
From this shop
A daily fayre
of gossip
and rumour
‘Come in’
‘Step up
and be
Assassinated!’
Anonymous
I Pull the Wool
(Gathered herbs dye the wool
and the Guild woman is spinning)
Spinning in the guild
Hot in this room
Feel the wool
Between your fingers
Oily is the wool
Straight from the sheep
In charge
With scarf over head
Quite plump
Ruddy of face
Spinning hands are coarse
My husband, the cruel taskmaster
growls at me,
Grunts like a Viking
I keep pulling the wool
Tease at the fleas
Make wool smooth
Stretch
Spin
Always take your time
Turn the wheel
Beautiful things are created
Spinning
Helen M Sant
Loci
Norway
Fish
People selling
Selling stuff
I am cheeky,
“See, a shark!”
I behave cheeky
Mischievous
but happy
I see the Gods
The Gods are wise
and beautiful
A human being prayed for me
“You prayed! What do you want!”
‘To kill King Harold,
Oh mystical and powerful one”
Cameron and Harvey
No notched or split nails, no scarred or blistered farm-weary hands,
My fair and beautiful feet have trudged no clodded fields,
Strong-limbed, lithe and unblemished, fit for purpose I am led to the place:
Linn-dub in my tongue, ‘Lake-black’.
Far from our settlement, by the dark waters between our world and the gods,
‘Twixt life and death I stand,
Last meal eaten, sacred stew of sacrifice,
Drunk, drugged to dull the pain,
Staggering slightly, kind hands reach out to steady me.
Wood, hemp and iron, triple paths to that Other Place,
Skull split first with cudgel I slump to my knees, dimly seeing stars.
Gorge garrotted, denied breath in this life, senses fail.
Knife opens the way, stream of life sloughs from my throat.
Eyes gently closed for me,
Pushed, slowly toppled, I sink down into the black bog,
Down, down, down under the sphagnum sprigs above me.
Offered for ever to the angered gods.
Followers, family and friends bid their farewell,
Gods appeased and duty done, they turn away and disperse
Whilst I settle into sacred sleep.
Bitter juices jelly my bones, darken skin to leather, matching the murky grave.
This life leaches away into the next: shall I meet the gods here?
“I’ll tan your hide!” my father used to say to his frowning, forward son:
And he has, indeed he has.
Lindow Man.
11th June, 2008
Jackie Etheridge
Unicorns
I'd like to walk with you
beneath kind branches
kiss you
by streams
and on meadow tops.
I'd like to build castles with you
defiant
of the battering waves.
I'd like to sing to you
shelter you,
hold your hug
in my mind
until the next time.
I'd like to watch unicorns
with you
as only we can.
Helen M Sant
Lost and Late
In rugged garb
This breathless traveller
Through woods and mud
by wayside barn
Gasp, hover, run more
Never –
Leave it too late
To save your love
Look, below
In village square
She is,
beheaded
Katy
Cunning Woman
Feel mystery and magic
A woman of magic
Top quality
‘I see the gods’
‘I speak to the gods’
Loki is my personal god
The god I pray to the most
He is evil
And mysterious
Frigga
From a Cave painting,
She worry
I come back
Through the smoke and dark
She see me
Still worry
Is all safe
She say
We eat?
She smell me
Smell the blood on me
I tell
Step by shock
By stab by lunge
The beast
Is painted
In her mind
The blood
Is his
We eat
David
Across the skies
I see Sliepnir
Galloping forth
On eight legs
Pursued by Fenrith,
Freed of his chains
There is fear in the face
of the Gods
They call on Thor
His chariot
Pulled by goats
Also Freya on hers
She is pulled by cats,
through the air
Pursuing Fenrith
Ducking, diving, weaving
Swoop, down, down
to Niflehiem
Joining
His sister Hel
In moments too,
The Asgard serpent
(Another brother)
To fight the Gods
Ragnarok has begun
Ragnarok
where all worlds end
Who will survive?
Will you?
So speaks Frigga,
bringing about you end
Frigga
First Pond
Bits split
Others crystallise
Crunching and slime
All time
All time
And in this pond of the primordial
The ooze is moving
Real
And one day
It is you
Alice
If you would like to add further poems to this site please follow the tips below and emails them to york.poet@btinternet.com
Guess Who
Silence.
Black turned to dark blue before I got here, now it fades to dull grey-blue-white.
Very early.
Dampness all around. Now I can see it’s misty. Cold, damp, but not clammy. A sort of clean, clear, fresh dampness.
A sudden chirrup and rustle from the branch overhead, as suddenly still.
Silence. Stillness.
Bess shifting her weight under me. “Quiet, Girl, it’s all right.”
Middle of the road. It stretches straight in front of us, up over the hill.
Time to get ready. I remove my black leather gauntlets, laying them over the pommel.
I take out one pistol, break it, stare straight through the long, cold, smooth barrel. Yes, cleaned up nicely. Can’t afford it to misfire in my business. I slide my hand between the pleats of my shirt, take out a pouch of hard, round iron balls and drop one in, carefully ramming it home with dull, black powder from another pouch. I cock the pistol and tuck it into my wide, black leather belt.
Bess flinches at the sound and paws at the hard-baked mud of the road, disturbing the glistening dew. “Ssshhhh, Bess, gently!” She gives an almost inaudible whinney. “Good girl, Bess.” She knows she must be quiet.
I take out the second pistol, repeat the exercise. stuff it into my belt. Now for the third. It is a tiny hand-pistol, which I tuck well down into the wide brim of my shiny black riding boot.
Just in case.
I pull on the gauntlets, arrange the long, black cloak straight on my shoulders, re-wind the thick, black woollen scarf around my neck, stroke the ruffled, black, black mane of my Bess and make much of her, bending low and patting her smooth, shiny black neck. She pricks back her ears.
Silence. Waiting.
Black boots, black cloak, black hat, black scarf, black pistols, black gauntlets, black, black, black flanks, black legs, black hooves, black mane, black ears: black man and black horse. Black statue.
Silence. Stillness.
The mist smells of autumn: musty, dank, dark yet white, swirling yet still.
Silence. Dampness.
Black wood to our left, white mist over black road, white horizon over black hill, black wood to our right. Bright drips hang beneath dark twigs.
Silence. Coldness.
Not silence.
What? Is it? Low rumble behind the hill. Bess fidgets again, pricks her ears erect.
Ears cocked, pistols cocked, eyes peeled…
I pull my dull, black, damp tricorne down over my brows and peer from beneath.
Distant horses. How many? Four.
Mist breaks like a curtain. Wheels. Four. Cotton-wool voices. Two. Coachman and only one footman.
Slowly, I back Bess into the trees to the left.
The coach-driver gets down, fits the brake at the brow of the hill, climbs back on.
Lumbering slowly now, the horses snorting. White steam shoots into white mist. Cold surfaces glisten, hot flanks glisten.
“Not long now, Girl.” Bess whinnies approvingly. “Sssshhhh” I stroke her mane placatingly.
Silence. Straining.
We both hold our breath.
Rumble, clatter of stagecoach. Mist parts, black silhouette turns to real horse, wood, iron, clothes, man, whip.
The coach driver descends again, grunting he removes the brake just in front of us, where the drop levels out.
Now!
I gently shake the reins, squeeze with my knees, urging Bess forwards. We saunter boldly out of the trees in front of the coachman.
“STAND AND DELIVER!”
The coachman, bewildered. Straightens out of his stoop, turns around, sees us.
“What? Oh, no, not again!” Groans as he lifts his hands into the air.
Black-shrouded man dismounts from black horse, points with two black pistols.
“Off the coach, Boy”, I say to the footman, “Stand over there.”
I step forward, remove the whip from its rest, throw it into the trees. I look into the coach. Warm, rich wine-red interior. Plush, quilted. Who’s there? Three travellers. An elderly man and woman, and another. A fair young thing. Elegant, profligate clothes. Richly coiffured wigs. Dainty gilded shoes.
“Everyone out of the coach!”
I turn the golden door-handle, drop the steps. I hand the old lady out, then the young girl. Looks of terror, speechless.
“You too, Sir.” I hold out my hand to the gentleman. He bats it out of the way, angrily descends the steps.
I take off my hat, flourish it in a long, sweeping bow, smiling at the ladies, replace it again. The old one looks proud and indignant, the young lady shy, curious. She just stops herself from curtseying, flushes a pretty pink.
I take the black, floppy bag from beneath my saddle, hold it open to them.
“Put your trinkets in here, my Ladies”, I say, “and that handsome fob, Sir,” I add.
He pouts and growls as he takes the fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and unclips the heavy gold chain. Reluctantly drops it into the bag. Long necklaces and brilliant rings follow. I indicate with a pistol. Golden hairpins encrusted with diamonds tinkle in after.
A tiny movement. “Now, now! Don’t you move, Boy, or I’ll blow your brains out!” The girl gives a small shriek, “Oh!”
I reach forward, pull the gold pin set with enormous ruby from the gentleman’s cravat.
“You’re frightening my granddaughter,” scowls the crusty old gent.
“You’re frightening me!” squeaks the footman, who looks as if he might water his breeches.
Pale faces, wide eyes, trembling limbs, clenched fists and teeth.
“Back on the coach, and on your way!”
Backs reluctantly turned, wistful glances at the bulging bag of clinking treasures.
I draw the strings tight, fasten the bag securely behind the saddle.
Heavy pistols wave, reinforce commands to hurry.
“Your servant, Miss!” I cheek, as I hand the young lady in.
Door slams. Slap, clap on the rump of the lead-horses, they’re away. Pull, creak, rumble, gathering speed. The footman stares back at me over his shoulder. I raise the pistol. Eyes hurriedly forward. Stiff back, clinging on for dear life.
Mist swallows.
Silence.
I remount quickly, turn Bess about.
Mist swallows.
We trot up the hill a little way, then turn and slink into the woods.
Walk, trot, out of the trees again, canter.
Gathering of reins. “Ha!” Flick, swish. “Ha!”, bend low over the mane. “HA!”
I give Bess her head, no need for her to feel the prick of spur. She’s away!
Hard, hard gallop, gallop, gallop.
Safe now, slow to a canter, now a trot. Into a stream, walk along its course for a while, swish, swirl through the water so dogs will lose our scent.
Just in case.
Three swans greet us through the mist, encircle us in curiosity. Sharp, black beak with wide nostrils, shiny black eyes, smooth white head, nothing beneath. Gentle splashing of unseen black webbed feet, silent shaking of invisible white feathers in cold, cold, white, white mist.
* * * * *
Dick Turpin visits Brockley Jack
Clippety-clop echoes along overhung cobbled street, turn into wide gateway with wider yard beyond.
Weary, mud-splashed, stooping black rider slips off hot, damp black saddle into arms of ostler, ready and waiting with bright smile. I hand him my spattered black tricorne in exchange for a smart, bottle green one. He swiftly unties the strangely shaped bag from the saddle and stows it in an opening in the wall, bricks it in, well out of sight.
Just in case.
Bess stands, panting, steaming. Buzzing fly lands on her foaming flank, she quivers, irritated. Black tail swishes, angry buzzing, denial of salt from her streaming coat.
“Thanks, Bob”, I sigh. He grabs worn black reins and “Walk on!” leads Bess away.
Wearily slip out of mud-drenched cloak, reverse it to a clean, bottle green cloak with neat, wide, black edging.
Stumble across yard, effort, push up latch, push open heavy wooden door with my shoulder.
Fall inside.
Warmth, crackling logs on hearth, bright candles and lamps everywhere, cheery chatter in Brockley accent fills all corners, lips suck on long, white clay pipes and mist of smoke from their baccy-packed bowls envelops me.
Welcome!
Feigning freshness and strength, stride over to the bar. Beckon to burly landlord. “Jug of your finest ale, my good man!” I say out loud, then beckoning him, add in a whisper, “Rochester Road, anyone been in?”
Imperceptible shake of head, he replies, “No, you’re quite safe I think.”
“Anyone down from Southwark?,” I ask anxiously.
“Southwark Boys were in yesterday, they won’t come bothering us today.”
Relief.
“Jack been in today?”
“No Dick, he’s down the Brighton Road, not due back till tomorrow.”
Conspiratorial winks.
“Yes, Landlord” (out loud), “Ham and eggs will do just nicely, and I think I shall be very happy if they were followed by some of your daughter’s tasty apple pie!”
I make a small bow in the direction of the landlord’s hideously decrepit wife. A ruddy blushing of cheek, delighted, embarrassed giggle, smoothing of filthy apron, dropped curtsey, she turns away to the kitchen to fulfil the order. Now she’ll give me the warmest, cleanest room and make sure there are no bugs in the bed. If only she knew!
But of course, she doesn’t know, or I’d be dancing on Tyburn Tree by now. Don’t trust her an inch! She must not find out.
Just in case.
Slipping a gold piece over the counter. “And this is for Bob.” “Thanks, Dick, I’ll see that he gets it.” He sweeps it up quickly and puts it in an empty pewter tankard behind him.
Long, long, long swig of beer. Big sigh of satisfaction. Smiling broadly.
Restored. Life is good.
Cheerful. Warm.
I ease my tired bones and trembling muscles onto an old oak settle. I’m through the first mug, refilling it with cool, tawny-golden life-saver when Bob comes in another door, glances over to me and gives me an almost invisible nod. I return it: he’s earned his gold piece, taking off saddle and bridle, rubbing Bess down, letting her drink long, long, cooling tub of water, filling her manger with hay and oats.
And painting a big, white blaze on her long, black nose, a white sock on one foreleg.
Just in case.
Relax. Head nods, casual chatter recedes, pipe-smoke envelopes, one hand on ale-tankard, the other on jug….nod, nod, nod. Ear snuggles into smooth, wooden table-top. Hunger forgotten, fingers relax, expression slackens, breathing eases…
Jackie Etheridge
5th June, 2008
New Lord
Strong smell of meat
Deep within the castle
Warm woollen cape for warmth
Walking slowly
Spiralling down
To where they cook
Turning spits
Cooks
With meat disgusting
They are grumpy,
Offering food,
That is not quite ready
I shout,
“Make it better!”
“Cook it properly!”
“I am your new Lord
and I
Take control”
Jamie
Market Day in Jorvík
I’m fat, very fat, so they call me Helgi inn digri (Helgi the Fat). I’m a twin and they call my sister Helga in grannra (Helga the Thin). I’m hungry and the ground is cold. When will Ma come back with some food? Helga is throwing the dice now. I look at the little circles but I can’t count yet. She’s trying sooooo hard to teach me. “Look!” she says, “There’s only one on this side, so that’s ‘One’; but on this side there is one and another one so that makes ‘Two’.” “No Helga, I’m bored! Let’s explore,” and I crawl away through the forest of legs.
We can hear voices and voices and voices above us: shouting, calling, laughing, like flocks of seagulls, but they don’t take any notice of us. Helga comes after me, pulling on my ankles, but I crawl faster, laughing. Our feet are cold and dirty, we don’t wear shoes on our stubby toes, but all we can see are shoes, shoes, shoes, with big, long legs sticking up out of them, like a fleet of walking ships on a dusty brown sea. Thick leather, thin leather, brown leather, black leather, grey leather: leather with patterns cut in them, leather with beads sewn on them, long leather laces pulled tight through the top and wrapped around the ankles of the big, big feet that almost tread on us. The hems of serkrs and kyrtills (serkir and kyrtlar) swish and waft around the legs like so many sails: red ones, green ones, brown ones, blue ones, with bands of tablet weave in bright colours and patterns around the edges – even a posh one with gold thread woven into a red background – perhaps that’s the king’s ship? Some of the legs are tightly bound with linen strips, as if their sails have been furled against the mast. They all sail on for a bit, then stop dead on the still, dark ocean, turn towards each other in conversation, then sail on again, stirring up dust like small waves. Sometimes a drizzle of nutshells falls over us like short, spring rain-showers, and once an apple core bit Helga’s nose and made it glisten. I picked it up and mummed the sweet, clear juice out of it, sucking it as dry as I could. Where is Ma with that food? Ma, Ma, we’re lonely now.
“Watch out, there’s a couple of babies crawling about on the ground. Where are their parents, don’t they have any sense?” Now through the fleshy legs and leather shoes we can see bare wooden legs, a market stall. There’s cloth hanging over the edge of the table. A big, blue sail flapping, tempting me. Won’t it be fun to pull on it! “Lower the sail!” I shout, “Heave, heave, heave!” “NO!” yells Helga, but I pull, and pull, and pull. I pull myself to my feet. But the cloth comes with me and I sit back hard on the ground with a bump. Ow, ow, OW, that HURT! I’m crying loudly now, my mouth so wide open a bird could fall into it. Helga’s crying too, snivelling, her nose is running. She wipes snot into her hair. Her serkr is torn, mine is torn too, where my knees have gone through. Hot tears come out of our eyes, we feel them trickle down our cheeks, we wipe them with the back of our hands, but more and more come. WHERE IS MA? WAAA, WAAA, WAAA!
We sit crying in the dirt, but the stallholder is rushing round to the front and picks up his cloth angrily and dusts it down. Then he lifts us both up and sits us on his stall, feet dangling over the edge. “Whose children are these?” he shouts. People turn and stare, but nobody answers. “WHOSE CHILDREN ARE THESE?” he shouts again. A woman comes up with a tall girl holding her hand. The girl points at us. It’s Astriðr from the next farm. “Aunt, it´s the twins, we´ve found them”, the girl pulls at the woman´s long sleeve. “Yes, I can see that!” she says, and twists around, her long serkr sweeping against her legs. She waves into the crowd of shoppers. “Hildr, Arni, over here, we´ve found the little scamps!” Our Daddy pushes through the throng of grown-ups in their best clothes. He sees us and he wears his best frown. “Here they are – Oh, just look at you two, how could you get into such a mess? Why did you ever leave them, Hildr?” he scolds. “I only turned my back for a moment, they were playing happily with the dice,” she retorts, angry that it’s always her fault. “Thank you, thank you!” She says to the stallholder. “Here is a necklace for your trouble, a thousand thanks for finding the children.” She unties her necklace of polished amber beads and presses it into the stallholder’s hand. “It was no trouble”, says the man, “they found themselves really. But I accept the pretty necklace, I will give it to my wife.” Helga starts crying again, she misses the dice. “Don’t fret”, says our Dad, “I will carve you some new ones. Come on home now, we have finished our shopping.”
He picks me up and puts me on his shoulders, Mum carries Helga in her arms, we walk away from the noisy market stalls and the shouting grown-ups, and they put us in the wagon. We bounce along on top of the new sheepskin all smelly with lanolin and the roll of red linen, which smells of nothing. I’m still hungry. “I’m hungry!” I yell. Mum tears off two bits of barley loaf and gives it to us, and says we are having a herring for our supper. I stuff my bit into my mouth, then try and take Helga’s. “No!” she shrieks, “No you shan’t take it!” “But I’m stiiill hungry!” I pull her hair and she screams. Dad stops the wagon and Mum gets down, comes round the back and gets in with us.
We like it now. We curl up in her warm lap and she strokes our long hair. She cushions us from the bumps and slowly my eyes get heavy. I can see the brown wooden edge of the wagon, I can hear the clop-clop, clop-clop of the horse’s hooves. I smell the steamy sweat coming off the horse’s dark back, and see its smooth, round rump muscles going up-down, up-down, up-down. Clop-clop, clop-clop, clop-clop, I’m nearly asleep now, I’m nearly…
Svanhildr 26th May 2008 (1008?)