Poems on the North-South divide
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We've had bickering over football, food, comedy and weather.
But where do the best poets reside?
The North is where the angels play,we turn out on election day.Vote the people,fight the power,from the top of Blackpool TowerTom, Yorkshire
Land of rocks,Of peaks and pikes,Fleetwith, Langdale, Scafell,Of edges: Alderley,Striding, Stanage, Robin Hoods, Froggatt.And wizards.The green knight with hair bristling,The wizard asleep by the Iron Gates,The wizard Earl of NorthumberlandAnd yet furtherThe high hills of the CheviotWith curlews calling.Jan Church, Winchester UK
Head down, scurry, look awayno time for strangers in London today"scuse me mate" face in a frownno response in this lonely, strange, townpound the pavements, Piccadilly lightsheart swelling at patriotic sightsbut there's summat not right in this great abyssit's not my home and it's that I missMeeting's finished, sweaty and dirtyslog back through town in the rush at five-thirtyno room to move no space to breatheI'm glad it's time for me to leave18:10, Kings Cross, platform seventake me home to my Northern heavenit's not all factories, caps and smokethere's wealth, expansion and kind hearted folkstep off the train in God's own Countytake in the fresh air of my free bountyI'm stopped outside, bloke's lost his way"it's over there mate, have a great day"I'm happy in my northern Citypicture postcard outskirts, hillsides prettythat London just don't meet my needs'cos in my heart I know I'm LeedsGareth Senior, Leeds
Seashores, glittery traffic lightsthe swirling seagullsI have crossed the imaginary linedivided we speak our backs turnedheading to the haven of soft soundsinto the arms of Hove angeland pescarian food wafts my nostrilsits bedazzling to be homefermenting and freewheelinginto traces of the channelthis love I have for southern shoresrests within my soula place I come to expressall that is within mehail the southcrowned queen of starsshimmering mirageof potential dreamsthe South speaks for itselfYassin, Brighton
Up North, rarely do I go there,At southerners, the folk do stare,Food nought but chips and pie,A southern softy, they call I,The colliery shut, Thatcher they blame,But who'd go back to that old game?Terraced houses are every street,Weather poor, Lord give me heat!Football is religion and more,About its tales the people bore,National anthem the Hovis song,Everything here has gone wrong,Not London but before Scotland,The North is a strange old land. David, Ashford, Kent
North versus South,East versus West.A great divide and debate over which side is best.Yet one thing has slipped our minds,A verse left from the riddle.What about the people who are living in the middle?!Joe Tierney, Worcester
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