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Stoke-on-Trent

Poem by Charlie Barker

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Take grime, and dirt, and soot, and smoke,
Combine all these, that is Stoke.
Humble people live, content
In towns sprawled out, along the Trent,
Its slimy waters, pott-bank stained,
Where refuse from the pits has drained,
Canals that once brought china clays,
Polluted lanes of bygone days,
Muddy towpaths, an age past road,
Where once the might Clydesdales towed,
Dismal slagheaps, smouldering, stand,
Volcanoes made by collier's hand,
Factories, plants, pot-banks, mills,
Watched over by the bottle kilns,
These sooty sentries bleakly stand,
Their offspring charred-rucks scar the land,
And twixt all this, as though unplanned,
Rows of smoke stained houses stand,
With step-stoned portals, as to hide,
Cobbled street, where potters stride,
Rows of humble dwellings lie,
Where generations hope and die,
Corner pubs sell ale and pickles,
Where one's merit is his art in skittles,
Small backyards, all neatly kept,
Cobbled alleys sprawl unswept,
Meanwhile, scattered midst this scene,
The pigeon lofts, the miner's dream,
Painted black and white, in lines,
These are more than lofts, they're shrines,
Six towns spread out, with no design,
Forgotten, out of modern time,
Yet pretty bodies decompose,
From dung-hill foul, the sweetest rose,
Therefore this city, painted bleak,
Hath these virtues, as to speak,
Wenches, with morals unsurpassed,
In beauty cannot be outclassed,
Menfolk, humble, staunch, and true,
Strong and placid, friendly too,
And last, not least, I state with pride,
When stranger asks me, by my side,
Where my days in childhood spent,
I smile, and answer, Stoke-on-Trent.

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Copyright The Bentilean 1999

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