Just a few words about myself.
Here's a picture of me and Ar'Lass at a wedding. I was born in Leeds in 1950 , spent most of my life living in the Yorkshire coalfields but ended up in the East Riding, so my dialect is " rate muxed ip! " I love studying the roots of language. I think it shows more about the history of people than Archaeologists can ever hope to reveal.
I decided to write about my childhood for the benefit of my grandchildren and somewhere or other got the crazy idea to do it in poetry. Dialect poetry at that!
So what follows is a semi-autobiographical account.
Bevin Hut by Ron Chipman
Theere I stand,
First spice off rationing in t’ hand.
On t’ wrong feet
There’d bin no time to dress up reet!
All clarted up
And theere in’t background; Bevinut.
Early Days by Ron Chipman
Soldiers had given up thear guns.
An't war wer at an end.
Bevin Boys had all gone ooam.
Grown men filled t’pits agen.
Bevin’uts stood stark and cold.
No sound o’ young lad’s laikin.
Rows an rows o’rust streeaked tin.
Wreckers ball awaitin.
Aye times were ard in them thear days.
Wer then me Mam got wed.
And Bevin’ut was er first ooam.
Though nowt bur’a tin shed.
Times weren’t much fun in them thear days.
Rate soon I came along.
Me Mam a cripple wi’ three mouths to feed.
Two quid a week to live on.
Aye an Bevin’ut were pretty rough.
Tha’ad to be a tough’n.
In’t winter tha wer nithered.
In’t summer, like an oven.
Then t’Bevin’uts wer all pulled dahn.
Must’bin summer o’ 55.
Efta pneumonia and scarlet fever.
A wor lucky to be alive.
All ar goods were put on t’andcart.
And we upped and did a flit.
It wer only into t’Prefabs
But we’d moved up ladder a bit.
Welligogs by Ron Chipman
When t’summer days are o’er long
Tha knaws when it’s time for bed
Cos tha’s been all day wit t’ wellies on
And tha legs are rubbed sewer and red.
Tha’s roald em up, tha’s roald em dahn
To try an relieve t’pain.
Tha’s tried dock-leaves an camomile lotion
But whativer, it wer all in vain.
T’day had started summat fair crackin
Tha’d had socks on to ease the rub
But someweir in t’sewage works bottom
They’d gone missing in two foot o’mud.
Who’d a thought when tha’d emptied towd gogs aht
Ther’d be no sign of a new pair of socks?
Was it sumat in watter ad et em?
Wer t’drains full o’gators and crocks?
Tha’ mother had made thi ware sandals
But t’ plastic had rubbed thee feet soar.
It’s a good job tha’d had sense to change ‘em.
Tha’d a lost all thi toes that’s for shooar.
But it wouldn’t a bin quite as tragic.
As ‘avin all of thi mates laugh at thee
Wearing white plastic sandals in t’summer?
Stead o’goggies right up to t’knee ?
Tha can’t go bod nesting in t’sandals!
Or brambling dahn in t’pit wood.
In wellies t’ world is thi oyster.
(Except when thears two feet of mud!)
Thear good for t’summer and winter.
There not flumuxt wi snow hail or rain.
Ahd weear um all neet it I ad to.
Mebby then I’de get used to the pain!