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One
module I studied for part of my MA was a poetry course for which
I had to produce a portfolio of original work. I saw this as the
perfect opportunity to endeavour to explore and preserve my Black
Country roots.
All
of my family are from the Black Country and although I'm born a
Devon dumpling my heart is Black Country down to the core. Therefore,
I chose to create a collection of poetry recounting my father's
childhood memories of the tip at the bottom of Glastonbury Road,
entitled Tales from the Tip. Furthermore, I also chose to compose
some of these poems in the Black Country dialect.
It
was my poem 'Mrs Hyde's Rant' that achieved this specification most
effectively. I was asked to read this poem out in my poetry class
to an audience of twenty, and I'd bet money on the fact that it
was the first time that university had heard the ring of a Black
Country poem. Well, the reaction was amazing as I received a standing
ovation - they loved it! I hope I can continue to champion the Black
Country dialect in my work and give it the recognition it deserves.
Mrs
Hyde's Rant
The
Black Country's tongue has been junked on the tip.
Folks say it t'ay proper English, a decaying dialect.
I reply, "Shut yow cake hole barmpots, dow yow know
Black Country is the onny survivin' sound of Owld English?
Even that famous mon, Chaucer, was a West Midlands mucker".
So
yow plont potatoes an' we dig - up taters with dirty donnies.
Yow maintain oral igiene with toothpaste, we spit out tuffpaste.
Yow weit fer a bus when we catch the buz. T'ay no different.
The music may sound outta tune, but the routine's the same.
I gerrup
at 6am, wash me onds and fisoge n' comb me yahair.
Pull on me uniform trazis, thermal ganzy n' weskit.
I pop me yat on me yead n' grab a Tetnul Dick for breffus.
Say torah to me cocka, mec sure he'll give the babbee its bokkle,
Promise owa Lewis a bag of kaline suck.
"Adu?"
to Mrs Hollingsworth, ooh 'er is 'alf soaked since
That Martin went missin', sawa the coppers cum this mornin'.
Number 24's wommel is yowling the street down again.
At the buz stop Muck Fayce and Bragg Arse sly munch -
Fayces like a fawpny hock. The buz driver's gorra cobb on,
Chunters "tickets ploise", caggy-handed bugger.
I sit
next to Mrs Millward, ers a nus at Hallum orsepickle.
Ooh 'er dow 'alf mec me loff, loff I say I nearly shat me self.
"Oroit?" I ask, " 'ow was yow wikend?" 'Er says,
"I ay bloody
Havin' a Saturday off agen. The twins got into an argy-bargy
On the tip, bobbies bought em um scared to jeth -
They want coal crackin'on their yeads".
Me
boss at Dray Springs has gorra a bob on hisself.
11.30 fake break atter stand outside in the cowld,
Cor risk another foyer. Gagging for a cuppa tae, gotta
Gob full of fevers. Cum 5.30 I'm the fust outta the dowa,
"Trarabit". Cook lomb's brains on toast fer faither's
supper.
The tittie babi squawls cutting 'er tuttie pegs and kiddling.
Then
it's up the wooden hill to me cot,
Countin' the bobhowlers splattin' up me window.
That's mar life in mar language, rusty vowowls,
Corroded consonants, maet flies aet its rottin' flesh.
Black Country leaves a metallic taste in yow mouths,
But in owa 'ell flame foundries we'll melt it down
And keep recastin' it.
Need
help with a translation? Here's a quick guide to the 'Black Country
speak' used;
Mucker - mate. Donnies - hands. Fisoge - face. Trazis - trousers.
Ganzy - vest. Weskit - waistcoat. Kaline - sherbet. Wommel - dog.
Fawpny hock - four penny hock. Fake break - fag break. Tuttie pegs
- baby teeth. Kiddling - dribbling. Wooden hill - stairs. Bobhowlers
- Moths.
By
Morwenna Griffiths.
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