Northern Arts' Blues (September 2010) Poem by DM W

Come gather 'round friends
And I'll tell you a tale
Of the vicious, tribal Teesside Arts scene.
The pantomime dames; the clowns and the fakes
Tell you now that the whole scene is empty.

'Twas a year ago, on this very day,
That our hopes and dreams were rising.
Little did we know, that four seasons in Hell,
Were sadly only just beginning.

We worked long and hard to sculpt our vision.
Some thought it light years ahead of its time.
It blended dazzling images, sounds and words
To transcend the provincial party line.

We booked some venues to showcase our work,
But the silence of tongues was building.
Then one day we awoke to the mind games they play,
And realised we were dealing with petty children.

' It's all about me! ' said the vain queen of the Arts,
As the airwaves were filled with her screaming.
Still the acolytes marched in her mad parade.
But we saw through the mask of her scheming.

Soon the gates were locked and the battle lines drawn.
And the evil stench of lies was spreading.
Yet the sad, silent songs of our troubled souls went on.
Until the Autumn leaves were falling.

Well 'twas a long winter's wait,
But from my home I still composed.
My true friends couldn't have been kinder.
But my Muse had departed and I quit in the Spring,
And prayed for strength and guidance.

We complained to the chief Pharisee;
That ' noble' guardian of Beauty.
He said that our themes weren't worth writing.
He claimed that it's much better to be
A puppet on a string, than risk lots of in house fighting.

It seems like they want plenty of bums on seats,
For their workshops of half baked notions.
I suppose they're okay with their snouts in the trough,
But it seems like they're just going through the motions.

The summer has gone; the ground's turning cold.
The stars of our dreams are fading.
And so I suppose I will soon go to the land of Castro,
Because there's nothing here now to hold me.