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My first job was in Kenarna chipshop on the Old Glenarm Road, which was owned by David Liddle. I was in third year, aged fourteen, and had to have an emergency lesson beforehand on how to cut an onion. Winnie did the frying, and Diane and Sandra trained me up on the essentials, like how to wrap chips – I'm still an expert. The laughter in the kitchen was constant, as was the stream of customers right up until last orders in the pubs. We closed at twelve. David arranged for us all to be taxi'd home, filled to the brim with fried food. School finished at 3.45, so I sprinted across through the Health Centre to attempt to get there for four. I got home after midnight on Mondays and Thursdays, when I started my homework. (My neighbour told me that I was never in bed before 2.00am). Then I worked on a Friday night, so I was able to keep Irish dancing on Saturdays that first year. By fourth year I had another job in Apsley's newsagents. For a while I did both, until my history teacher reminded me of the importance of GCSEs. These poems happen to comprise what we now call Ulster Scots. It was just the way people spoke back then. It may also help to know that Transvision Vamp was all the rage in third year! On Velveteen Hang up your Pollicitis Addere Facta blazer, step into gingham, take a deep breath, and tidy away your ings. Jouk whitin in tae flour and gleek as grease blisters, bubbles n grows; harl a sack up the sappled steps and hear the spuds dunner against the steel; slap scaldin japs fra yer han and wipe the spit o chips fra yer knee; gulder, ‘Next!’ and write a wheen o orders in yer heid; shiver salt n vinegar and forge a fish supper swaddled in cream. Skim the cream silken sheen and screeve your German, French and Spanish on Velveteen. Irregular girl; perfect tense: Monter Retourner Rester Venir Arriver Naître Sortir Tomber Rentrer Aller Mourir Partir Entrer Descendre. Mr R Vans Tramped; Mr R Trans Vamped: Transvision Vamp. Half past midnight, Braw bricht moonlight, Scrub aff the batter, Sweel aff the grease, Fulfil your promise, and mind what ye writ, in your heed at fourteen. Angeline King Published in Community Arts Partnership, Vision, 2019/20 Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903 Wuiden shelves chime wi Irish lace and linen, crystal trinkets, bare-skud hardbacks hunkered doon like square soldiers, words aimed – yin day – at weans grespin leathery liquorice laces happed in Paisley-patterned paper, hearkenin yarns o grannies built peelie like The People’s Friend, ganshin, gabbin, crackin neath yellow, striped awning. Waater drips doon tweed caps. Scent o Woodbine, o war, o dulse, o ale. Bachelors cowp coins, scatter tobacco, buy news, pay for pipe dreams weighed in siller scales glentin ahint the coonter, midget gems sowl in quarters, ribbons and iambs measured by the meter — similes settled by the score. We sing and dance. 'Apsley’s Newsagents, Est. 1903' was the winning poem in the Frances Browne Festival poetry competition (Ulster Scots Category), October 2021 Image: Alma Thomas, The Eclipse, 1970, acrylic on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum. 
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This poem was written after I listened to the BBC Radio Scotland podcast 'Bible John: Creation of a Serial Killer' (2022), in which journalist Audrey Gillan investigated the late 1960s murders of Patricia Docker, Jemima MacDonald, and Helen Puttock, exploring their lives, the failings of the original investigations and claims of a police cover-up regarding a suspect. I also thought of Lulu. In Barrowlands with Big Bands Dust falls silver from the sprung floors of Glasgow skies as sling-backs quickstep above kirk spires and three women jive cathedral-long nights in the city that never stops dancing. Those schoolgirl days were forever in Barrowlands with big bands. Jemima, Patricia, Helen, birl two-three and – Shout! We are dancers. Angeline King Published in Ulster University Paperclip Vol. III, 2023. Image: Emilio Cruz, The Dance, 1962, Smithsonian American Art Museum  A short one from me. A memory of holding my little baby girl after work when she was sick. I love the words heart-sorry and heart-sore and use them frequently in my writing.
Heart-Sore I cradle you sleeping Learn the rain on your lashes Know the lull in your snowdrift Sup your scarlet face Place a cool hand on your cheek I'm heart-sore Angeline King Published in Community Arts Partnership, Threshold, 2021/22  This poem was written after taking a walk up to Ballysnod, a lovely spot close to where I live in East Antrim. The hedges had just been cut and there was still some measure of lockdown quiet. I approached my granny's old house and thought of what has been handed down to me from the women in my family and society. Alas, I have no sewing skills!
Dance of Cow Parsley Scent of mother’s milk, laced hook and eye onto collars darned in linen yarn, I necklace you onto paper and dance – dress umbellifer in green fields, soundless of the cock, bereft of the breeze of barley. Gorse cut back – melancholy saffron hemming hedges – half-petal embroidery birthed after fire. I climb with a maternal line over bleach greens. Supping. Stitching. Scribing. Angeline King Published in Community Arts Partnership, Heartland, 2020/21 Image: Firelight, Alice Pike Barney, 1952, Smithsonian American Art Museum. |
Angeline KingOriginal poems, translations, educational analysis and general poetry and poetics. |
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