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“It’s my voice; that’s how I speak”: The Rhythms of Northern English in the Poetry of Simon Armitage

It’s my voice; that’s how I speak”: Les rythmes de la poésie du Nord de l’Angleterre chez Simon Armitage
Claire Hélie
p. 157-170


Quand, en 1991, Simon Armitage (né en 1963) répond à la question qui lui est posée sur l’utilisation du dialecte du West Yorkshire dans sa poésie par “It’s my voice; it’s how I speak”, il suggère d’abord qu’il pense avoir résolu le problème de la solution de continuité entre l’oral et l’écrit, l’une des quêtes principales de la poésie britannique au moins depuis les Romantiques, notamment Wordsworth dans les Lyrical Ballads (1789). Il implique également que son dialecte ne réside pas que dans des choix lexicaux ou syntaxiques, mais aussi dans une voix avec ses sons, ses intonations, ses rythmes. Il est vrai qu’à lire ses poèmes, on a souvent l’impression qu’on ne lit pas un poète mais que l’on entend un homme qui nous parle directement, et que cet homme vient du Nord de l’Angleterre. Au fil des poèmes, Armitage met en scène sa voix et cherche à faire réagir le lecteur, voire à le faire agir, en l’encourageant à donner une voix nordique aux personae des poèmes. L’analyse consistera en une typologie des expériences du poète les rythmes nord-anglais sur la page et lors de lectures publiques, et s’appuiera sur des poèmes dialectaux ainsi que sur des poèmes dont les marqueurs de l’anglais du Nord sont moins évidents.

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1In 1981, the critic Donald Wesling expressed one of the most crucial literary problems: “The relation of literature to the human voice offers a good deal of trouble to many current critical systems, mostly as the result of criticism’s unwillingness to address adequately the dual nature of language as a medium for literature and for ordinary communication” (Wesling 69). Little did he know that ten years later, when asked about the use of dialect in his poetry, Yorkshire poet Simon Armitage would reply: “It’s my voice; that’s how I speak” (Stabler 92). This remark might be cocky but it is certainly not philistine: it suggests that the gap between written and spoken has been bridged. This might be one of the main quests of British poetry, at least since Wordsworth who, in his preface to the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800), searched for a poetic language that would be “a selection of the language really used by men” (Wordsworth 734). Yet, the “metrical crisis” (Hollander 202) of the early Romantic era deals more with “diction and the prosodic conventions of popular literature than with forging the actual rhythms of speech into poetic forms” (Gates 505). On the contrary, the current metrical crisis is due to a quest for orality, which, in Armitage’s poetry, comes not only from his colloquializing of poetic forms but also from his handling of the rhythms of dialect.

  • 1 In “Englands of the Mind”, Seamus Heaney analyses the ways in which Hughes’, Larkin’s and Hill’s po (...)

2Yet Armitage is not a dialect poet in the sense that the Yorkshire poets collected by F.W. Moorman in 1915 were. His Northern English does not have a vindictive dimension and it contains Yorkshire and Standard English elements, archaisms and Americanisms—it is a construct, just as his Northern England is a “Northern England of the mind”, to paraphrase Seamus Heaney.1 To make clear that his use of dialect is just as poetic, but more playful and less poetical than poets such as Tony Harrison or Derek Walcott, he claims: “I’m not unfurling flags for the provinces in my poems, but certainly the poetry’s assembled out of a northern tongue” (Quinn 6). His dialect comes straight from his mouth—it is a sound emission, with its characteristic phonemes, pauses, intonations and speed. It is coterminous with the concept of voice, understood both as vocal utterance and style. It is at the intersection of oral and written and involves what Garrett Steward has called “evocalization” (Steward 3), the kind of reading that involves the reader—and the audience—in the creation of the aural dimension of the text, the kind of reading that gives a voice to the poem.

3This prompts many questions when applied to Armitage’s poetry: how is the dialect realized in the reader’s experience of the poem? Does the northern quality of the poetic voice exist within the text independently of extratextual knowledge of the poet as a Northerner? If so, how is it created? How does the poetic text elicit a reading out loud in such a dialect, and, conversely, how do dialectal words, grammatical structures and intonations affect the rhythm of the poem? Last but not least, can the poet’s reading performance be predicted from the text?

  • 2 Throughout this article, I will use Attridge’s terminology as explained in The Rhythms of English P (...)

4Derek Attridge2 has shown that reading rhythm does not mean being presented with a series of options but is a matter of real freedom for the reader and, for purpose of clarification, deliberately “ignore[d] the fact that there exist rhythmic differences among the varieties of English spoken both now and in the past” (Attridge 217, 60). Lacy Rumsey’s complementary work on speech rhythm, once applied to Northern English, gives further insight into Northern dialect rhythms. This study will also turn to John Wells and Joan Beal for their work on the phonology of Northern English dialects, to Alan Cruttenden for his research on the intonation of Urban Northern British, and to Katie Wales for her analysis of the stereotypical representations of Northern English. It will consist in a typology ranging from conspicuous markers of Northern speech to more subtle forms, rather than in a chronology. The aim is to give a sample of Armitage’s rhythmical practice and ironical experience with the rhythms of dialect.

Mock Dialect Rhythms

5Simon Armitage has written two poems that qualify as dialect poems: “On an Owd Piktcha” and “The Phoenix” (Armitage 2001, 22, 62). He is fully aware of certain prejudices against dialect poetry: “You know, dialect poems are things that are usually frowned on and make you feel local and insignificant and it’s been very interesting for me, as somebody from this part of the world, to try and find a way of representing some of the noises people make around here because, you know, in the phonetic alphabet they don’t really exist” (Poetry Archive). These poems stand out because they are written in italics, a typographical marker used to operate a movement of the voice in writing. Since the Northern dialect is treated as noises that resist being poetical while being deemed worthy as a poetical language, Armitage’s dialect poems are slanted in more than just one way.

6The title and subtitle “On an Owd Piktcha (from tJerman)” present the poem both as an ekphrasis of one “Madonna and the Child” and as a translation from some German poem. Yet the exact sources are lost to the reader and might even be misleading. Furthermore, instead of making the poem readable for an English speaker, the poet defamiliarizes the experience of reading by opting for West Yorkshire dialect (“sithee”, “baht” and “laikin”) as the target language. The association between Northern English and Middle English that occurred in the Renaissance creates an archaic atmosphere (Blank 100–125). These features give an apocryphal dimension to the poem.

7Despite the seriousness of the topic of sin, the poem is humorous in its treatment of “tVirgin” and “tChrast Chald”, mostly because the colloquial diction seems to belittle the subject. Indeed the poem reads as a phonetic transcription of northern speech patterns: [t’]s (instead of “thes”) are concatenated, [n]s replace “ands”, [h]s are dropped, vowels are reminiscent of the non occurrence of the great vocalic change in the north. According to Wells, “it seems possible that the monophthongal types to be heard in some accents of the middle north are synchronic stylistic variants of diphthongal types” (Wells 359). Hence “arahnd”, “pooaking” and “nooas” for “around”, “poking” and “nose”. Yet the graphic representation of “Piktcha” is not attested as a Yorkshire version of the word “picture” and does not really change its pronunciation, nor does [-in] instead of [-ing]. On the contrary, these features tend to point to Jamaican or to slang, thus denouncing the incoherence and the artificiality of the spelling system. Therefore the poem can be read as a mock-dialect poem.

8Paradoxically, the religious meaning of the scene is retrieved through the rhythm of northern dialect. Indeed, each line has four beats, with a pause in the middle, so there are two tone units per line. The first half of each line is narrative, the second half is descriptive. The second halves are rife with idiomatic phrases that follow an o B o B pattern, in which o stands for an offbeat and B for a beat.

Int swelterin eet, mongst tbirds n tbeez,
side cool waiter n rushes n reeds,
tChrahst Chahld sithee, born baht taint,
laikin arahnd on tVirgin’s knee

n pooaking its nooas aht o tleaves n tmoss
already green, tTree o tCross.

9“Born baht taint” and “tTree of tCross”, two biblical set phrases, stand out because of the displacement of the first offbeat on the other side of the caesura, hence of the tone unit. Besides, the first three second halves and the last two are linked through alliteration (be it only through the concatenated [t]s), which is clearly reminiscent of alliterative poetry. Yet, the fourth line does not alliterate and is followed by a blank, a long pause after the break down of the expected rhythm. The four beats, the caesura, the even number of lines, the alliteration, the couplet rhymes: pairs are everywhere in the poem, except for the third line which stands alone. The overall effect is to insist on the disruptive word “taint” through the rhythmical change and the missing rhyme.

10If the text were rewritten in Standard English, there would be from four to six stresses per line, the tone units would be unevenly distributed, and grammatical words would receive stress. In Armitage’s text, concatenations and elisions prevent this, while the numerous consonant clusters thus introduced insist on the materiality of the words and slow down the pace of reading. Therefore we cannot help but notice a tightening of the rhythm in the original text. Not only does it sustain the duality previously mentioned, but it also ingrains the poetic rhythm in the reader’s ear. The counterpoint between the visual (the outdated mode of transcription) and the aural (the liveliness of the northern dialect) is made possible by retrieving and updating the medieval alliterative rhythm. The reader’s initial prejudice against dialect is subjected to the poet’s irony since the rhythm of dialect is what makes poetry possible.


11Tyrannosaurus Rex and the Corduroy Boy (2006) contains a sequence of five poems entitled “Sympathy”: each poem starts with a sestet in Roman letters, followed by an asterisk and three stanzas in italics—two of ten lines each and one of one line. Two voices are thus confronted: an anonymous voice that relates a court case in Standard English and one particularized voice that speaks his or her side of the story in dialect. That voice is not only northern, but also working-class. Though visually differentiated, the two voices share some common traits since they both make the rhythms of everyday speech heard: there are verbless sentences and speech markers (anyways, like, right. . .) and coordination is preferred to subordination.

12In the first poem of the sequence, the I speaks about the morning after his girlfriend drowned during a party. The poem is structured around images of inflation and deflation: the moon is “inflatable”; the speaker is looking for a leftover sign of heat and life, be it in a joint left in an ashtray or in a balloon his girlfriend had blown up; even capital letters are debunked into small cases and voices are deflated:

But this weren’t breath what you’d blown from your own lungs,
this was ’elium-filled, so when I curses your name
it weren’t THE ANGRY MAN but Mickey Mouse what spoke.
So I blows it up again, and this time, it’s smoke.

13Deflation, a release of air, also refers to breath and therefore to breath units and rhythm. While the speaker elicits sympathy, the images also generate some kind of rhythmical empathy.

14In spite of their common characteristics, the two voices are clearly not speaking the same language. The first part resorts to conceits—the reader is encouraged to ponder over each line:

All that she left—an inflatable moon.

15The dash and the three dots at the end of the stanza generate pauses, moments of silence. On the contrary in the second part, the language is far more exuberant and packed, with compound words, with proper nouns used as common words, with alliterations that link the words together (“Aberfan-meets-Mexican-mudslide”). The spontaneous oral diction tends to accelerate the pace of reading, compared to the more meditative first part.

  • 3 Barthes called “effets de réel” those small pieces of a text that denote less than they connote rea (...)

16In the second part, there are also “northernisms” (Wales 100), that is to say stereotypical representations of Northern speech. Many such “effets de réel”3 (Barthes 179–187) elicit a northern voice. Some of them are phonetic: ‘thes’ are concatenated, [h]s are dropped, -ing endings are spelt -in, and “mi” stands for “my”. Others are lexical: “reefer” for “joint” and “on mi tod” for “all alone”. Others are grammatical: “I” followed by a verb ending in -s, the use of “were” instead of “was” and “what” instead of “that”. These northernisms are supposed to function as markers of authenticity, yet they debunk any attempt at authenticity since the idea that Northerners speak in such way and that they are more genuine than their Southern fellowmen are two stereotypes.

17Yet, the graphic means to elicit a northern voice are there again deflated in the word “eirloom”, since the /h/ is not aspirated, even in Standard English. It is not a sound but a mere letter which is taken off. The word exhibits the tension between written and spoken and denounces the rigidity of the spelling system. Therefore the clear-cut opposition between the poetic and the colloquial voice is undermined—there is a dialectic movement between the colloquial voice that stands for authenticity and tries to win the reader’s sympathy, and the poetic voice, which is a construct, something artificial that denounces any attempt at linguistic realism.

18Since the graphic system is flawed, only beats matter. The change of diction is accompanied by a change in rhythm as the four beats of the standard voice give way to the five beats of the dialectal voice. The distribution of the four beats in the first part is rather regular, the poetic rhythm is quite conspicuous, one could even talk of tetrameters. On the contrary, the distribution of the five beats in the second part shows no regularity at all, which makes for a more spontaneous speech type of diction, quite different from regular pentameters. Derek Attridge wrote: “Almost all nursery rhymes, ballads, hymns, and other forms of popular verse and song use the four-beat rhythm as the basis of their metre, most often in groups of four lines or in simple variations on this basic structure. [. . .] When we turn to poetry of less popular origins, we find that a large part of it makes use of the same elementary rhythms, though the underlying form may not be as clearly manifested” (Attridge 123). Therefore the traditional association of rhythm and diction is challenged here: the four-beat line, a vehicle for light popular verse, conveys poetical images, whereas the five-beat line, a vehicle for more serious verse, conveys the vox populi. There again dialect is what ironically allows poetry to happen.

Translating the Rhythms of Dialect

19Armitage further explores the possibility of the four-beat line as both highly poetic and highly popular through translation. He has written adaptations from the Greek tradition (Homer and Euripides), but has only translated poets from his own region—Samuel Laycock, a 19th century dialect poet from Marsden, and the 14th century Gawain poet. Although the northerness of the Gawain poet is debated—most critics, like Marie Borroff, agree on the fact that he was a Midlander (Borroff 1967, VII)—Armitage chose him because he recognized his language as similar to his own: “The diction of the original tells us that its author was, broadly speaking, a northerner. Or we could say a midlander. [. . .] Coaxing Gawain and his poem back into the Pennines was always part of the plan. [. . .] To a contemporary poet, one interested in narrative and form, and to a northerner who not only recognizes plenty of the poems’s dialect but who detects an echo of his own speech rhythms within the original, the urge to blow a little warm breath across that layer of frosting eventually proved irresistible” (Armitage 2007, VI–VII). And indeed his translation reads as an updating of the northern dialect and speech rhythm of the original poem.

20The Gawain poet is something of a construct, since hardly anything about him is known and since his romance was put down on paper by several copyists, at several temporal removes, with three other texts that bear resemblance one with another. As a consequence, it is very difficult to retrieve his original voice, as Marie Borroff argues, who after claiming that historical phonologists must distinguish between the pronunciation used by the author and that implied by the spelling of the manuscript (Borroff 1962, 133), gives a close reading of case and verb endings in order to reconstruct his speech rhythms. What one can do is only provisional without any proof such as a recording. Calling the Gawain poet a fellow northerner based on what the poet recognizes as similar to his own poetic practice is a case of voluntary misreading and a creative one at that. Armitage claims in his preface: “This is not an exercise in linguistic forensics or medieval history; the intention has always been to produce a living, inclusive and readable piece of work in its own right. In other words, the ambition has been poetry” (Armitage 2007, VIII).

21Many other poets have attempted to translate Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, most recently American poet W.S. Merwin in 2004 and Irish poet Bernard O’Donoghue the year before Armitage published his own translation. So there seems to have been a renaissance of the 14th century alliterative revival. The first one was based on reviving the old native metre after the invasions by the Romans and the French. The second might be aimed at retrieving the rhythms of oral poetry after the text became a set text in academic studies. “This is a translation not only for the eye but for the ear and the voice as well” (Armitage 2007 VIII–IX). Indeed, Armitage resorts to those same devices that prompt evocalization.

22What he reproaches earlier translations with, especially Tolkien’s authoritative text, is that they are stilted because the demands of the alliterative principles and the search for a modern idiom are often at odds: “I read Tolkien’s translation when I was in my mid-20s; not surprisingly for someone who had studied and decoded the original text, his is a highly faithful rendition. But I never really responded to the antique diction and syntax—it struck me at times as even older than the original” (Armitage 2006). Armitage’s argument is a bit extreme and Tolkien’s use of archaisms is completely relative. Yet it shows what Armitage was trying not to do (be bookish) and what he was trying to do (update the language so that the text can be performed again in front of a contemporary audience). The poet found a way out of this dilemma by drawing on the resources of Standard English, colloquial speech and dialect. For instance, in the lines:

I’m spoiling for no scrap, I swear. Besides,
The bodies on these benches are just bum-fluffed bairns.
(Armitage 2007, 17)

23the extra /b/ in a line that contains a dialect word and the compound “bum-fluffed bairns” creates a ludicrous image of the knights, while updating the rhythm they were praised in.

24The translation is not a homophonic translation but through a mixture of various lexicons, the rhythm of the original poem is enhanced. The revival of the alliterative revival in Armitage’s hands does not aim only at restoring the genuine rhythms of the country but at doing it with a twist, being cheeky with the kind of ideal this rhythm entails and which is no longer relevant to the 21st century. While retrieving the alliterative rhythm, he both claims the heroic past of England and forges a new version of the nation steeped in ironies.

Performing Northern Rhythms?

25This exploration of the meaning of the nation had already started in Armitage’s first collection, Zoom! (1989), a state-of-England collection in which people living at the margins—lunatics, hoboes, murderers—take central place. The voice that expresses itself in the monologues is decidedly northern, yet the linguistic markers of northern dialect are less conspicuous than in the previous poems. They are supplemented by a few traits that are stereotypically attributed to ‘the resilient Northerners, hard-working and humorous in the face of adversity, blunt-speaking and straight forward, friendly to strangers, their working flat caps matching their “flat” vowels’ (Wales 28). Therefore the northern rhythm of the poem is a matter of performance: readers are tempted to play it up in their heads and the poet might want to foreground it in public readings.

26The elements that give rhythm are, amongst others, enjambments, caesura, the shapes of words and phrases, syntactic repetition, semantic expectation, stanzaic structure, rhyme (Cureton 97). In other words, rhythm is rhetorical. In the case of Armitage’s poetry, idioms and catchphrases create the rhythm: “[Most idioms or catchphrases that come from dialect] contain a good deal of music and rhythm which isn’t disharmonious with the way I’m trying to construct poems” (Stabler 92). In “The Stuff” (Armitage 2001, 68), the poet condenses together several set phrases that he links through alliteration:

and crackled like wildfire through the grapevine
of gob and gossip

27Yet such a dexterous list of rhythmic phrases doesn’t have anything genuinely northern about it. Only do the narrative and its location—Oldham—as well as the paratext, most notably the poet’s short biography at the back of the collection, encourage the reader to perform the poem in a northern voice. When the poet introduces the poem before reading it, he describes it as a “sideways look at the Northern drug scene” (Armitage 1991), and he does so in an unmistakable northern accent.

28In his foreword, the poet’s intonation is close to Urban Northern British as Alan Cruttenden defined it: according to him in spite of the commonplace idea that northerners have a flatter intonation than southerners, they actually used far more rising intonation patterns in statements, which is usually used to express sarcasm and participates in the cliché that northerners have an ironic outlook on life, although Scandinavian influence might be a less whimsical reason (Cruttenden 1995, 221). Does this intonation affect the rhythm of the poem? Surprisingly enough, if Armitage’s intonation seems rather flat in his preliminary words, it is nothing of the sort during the performance reading of “The Stuff”. There the intonation is that of Standard English; only the short tone-units that make for a lively spur-of-the-moment kind of diction give a northern feel.

29Discussing rhythm participates in reconstructing a spoken voice. Armitage draws on the resources of dialect both to give an oral dimension to his text and to experiment with poetic rhythms. Therefore not only does he find a way to set in tension the written and the oral but he also challenges the traditional opposition between Low Arts and High Arts. The voice that is heard during reading has northern inflections that are elicited by textual markers but also by extratextual knowledge, which is mainly constructed in the paratext. The reader is free to activate or not the rhythmical potentialities of the text as having a northern quality or not. Yet, once the reader has forged this northern rhythm in his/her inner ear through reading poets from the north of England, through watching their performances and through accepting their own versions of what a northern rhythm might be, these northern rhythms become pervasive and resonate in the reader from one text to another.

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1 In “Englands of the Mind”, Seamus Heaney analyses the ways in which Hughes’, Larkin’s and Hill’s poems are engaged with a certain idea of what England might be.

2 Throughout this article, I will use Attridge’s terminology as explained in The Rhythms of English Poetry (1982).

3 Barthes called “effets de réel” those small pieces of a text that denote less than they connote reality.

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Claire Hélie, « “It’s my voice; that’s how I speak”: The Rhythms of Northern English in the Poetry of Simon Armitage », Études britanniques contemporaines, 39 | 2010, 157-170.

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Claire Hélie, « “It’s my voice; that’s how I speak”: The Rhythms of Northern English in the Poetry of Simon Armitage », Études britanniques contemporaines [En ligne], 39 | 2010, mis en ligne le 11 février 2016, consulté le 27 juin 2017. URL : ; DOI : 10.4000/ebc.2817

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Claire Hélie

University of Paris I—Panthéon-Sorbonne.
Claire Hélie is working on her PhD thesis on the poetry of the North of England since the 1960s under prof. Marc Porée’s supervision. She has published several articles on the poets in her corpus: Basil Bunting, Ted Hughes, Tony Harrison and Simon Armitage. She also has an interest in the translation of poetry (she has translated poems by Tony Harrison for the Maison de la Poésie) and in the representations of masculilnity (she took part in the innovating project “Performing White Straight Masculinities” co-directed by Hélène Quanquin and Raphaël Costambeys-Kempczynski, at the Sorbonne Nouvelle). She teaches at the University of Paris I—Panthéon-Sorbonne.

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