London Machine

This small piece came to me this morning, as I had to travel into London for my job. I hope you like it.

Emerging from the crush of the London underground, squeezed through the exit like toothpaste from a tube. The scattergun dispersal of my fellow commuters, out into the morning sun and morning traffic.
Travellers removed from their self-imposed bubble whilst on a tube carriage, to once again engage with the world. Coffees to buy, buses to find, offices to get to.
But just for a moment, to pause in a quiet doorway and really see my surroundings. When the sun shines and the chrome glows, London can be beautiful.
Watching the cyclists as they gather at a red light, the snarling couriers, hipster office workers. Their daily roulette of battling the cars and lorries in the name of avoiding public transport.
The pretty women with their summer outfits, headphones providing their own chosen soundtrack as they hurry to their workplaces.
For a moment, the genuine feeling of being part of an unknowably large machine, the beat of commerce and finance at it’s heart, the individual people as blood cells, flowing through it’s streets as veins.
It is a love / hate relationship. The idea, the image, the idealised thought of this great city, missed when not seen and experienced for a long time, calls to me as an oft’ recalled favourite place. The urge to once more walk among it’s lanes and streets gets stronger with each passing week. But then, upon arriving above ground from another grubby and dirty journey among the tunnels, bumped and barged and banged around by the inconsiderate… The ringing though, “Oh why do I bother?”
But then, I am a Londoner, in heart and in mind. My accent speaks of the Thames, the west end, the great parks and bridges. How can I not feel part of this great machine, when stood in the morning sun, feet planted firmly on the streets of London?

Never Again

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything and for that I apologise. My muse had taken another extended leave of absence, but she’s graced me with a fleeting visit this evening. I hope you like this one, and I will try and not leave it so long next time.

A drop of dark blood on the pillow again;
What secrets are kept and hidden
Behind the doors of the castles
Of men?

A bruise on the skin on her body again;
The colour of ink with yellow
Surround that stings as she straightens
And bends.

The hate in the words that are shouted again;
Such poison is heard and violence
Revealed when all that she wants is
A friend.

The snap of a bone as it echoes again;
A shocking report that shatters
The peace and once more to doctors
She’s sent.

He’ll not raise his hand to her ever again;
His body now laid out pinned with
A blade; she’ll never be beaten
Again.

The Left Bank – Revisited

One of the people I am lucky enough to have following my blog has been kind enough to improve my recent poem “The Left Bank”. And I say that with no malice or sarcasm! She has captured the essence of the poem completely, but made the language far cleaner and far more elegant. My version is what happens when you do something with half a mind, and not completely focused on what it should be. Anyway, please visit her rather splendid blog Scottish Momus because she has an absolute treasure trove of poems and other delights. I hope you like this one as much as I do.

Scent of coffee, sounded horns,
Yellow light on skin,
Dawning day in tired room,
Paris life began,
Sleepy eyes consumed your form,
Body made for sin,
That summer morn revealed its bloom
While passing buskers sang.

Iron frame, its shadows cast,
Dark, old-fashioned bed,
Cigarettes and last night’s wine,
Such words of love we said.
You took my hand and stole my past,
Down boulevards you led,
Lights upon the Seine they shone,
Into the shadows bled.

Oh to be that place again,
Palette painted view,
Floors above the old Left Bank,
Sunlight streaming through,
Paris in its waking grace
Colours all I knew,
Gratefully I give my thanks
For being there with you.