London Poetry
These are some poems I have composed over the years about living day-to-day in my adopted city of London. Please read and enjoy!
The Real Eastenders
Between Bow Road and West Ham Station
Is Walford East, or Bromley-by-Bow
Welcome to the real Eastenders
Albert Square is awash in dirt
The tower blocks lined in scaffolding
Perpetual redevelopment of industrialised society
On the ground, market-traders sell their fruit
Discoloured by packaging and the weather
The locals don't speak English -
It's either Cockney or Bengali
The immigrants have taken all the jobs
Because they are the only ones
Who can actually bothered working
All the white people are signing on,
In the Bow Bells watching football on Skyplus
On Bow Road, the 25 rolls on past,
A double-decker now
The bendy-bus consigned to oblivion
And in Stratford
The looming stadium in the skyline
Delivers it's ominous message -
The tourists are coming!
The tourists are coming!
The tourists are coming!
Laundry
I do my laundry, drying out my stuff
In Bow Road, where the lady guvnor stays
Her evil eye dislikes me just enough
To snap and shout at me when in a daze
I get distracted, angry, feeling rough
She hates my twisted, self-destructive ways
I'm so detached, my mind is nearly gone
As all around the voices chatter on.
The Central Line
The Central is coloured red and makes
Too many complex errors - it frustrates
And angers me with horrible mistakes -
The way the train delays and hesitates
The carriage fills up fast and no-one waits
Excitedly because we feel annoyed
At being trapped within this crowded void
The Number 8
The Number 8 transports me to Brick Lane
The bus is not the fastest or the best
The noise it makes is louder than the train
And screaming babies give my soul unrest
However, it is handy for my needs -
Although it moves at alternating speeds,
The slowest putting patience to the test,
I see the town on which my inspiration feeds.
On Roman Road
The people barter,
Trade and hustle
On Roman Road
They work, they fight
They drink, they play
Amids the grime,
The bricks and clay
On Roman Road
The children cruise the streets
Kicking rubbish at their feet
Texting as they talk
Lounging as they walk
Doing silly things at random
Trying to while away the boredom
On Roman Road
Single mothers rush around
Prams and shopping bags in hand
The jobless drift from day to day
Ambling their lives away
On Roman Road
The sun goes down
The shops board up
Activity grinds to a stop
The sound of silence
Sweeps the stones
The windy air
Will chill your bones
As in the breeze,
The pigeons fly
The cabs and buses
Roll on by
On Roman Road
Library
Children, mad and full of energy
Running around like little elves
Playing hide-and-seek among the shelves
They buzz around my head
Like two-legged mosquitoes
As online, I try in vain
To find employment
There isn't much enjoyment
And I am getting distracted
By a silence-piercing racket
There is a child in a pram
The poor thing is in a jam
And she is crying out to me
I fell alot of sympathy
For I endured this agony
When I was just a child
The tears and the tantrums
That creep up on you at random
And I want to say to her mother:
Stop browsing
Stop gossiping
Your child is trying to talk to you
I think she really needs the loo
Out of Step with History
I cannot write of what I see
I'm out of step with history
I wonder where it all went wrong
I wonder what's been going on
These past few days have slipped right by
I'm out of step with history
Too slow to catch on
To what's really happening
Inertia and self-absorption are maddening
I'm out of step with history
London burns and I am helpless
Nothing I can do to stop this
Helicopters overhead
Businesses closed, the people fled
Some try to help, some cower in dread
Of what this city's coming to
I'm lost in thought, awake in dreams
My mind is bursting at the seams
My eyes are shut, I can't look on
Can't find the will to carry on
I'm out of step with history
