The new Write Out Loud Poem of the Week is ‘London Victoria’ by Travis Brow, a tale of unrequited love. The poem has been praised by Write Out Loud regulars like Harry O’Neill, for its “lovely rhymed clarity”, while Ray Pool described it as “winsome (some you lose)”. Travis’s profile page reveals that he has returned to Write Out Loud after a spell away, and that he still thinks poetry is “vital, and worthless, by turns”. Here are his replies in our Q&A interview:

 

What got you into writing poetry?

I was 16 and singing in a band. The band broke up but i needed an excuse to get back on stage so i went from writng half-arsed lyrics to half-arsed poems. Plus, my dad's been writing poems since he was a kid so I suppose i've inherited something ...

 

How long have you been writing?

I'm 49 now so all told, i've been at it for 30-odd years.

 

Do you go to any open-mic nights?

I used to do/attend a lot of open mics, and I briefly ran my own night in a bar in Manchester. Now, though, I tend not to perform. I know I ought to but I prefer the writing, and once ! get in from work, especially at this time of year, I'm reluctant to go back out again.

 

Your favourite poet/poem?

I like the American poet Richard Wilbur, and there are parts of Pope's Essay on Man which I think are superb. Paradise Lost is profound and, once you get your eye in, beautifully written.

 

You are cast away on a desert island. What's your luxury?

The island itself is the luxury; I'm somewhat anti-social so to have the island to myself would be bliss. That might lose me some friends ...

 

 

LONDON VICTORIA

by Travis Brow

 

One Herne Hill day one red hot June

my one and only proper swoon

divested me of that control

which hitherto construed my soul;

I fell in love; I had no choice.

At last my ardour found its voice.

I told her straight; she took it well,

and as she did, undid the spell.

 

But, love demands that I demur

and dwell upon my love for her

who wants me only as a friend;

so I'll just let myself pretend

that one day, maybe, she might wake 

and recognise a telling ache.

I know she won’t. I know she rates

her instinct as one might the fates.

She trusts in what she feels so

I really ought to let it go.             

I will, in time, but hope contends

that sometimes lovers start as friends.