Poetry Pot

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Give me the Greens

give me the Grays

give me all the In-betweens

Give me the sweetness of

Ealing on Friday mornings

Show me the eyes of Hammersmith

when I rush past on iron tracks

Dilute Piccadilly’s thick blood

for just one day

and let Hungerford Bridge

moan once more when the

last train’s gone

You won’t mistake the Thames

for the Mississippi

and they can’t make you

believe London never sleeps

for she does - when you don’t watch

Close your eyes

you can hear her breathe.

Wander with me through

awakening Clerkenwell

Loose yourself in Chelsea’s mirrors

and meet your Guardian Angel

over a cup of coffee

in Shepherd Market.

Steal all the needles from Saville Row

Pop their balloons in

Covent Garden

and then

stop

Run away towards the sea

like this muddy band

Towards the sky

on dirty pigeon wings

Show me the freckles on the

pavement when the sun

breaks through

St. James’s trees

Give me one single

rain drop

I’d sprinkle

across this night time beauty

Give me South Ken’s pale

Venetian mask

and King’s Cross’s bright red lips

You never hear

nightingales singing

in Berkeley Square

but

you won’t mistake the Thames

for the Mississippi

and they can’t make you believe

that London never sleeps

for she does - when you don’t watch

close your eyes

you can hear her breathe

A Good Day In My Book

Watched the fog sneak up on the world today, creeping up houses, silently sliding around trees, skulking around.
Hovering, hovering.

Exhaling before nestling down to sleep.

Speaking Of Which

I like living in big cities. I lived in London for a while. It was marvellous. And even then I would wonder what is it that makes a city come to life. Why do people say for example that New York is competitive? It is not, really. It's the people there that are.

Anyway, my point was that London would get to me sometimes - like no other town ever has - it would really envelop me, eat me up in a way. I would lose myself in the streets - not for want of maps - I simply could dive in. It is difficult to describe. And it is a little late tonight. And I have never written a love declaration for a city. I should have though. For this one, for London.

Ah, let's not get sentimental. I wrote something once, though. A little thing without a title. I was not quite confident enough for that at the time. I was never sure about this piece. It is like a love letter that you write and you are made to read out loud. And it all sounds less romantic once you have spoken the words. It all sounded better in your head there where the pictures are that go with the sounds and syllables.

I am committing it yet again to a page, I am not reading it aloud, I am just copying it from my notebook into my notebook. Silently speaking it to myself in my head while typing.

Give me the Greens

give me the Grays

give me all the In-betweens

Give me the sweetness of

Ealing on Friday mornings

Show me the eyes of Hammersmith

when I rush past on iron tracks

Dilute Piccadilly’s thick blood

for just one day

and let Hungerford Bridge

moan once more when the

last train’s gone

You won’t mistake the Thames

for the Mississippi

and they can’t make you

believe London never sleeps

for she does - when you don’t watch

Close your eyes

you can hear her breathe.

Wander with me through

awakening Clerkenwell

Loose yourself in Chelsea’s mirrors

and meet your Guardian Angel

over a cup of coffee

in Shepherd Market.

Steal all the needles from Saville Row

Pop their balloons in

Covent Garden

and then

stop

Run away towards the sea

like this muddy band

Towards the sky

on dirty pigeon wings

Show me the freckles on the

pavement when the sun

breaks through

St. James’s trees

Give me one single

rain drop

I’d sprinkle

across this night time beauty

Give me South Ken’s pale

Venetian mask

and King’s Cross’s bright red lips

You never hear

nightingales singing

in Berkeley Square

but

you won’t mistake the Thames

for the Mississippi

and they can’t make you believe

that London never sleeps

for she does - when you don’t watch

close your eyes

you can hear her breathe

Distance

In 2007 I lived outside of Frankfurt, in a town called Königstein. I had a beautiful house to myself, it was located near the woods, sort of nudged at the foot of a mountain and had this picture book view down onto the city of Frankfurt. Sometimes I would stay up at night and just take in the shimmering sparkling lights that seemed to hover above the buildings and scrapers. It would look like the city was not a city at all but a huge shiny animal, snoozing in the distance and from time to time it would breathe deeply in and out but otherwise be rather quiet. And you would hear its animal hum when the breeze was right.

It always gets me - that to many people cities are living things. And yes I am one of those... what romantics? I don't know.

In a way it seems obvious, banal even to say that a city is a living thing. Because OF COURSE it is. But when you think about it - what is it that breathes life into tons and tons of bricks and tarmac and cement and paint and wood and stone? Is it the people that live there? Does their energy rub off? How would that work?

People run a city, they make a city - or do they?

So if I drive out of town and bring some space between myself and the metropolis, then what do I see and feel?
Lights on in almost every house.
Is it a trick?

Could it be that what I feel when I look and listen closely is the sparks of millions of souls?