He'd found himself
nestled between the pages
of a book again.
The grand ceilings
and gentle mutterings of which
vibrated through the wooden shelves he was leaning on had always comforted him.
These keeper of books had
existed long before him,
and they'd likely exist long after,
save for a fire...or worse.
At that point he'd become distracted by
the swaying of a summers dress,
carrying embers of the chaos that
existed outside the library walls.
The heat today was somewhat unbearable,
the books and archaic paintings gatekeeping
the cool air that drifted in between these walls.
He looked up from the hem,
her eyes meeting his for a fleeting second,
she seemed too focused for fools like
him,
driven by an inate sense of pride,
or at least that's what he'd told himself.
For all he knew,
quiet book dwellers were
far from her usual type.
Returning to the familiar feel of the crumpled pages,
his heart beat began to calm once more.
Gliding his finger across the wrinkled
edges was as close to physical connection
he'd come across in the past
24 hours.
A book could hardly reject it's reader,
at least not verbally,
an experience he'd hardly want to
live out again.
One was enough embarrassment to last
a lifetime.
If only he'd been as good with words back then
as he was now,
not that it'd matter in the slightest.
He'd have still failed to
squeak out a retort even if he'd
had had an Oxford English Dictionary at hand.
Anyway, it wouldn't have been gentlemanly
to bark back,
he was better than that,
or so he'd told himself during the
late hours of night.
Tag Archives: City Poetry
March Poetry: Last Bus Ride In Manchester
I found a ticket in my
coat pocket the other
day.
It was a bus ticket
from Manchester.
I’d paid cash.
"Piccadilly,
where dreams go to die".
Lots of things happen there
some good
some bad
all rad?
My bad
Hey dad …
I’ll stop now.
I don’t exactly miss that bus,
its shuddering presence,
the questionably warm back seats of the lower deck.
They'd always smell like a years-worth of engine fumes,
stored away into the
hard wearing abstract pattern.
That
or an ill-kept Henry Hoover,
which I suppose is a small price to pay for comfort,
especially when considering the chilly temperatures of Manchester's winter.
The bus ticket was probably one of
the last things I bought in that city.
Although I’ll no doubt buy more in future,
chugging up and down the surprisingly straight
Oxford Road,
with it's mixture of grandiose and less-than-grand architecture plotted along
somewhat randomly.
Buses are an interesting place,
Reminds you how slow life can be
when you’re stuck in a traffic jam with
everyone.
All suspended in thought … well
not all, but most.
Some would rather shout about it,
announcing their thoughts out loud
hoping someone will join in,
which they seldom do
if they have any sense.
Let bygones be bygones.
and let people who shout on
buses do their thing.
Good rules to go by in life.
Here’s to the next bus journey I inevitably take in Manchester because of an unsurprisingly 'sudden' downpour.
February Poetry: what happened to the uncertain?
What happened to the what’s? the why’s the where’s the wear and tear the “are those grey hairs?” that long empty stare as you slump up the stairs underground moving sound another screech lacking speech the please do not stare the “please mind the gap” the brief open air the scurry the grind a fresh cup of coffee that rush of caffeine in that static chair as you stare into a moving screen full of mice that are off for the cheese in tall towering traps suspended in the air soaring above for those soaring past underground tired but sound.
August Poetry: Primrose Hill
The city lay in front of everyone,
a model village to them,
they had never felt so big.
A city that once swallowed them up
with its’ big skyscrapers and wall art
now seemed all so small.
“London eye, London eye”
a little child called out.
A large spinning wheel now
fit between his two fingers.
He tried pinching it, but it wouldn’t seem to
move.
A panorama of symbols
filled the landscape,
from edge to edge
a focus point merely blurring them out.
They would never disappear.
Sprawled out before them,
an extravagant banquet.
A feast fit for royalty.
often gobbled up by
those who sat
in quiet halls
in which ceilings remained
inexplicably high
along with their standards of life.
There stood as many cranes as there were
high-rises.
A future that pointed towards
the sky,
hinting at growth,
but only in the literal sense.
What was the cost?
Soon the skyline would be full
each building bigger than the other,
a concrete competition.
Yet,
the people wouldn’t change,
staying as they had been,
even shrinking.
An earth that could no longer feed them
through the greed of those sat in their vast spaces.
They would carry on starving
as the towers
would gorge themselves on
the sun that reigned above them,
casting a shadow amongst those
that built them,
that birthed
these monstrous
Giants of the sky.
July poetry: a cities people
Sirens scream past
like and ice cream van
looking for the spark in
children's eyes
when he hands them
over a sense of joy
packaged in a pyramid
of cold, sugary bliss.
Birds carve the skies above
like the butcher artfully,
following lines in the dead animal,
lay in front of him.
It's blood
a river
flowing off the wooden workbench
full of etchings
that falsely portray
the presence of nature,
yet only reveal the use of a
cold,
sharp, metal blade.
A taxi cab,
turns off its glowing sign,
telling the world
it is once again full of purpose
although the sigh from the
driver would suggest otherwise.
A life long education
of street names and landmarks
makes him the closest thing
to the City,
not the men in suits who sit
in powerful huts
and navigate their post code
pretending to do good.
A chef wipes his hands after another shift being done.
He spent most of his day
in one spot, one location,
hesitant to break from his role
whilst
tomatoes from Cornwall,
truffles from Italy,
cuts of meat from Argentina,
all passed underneath his own very nose.
He would have the world at his
fingertips,
although his feet refused to move
more than 5 meters away,
the occasional pause to
fill his lungs with smoke.
The ingredients in his kitchen
were forever at his mercy
yet they were more well-travelled
than him.
June Poetry: The Fearful City
The City seems to drag me down, it’s grey and big, and leaves me with a frown. I try and smile, for those around, but that just drives me, towards a sound, a noise that I can seem to hear, a noise to make me disappear, into a background where the rest dare follow, because no one likes to be swallowed. They walk in Suits and all, hoping they too don’t fall, for the City is not too kind to those, who are so rude and turn up their nose, they are so brash and some even daunting, unlike the shade of red who seems to be flaunting, her God-given right to look cool and suave, She sticks to her own lane, And paves her path, for the City cannot reach certain ones, who know their own worth, who stick to their own guns, so keep your head up and look onwards, as the city can see those who look downwards, you’ve been here a while, you do belong, the city is listening, so sing out your song.
May Poetry: what does love sound like?
What does love sound like? He asked Recalling a series of smiles and intense eye contact that would often beckon back and forth between the two. They’d sit there for hours letting the shadow move across the raggedy carpet that clearly needing changing but was clinging on for dear life. So often love didn’t Sound like anything. Perhaps the gentle breeze or the distant conversations from passers-by as they rested their heads on each others shoulders. A comfortable silence, One which allowed them to observe the world together without saying a word. It was a chance to let their Mouths rest Whilst their bodies constantly communicated feelings of that were too complicated to describe, those feelings would hang there, suspended like drawings in an art gallery conveying so much in the confined space of the frame. As they sat there taking in the view of the city they were, for a moment or two belonging to the beautiful landscape themselves. If only someone had recognised the painting they were living out, things may have stayed the same.
Next Up London Waterloo
I am not the first person to dislike London. Frankly, any Londoner who gets the tube on the daily Must think much worse of the city. Jumbling cursives in their head of about the person next to them Who once again lacks general hygiene, An unfortunately recurring theme in the realms of public transport, Especially in the big city. I recognise that I am nowhere near the first person to hold disdain towards the large concrete jungle. Nor am I the first person to mildly enjoy it, I am definitely not the first to fall in love with it. A quiet, mid-afternoon commute leaves me calmly scrambling towards The underground at Waterloo. A quick 10-minute ride to London Bridge, Followed by a short walk, And there I am, Situated south of the river In recently-gentrified Bermondsey. Tennis courts to your right, White men in spectacles reading short novels in the park to your left. Artisan shops and pizza houses sprinkled here and there, The walk is in fact an enjoyable one. It feels quaint, An effect that people pay handsomely for in the big city. Interesting how people who live somewhere big are always searching for somewhere That feels small. Like the human mind needs a sanctuary from the bright lights and grotesque buildings. I arrive at my friends. Well, not quite arrive as I signal up that I’m here. Within a minute I have gone from scurrying the concrete streets to floating up amongst the clouds. A slight exaggeration, yet it is easy to feel such a way. Pleasantries aside, I head towards his balcony. A view of London that not many people are lucky enough to see. High up, you feel amongst the buildings. They no longer seem so daunting, The playing field has been levelled. Whilst you’re not a twenty thousand tonne combination of glass and concrete You’re not far off. The Shard sits about a kilometre down the road, Tower bridge off to your right And London Eye twirls in front of you. A set of symbols, recognised around the globe, Are now your playground. What’s stopping you from moving the Gherkin south of the river? Sure, it’d confuse the hell out of people But they’d surely move on, The maps would get updated, People at google would sort it out in a heartbeat, Perhaps the old paper tourist maps would suffer but A bit of change was due. What’s the fun in a city that never changes? It’s easy to enjoy London from a spacious balcony with a nice view. You don’t have to worry about rent prices, People don’t whizz by you at double the speed, You can’t hear the screeching of old tube lines, You don’t see men in suits on their way to client meetings, You pay attention to it all or nothing at all. The choice is yours. I like London these days. I like how warm it is. I like how pretty is. I like how calm it is. That is London, right?
Stockroom Memories
red and white nike boxes
litter the shelves around me
original pirate material on repeat
I yet again zip up my ACG
coach jacket ready to ascend the
metal stairs.
It’s dinner time.
Another crisp Manchester afternoon
greets me as I step outside onto
the slanted cobbled street.
People walk about in hooded jackets
seeking refuge from the cold.
“Porky Pigs?”
I got a nod back
looks like roast is back on the menu
walking past shops and down the
sidestreets.
That kitchen utensil shops open
as per usual but once again
no one’s in it
A familiar laugh as we pass
“Assman”, what a name,
what a shop.
Almost there, a familiar line outside
the embassy next door,
impatient looks greet us as we
take a left into Porkies
avoiding politics
and embracing the woft of meat
coming from behind the counter.
wear shoes, write poems 