Just one big issue left to sell
And draped in his red uniform
He timidly walks into this East London restaurant
Eastern promises of western life
Have brought him here.
Promises not for him, but for the son of his wife.
Head bowed and hand to heart
He tells of his experience:
Two years selling big issue
Two years in London
No passport but a laminated card showing his identity.
No kitchen experience but a very good dish washer at home.
I hear the front of house staff discuss him with the head chef
Sun or snow, they say, he’s out there selling.
He assures the chef he never misses a day, always hard working.
11am tomorrow. Don’t be late.
As he packs up his red uniform and puts his last big issue under his arm,
He leaves with a beaming smile.
This eastern man has found his right step
and turns left, west on exmouth market.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
Pristine granite stone
lines Prague’s streets.
Fragments of stone sectioned
out to carry a communist
leader on visit.
Amongst the stone are martyrs,
bakers, women, children.
Fragmented stone, chipped
and repurposed pieces of grave.
Granite graves no longer visited.
Individual identity lost to many regimes.
A turbulent history
I intend to join.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
Three pronged leaves stain the footpath.
Yesterday’s rain indents their tridents
Around Shoreditch. Swept away by council,
Amusingly, at the start of autumn.
In October, when morning’s golden sun
Lies shadows on each building you pass,
This building - a holy one - has front steps
That bed the bedless.
In October, the tattooed pavement
On Pittfield Street illuminates with lives
Past and present. Spring’s leaves have now fallen
And left these trident swords to battle winter.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
The world is too much with us; the gloom
Reported on bbc of record showers,
Earthquakes following hurricanes; Our
Society points to running taps, loom
Through darkness under light of moon:
How Proteus would correct these efforts,
But he eludes and so their
Animals are caught, boon
For a Big Mac, a chicken curry
Or rack of ribs torn
Flesh from a bone that, saved, would breathe
Life back into a still born
World; reports continue and impending fear
Has not aroused the old man or even Triton’s wreathèd horn.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
Cherry blossom pinks encircle a park,
Cordoned off by stretched police ribbon
Surrounding its inner heart.
Inside lies a man. Cherry blossom pinks run from his body.
Springtime has brought record temperatures
And Londoners sit out, filling the beer garden
that overflows into the adjacent park.
The sun’s heat can be blinding.
Later they wrap the tape back up.
Another stabbing.
Open and shut.
The sun sets and the beer garden empties.
Tomorrow, the park will fill again.
The cherry blossom’s pink as temporary as our memories.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
"Fate may not hold that life in as high a regard, and may dispose of it at will."
- Selected Civil War Letters of Edwine Willow
Gathering in a blessed hall
Segmented by gender.
Lines of ancestors, resting
alongside a new neighbour.
Yesterday, rain poured
As if to mourn
What the evening sky would bring
As it opened up and wept.
Today’s sun won’t relent.
A still March day.
China teacups and saucers -
65 years old - a wedding present
Turned prop for visiting mourners.
Comforting a widow.
Long Life
Tuna bridge rolls
salmon bagels
whiskey bottles.
The evening’s sky
Awash with stars
As bright as we had seen them
London’s pollution falling silent too
In respect.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
As the last of the living die
Important now, than ever, to remember their story
To head their warning.
When tomorrow veers its head
And we mistake a put down
To a popularised form of politic
Let’s not forget their warning.
Let’s not forget mankind’s ability
To watch idly by - even contribute -
To what the victors later call atrocities
Only when they see victory
So let’s not let victory be the hand
That shows today’s atrocities.
Don’t be idle.
See, speak, hear - let evil wash over you
So that you see it for what it’s worth.
Head the warnings of the last of the living
Before they die.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
Because in order to see in the dark
You must first totally accept it
The more you accept it and let it be
The clearer you can see again
In order to fully hear amongst a great din
You must first allow the din to wash over you
You must first totally accept it
And not be caught up in its small complexities or details
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
As Friday’s sun descends
A manic grip takes hold of the city.
Shoreditch on Shabbat like
A holy land for revellers.
Here the city ignites, the senses
Are at once dulled and overworked
Suits pull suitcases. Weekend trips
Coincide with business meets
Filling hotel lobby bars
The Ace, card dealt on payments.
Shaven bleached heads
Sidestep less fortunates
Begging for more, more, more
As night turns to morning
And mourning the nighttime
Bodies dance through
As sun ascends - bleaching the eye
but beholden because it let’s us go.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
I
A plane touches down
And safely carries you to a land
less crowded than London’s bustling streets.
Foreign, warmer climates
That sufficiently cater for wine and feasts.
Land that carries blood through its Black River,
Excuses to not swim in Summer’s heat.
A southern tip that travellers will visit and disparage
A separation of two cultures
As if history teaches nothing
And geography misplaces some from another
II
A plane touches down
And safely carries me to a land
I call home. Where surroundings are
less crowded than London’s bustling streets.
Where old friends gather
To celebrate all those returning home.
The pubs more filled than churches.
Worshippers huddle under a heater,
Hands clasping a pint of black.
A separation of two cultures
once again this year’s Christmas dinner discussion.
As if history teaches nothing
And geography misplaces some from another.
But today, we count ourselves lucky
To sit here as one family.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC