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mark-hurlin-sheltonPoems
The bus driver is only doing his job- he says i am out of my zone come on mate- take a look at the rain- i just want to get home never mind- its not too far to walk as this sudden shower comes steaming down London Bus lookin' all shiny red n' new in the rain. so i take cover and hudde on the pavement and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt , washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter- search and return gushing to the Thames in drab doorway i see pregnant mother with dripped make-up and cigarette- a bloke runs past into the Tote- theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop- pumpin out da reggae sound all round an chillin' der inside an'snug an outside da rain drippin down. headless wooden mannequins in windows indifferent and dead to the scene model outdated displays of yesteryears east end Fashion The screech -grind -halt- of braking trucks and cars taxis and buses and halt heave hum, go off and on phrases like jazz emitted from the traffic hissing on the wet steam road passing the plain low gates and walls of modest east-end brick Little pockets of Istanbul vending exotic skewered tastes empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement- sickly sweet old vegetable odours curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes - halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit, karla, kassava and Jamaican mangoes Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple Taters an mumble she grumble onward, homeward past the Asian butcher selling cows' feet fifty nine pence for two sad looking cadavers of chickens comically -hung by their feet boney, alien headless n sad and blood spurted and smeared and dried on broken ****** cardboard box- so rich an odour of spice and death- what words to use? yams and hams and potted jams shelves stacked with imported cans grinding horror of the butchers blade splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box brown black plantain bananas- fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap- kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle- Illegible torn bills and posters on posts walls and naked wooden doors of cracked paint peeling in the rain Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins scattered uprooted far-travelled communities stirred in the stew of this eclectic London Crucible shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas- an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing twins in double pram and wishing- she had married a bloke with money Africans in bright kaftans Saunter surreally in the cool, attitude of summer somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters seem more misplaced in this scene- people with gaunt girocheque expressions huddled in Pub over pints awaiting the Worlds End To my left number plates while you wait keys cut school of motoring, special rates then a right into Finsbury station out of the rain and the scene fades. Mark Hurlin Shelton London 1987.
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Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
Stroud-Green Road in the rain (London)
The bus driver is only doing his job- he says i am out of my zone come on mate- take a look at the rain- i just want to get home never mind- its not too far to walk as this sudden shower comes steaming down London Bus lookin' all shiny red n' new in the rain. so i take cover and hudde on the pavement and write this poem- as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt , washing over me toes, into paper wrapper river in the gutter- search and return gushing to the Thames in drab doorway i see pregnant mother with dripped make-up and cigarette- a bloke runs past into the Tote- theres a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol The cool dread hipster blackman soundshop- pumpin out da reggae sound all round an chillin' der inside an'snug an outside da rain drippin down. headless wooden mannequins in windows indifferent and dead to the scene model outdated displays of yesteryears east end Fashion The screech -grind -halt- of braking trucks and cars taxis and buses and halt heave hum, go off and on phrases like jazz emitted from the traffic hissing on the wet steam road passing the plain low gates and walls of modest east-end brick Little pockets of Istanbul vending exotic skewered tastes empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement- sickly sweet old vegetable odours curiously shaped paprikas- purple sweet potatoes - halved pumpkins, ginger aponkenam, breadfruit, karla, kassava and Jamaican mangoes Ol' Carribean Mama she price the purple Taters an mumble she grumble onward, homeward past the Asian butcher selling cows' feet fifty nine pence for two sad looking cadavers of chickens comically -hung by their feet boney, alien headless n sad and blood spurted and smeared and dried on broken ****** cardboard box- so rich an odour of spice and death- what words to use? yams and hams and potted jams shelves stacked with imported cans grinding horror of the butchers blade splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box brown black plantain bananas- fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap- kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle- Illegible torn bills and posters on posts walls and naked wooden doors of cracked paint peeling in the rain Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins scattered uprooted far-travelled communities stirred in the stew of this eclectic London Crucible shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas- an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing twins in double pram and wishing- she had married a bloke with money Africans in bright kaftans Saunter surreally in the cool, attitude of summer somehow the Tottenham and Celtic suporters seem more misplaced in this scene- people with gaunt girocheque expressions huddled in Pub over pints awaiting the Worlds End To my left number plates while you wait keys cut school of motoring, special rates then a right into Finsbury station out of the rain and the scene fades. Mark Hurlin Shelton London 1987.
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mark-hurlin-shelton
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
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