"southwark" poems
London is an onion.
Not one of those big, brown juicy globes
you can buy in packs of three, from Tesco,
No, an earthy, shrivelled relic from an old geezer's allotment,
With trailing fronds and a few infestations.
If you were to take a bite, your eyes would smart and your body rebel with a cough, a shudder and a wheeze,
But moments later, a smile would be playing round your lips,
Such a sensory adventure, though not exactly pleasant, can still be savoured,
And you'll remember the taste forever.
Londoners are weevils, hiding in the layers.
Outer, inner, some of us worm our way between them all.
Me, I tend to head for the heart of the thing,
Soho, Southwark, the inner sanctums.
I sometimes venture nearer the surface, the outer edges,
But too close to the unknown, and unfamiliar air,
And I start to pine for the centre.
You can work between the layers,
But the many skins are tougher than you'd think,
Better to burrow down, find a place to sustain
The appetite of a hungry little grub.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Some call me a prophet
Others see me as a derelict
These stories I’ve stored in my head
Can easily be twisted to fantasy
Am I reliable?
You have no choice
But to take what I say and believe
At least for a little while
I believe the listener
Is as naïve as I seem
Sitting on every detail
Every word
While visiting Southwark
I met a variety of characters
From different means of life
With different perspectives on the world
Looking innocent has its advantages
It gives me a leeway
To invade other’s privacy
And extend the truth to the edge of fabrication
Have you ever questioned a storyteller?
We all seem friendly
We talk highly of everyone we meet
Until we dive deeper into their secrets
The Squire
Composing music is his forte
I say it sounds beautiful
And he seems fresh as the month of May
The Friar
A gossiper full of language
I hope to understand
To grasp
A Sailor
Having bad joints
From extensive labor.
He must work substantially to acquire those injuries
The Summoner
Full of white pimples
Yet drinks red wine
As red as blood
I create a story
Yet can end it all the same
I tell you what you want to hear
Not what reality presents in front of me
For life is not exciting
Without a bit of imagination.
And with my mastered poker face
It may be impossible to seek out my lies
The darkness inside us all
Can peek its head at any time
Consuming us into a downward spiral
Of lie after endless lie
So am I reliable?
We’ll just have to see.
So here comes a story
Told by me.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
It was the fourth day
since the break up
from school
for the summer vacation
and you were riding
with Janice
on the bus
to London Bridge
and she was wearing
the lemon coloured dress
you liked
that came to the knees
which were pressed
together
and the brown sandals
with the patterned holes
and the red beret
on her fair hair
was swaying
with the motion
of the bus
opposite you
was a man
wearing a trilby
and a moustache
who kept looking at you
with his dark eyes
his head going
from side to side
as the bus moved
and he sat next
to Janice
his hands
on his knees
and he turned
and gazed
at Janice’s knees
then up at you again
his features flushing
and then he looked away
at the passing scene
behind you
pretending
you weren’t there
then at London Bridge
he got off
and so did you
and Janice
and you waited
until he had gone
walking up
and over the bridge
and you said
he was a queer fish
who?
said Janice
that bloke
who sat next to you
why?
she asked
he kept staring at me
and ogling
at your knees
did he?
Janice said
you wait
until I tell Gran
about that
she’ll say
you watch out
for his type Janice
he’s no better
than he ought to be
you nodded
and smiled
at her imitation
of her gran
and she laughed
and you both
walked down
the steps and by
Southwark Cathedral
to the embankment
by the River Thames
and stood by the wall
looking at the passing
boats and ships and tugs
and the occasional
ducks floating
on the brown water
and you felt Janice’s
9 year old hand
touch yours
as she pretended
(as she often did)
that you were
a married couple
out for a romantic walk
gazing
at the passing scenery
with the added
small talk.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 2:43 AM UTC
On a brighter note
a Thames lighter boat,
where the rivermen between the banks give thanks to
tidal waves and wave across between the shores,between the puritans and ******
Southwark never bores the citizens,pitting them against the age where Shakespeare plays upon the stage and Chaucer sits in Tabard Square,
awaits the pilgrims who are milling corn atop the bridge.
Cromwell sells the tickets for his latest gig,to dig the graves and inter the raving lunatics who switch from bedlam down to palaces in the minster where the spinster out of place knits balaclavas for the faces that she sees dropping from a guillotine,
these things I've seen a thousand times, written in ten thousand lines and acted out below the chimes of clocks that stand before the sway of one more 'down south london way' or anyway what do I care if it's share and share alike or not.
I've got allotted but a short spell here,time for dinner,one more glass of beer and then my dear I'm on my way,
to stroll through more of yesterday.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
In this church built from lust and inadequacy
where the reason of thought is the currency,
corralled in the stalls until Jericho falls
I find faith in the meaning of sanctuary.
The folds of the flock gently cover me
until I drown in the sea of discovery and
am reborn in the sea they call Galilee.
The Devil does not advocate celibacy
he reads from the book of debauchery
his acolytes form lines to follow me,
I slip under the waves because
I know Jesus saves and
I drown in the sea they call Galilee.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
She sits next to him
on a side seat
on the bus;
they're going to
Waterloo Rail Station
to watch the steam trains.
She holds in the palm
of her small hand
the 3d piece
her mother
had given her;
it's sweaty;
the 12 sides make
a slight impression
on her skin.
She moves
side to side
as the bus
turns corners;
Benny's arm
touches hers
as they move.
Why you have to go
with him
to see the trains,
God only knows,
her mother had said,
but at least
he's a decent sort,
going by his mother.
She likes Benny's mum;
she smiles at her,
and is soft spoken,
unlike her own mum,
who bellows
and spits words
and slaps her.
She looks out
the window,
then looks sideways
at Benny.
He's looking forward,
his hazel eyes
taking in the man opposite,
his quiff of light brown hair
bouncing with the bus's motion.
He's got the money
his mum has given him
in his jean's pocket,
along with a small penknife,
old conker and string,
handkerchief washed grey.
Beside him sits Lydia
the girl from downstairs
in the flats.
She's skinny
and her lank hair
seems out of place
with her bright eyes.
He suggested going
to the station to see
the steam trains;
he loves the smells
and sights and sounds
of the trains.
He had a job
persuading her mother
to let her go,
but eventually
she agreed,
(must have been
his smile).
The man opposite
stares at Lydia;
his big black eyes
drinking her in.
Benny stares back at him,
gives the man his best
Bogart stare,
even holding his head
at an angle.
The man's green tie
is stained;
the shirt is too small
and seems to want
to escape from his body.
The man stares at him,
his eyes moving to him
like two black slugs.
Benny touches Lydia's
small hand and says:
soon be there.
The man ends
his black eyed stare,
and looks away.
Well done, Bogey,
Benny says
inside his head,
and senses Lydia's hand
grip her 3d piece coin;
her bright eyes showing
small portraits of him
in each one,
absorbing him
like dark cloth
does the sun.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:51 AM UTC
Helen gave
Benedict
a small bite
of her red
uneaten
ripe apple.
He returned
the apple
to her hands
with a small
bite missing.
She turned her
apple round
and bit there
sensing soft
juices run
down her chin.
They both chewed
their pieces
in silence
while sitting
watching slow
traffic pass
on the road
in Southwark.
With her hand
she wiped from
her chin the
sticky juice,
then offered
him again
the apple:
another
small bite was
taken, then
handed back
to her hands.
He watched her
as she bit
once again;
saw juices
on her chin
which she licked
with her tongue.
Shared apple,
but unlike
that Adam
and that Eve,
no one spoke
to deceive.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
****** of Southwark,
lay down your Book of Hours
and rise, uprooted,
like trees!
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
The jubilee line
a
different take on a journey I make
because a change is as good as a
rest,
just doing my best to keep it fresh.
It's Friday and why not?
yes
I know it was Friday a week ago
but things have a way of repeating
on me.
It'd be nice to say that this was the
better way, but it's so bleedin' cold and I'm shivering
if the heating was on and turned up to a reasonable temperature
I'd feel better
and then I'm
at Greenwich,
the 02 must refer to
the Fahrenheit scale.
From
Canary Wharf and Bermondsey
I can almost see that London bridge
is not falling down it's only sinking
slightly
might be me and my poor eyesight
though.
Southwark then Waterloo
what do I do?
get off and wait underneath the clock?
taking stock of my situation and the weather and none whatsoever of the tick tock
I lock my sights on Bond street and the Central line
perhaps an interchange is as good as a rest too.
Haha
I missed out Westminster and Green park
easy to do in the dark when it's cold.
I opened my eyes to an announcement
the tannoy tells me Waterloo station is closed
I wasn't getting off there but I could have been
and might have been waiting forever underneath a clock and no one would ever know.
This is a nice line
a twin track to that
time when work wags
Its finger at me.
and that's it
no observations
on my fellow travellers,
possibly because the
carriage is empty,
but
I'm full of hope
and that's a good line
as well.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
What, Wednesday?
no way,
surely
we had one last week.
I'm going to complain
not sure who to
but
that's what I'm going
to do.
Actually
I'm already on the jubilee
five fifteen
and I've never seen such
a motley crew
except on
' Captain Pugwash'
and they were just
cartoon characters.
It's cold
because it's nothing
without a mention of
the weather.
West Ham
like boiled ham
but
not as tasty.
And it's her again
woman with the candy floss hair
I'm wondering how it stays in place
she looks as if she doesn't care.
Canning Town
a bit uppity
needs a
dressing down
but
the vinyl man gets on
records under his arm
I want to say,
your day has gone
but
I don't.
North Greenwich,
not the American village
but close enough.
Lots more get on,
the tube moves on
I stay seated.
Canary Wharf,
do canaries tweet?
I'll find out on Twitter
later.
Canada water
not quite Canada
but the water
is nearly there.
People off,
maybe going canoeing
or going to work
I presume
which leaves me room
to stretch my legs.
I'd have to stretch my imagination
to imagine the next station,
yes it's,
Bermondsey
a wait and see place
south of the river.
Onwards
with John's words.
Next bridge
is London Bridge,
we're
getting ready to cross over,
no!
not the great divide
just the Thames
Southwark?
never heard of it
although we stop for
a bit
to let people off.
Waterloo
under the clock
at two
at three
at four the policeman
says,
what are you waiting for?
I move along.
Westminster, a
den of thieves
a lot of chaos
I'm still
here.
Green park
greener now we've
had rain
and the next stop
is
Bond Street
I'm
nearly at work,
what, again?
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 1:26 AM UTC
Nichols and I
had a fight
in the greenhouse
the first day.
It began
with a push
and shove
by the potted plants.
Then turned
into fists
and neck holds.
Only some kid saying
Groats is coming
that we moved apart
red faced
and sweating
and gazed
at each other.
Get you playtime
Nichols said.
Anytime
Squat-face
I replied.
Next day
he passed me
into class
and said nothing
not even
a shove or elbow
(which I would
have returned
with a blow).
Then walking
to the metalwork room
he said
what part of London
you from?
Southwark
in South London
I said
eyeing him
(not wanting to say
the Elephant and Castle
in case he thought
I was taking the ****
Is it near
the Tower of London?
he asked.
Quite near
I went to school nearby
I replied.
He nodded
and said
sorry about yesterday
guess I was a bit rash
never met
a Londoner afore.
No probs
I replied.
We went into
the metalwork class
sort of friends
and that's how
this poem ends.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 4:02 AM UTC