"tiff" poems - Hello Poetry

Rugby town, of landlocked streets, of wasted field and barefaced retreat; I miss you now, in absence of a friend, I miss you now, in the verse that I lend. Suburb grove, of sleepy mist, oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst; you will remain in place forevermore, and forevermore, you'll become a bore. Holding cell, of sporting fame, you stole my dreams but gave me my name; I think of you: a multi-storey view, of happy faces, of which there is few. Still, my town, in debt's nightgown, the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down; these streets are poisoned with names of the past, each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last Rugby town, of weary folk, the private school is a private joke; I miss you now, as I sleep through the day, I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say. Old market town, the aftermath, of British summer, suicide bath; of open mics and closing the shutters, of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters. Hopeless climbs, of dreary times, of childhood state and nursery rhymes; each time that I come home, I know you less, becoming a stranger in my redress. Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud, singing for history long and proud; of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?” What if I was born to some lover's tiff? To some large and friendless town, to some body of land, which I drown; to some active place of pain unknown, to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown, oh Rugby dear, stay with me, let me live on the periphery; and although this town seems terribly dull, it could be worse – I could live in Hull.

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Mar 14, 2014

Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC

Edward-Coles

Rugby, Warwickshire

Rugby town, of landlocked streets, of wasted field and barefaced retreat; I miss you now, in absence of a friend, I miss you now, in the verse that I lend. Suburb grove, of sleepy mist, oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst; you will remain in place forevermore, and forevermore, you'll become a bore. Holding cell, of sporting fame, you stole my dreams but gave me my name; I think of you: a multi-storey view, of happy faces, of which there is few. Still, my town, in debt's nightgown, the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down; these streets are poisoned with names of the past, each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last Rugby town, of weary folk, the private school is a private joke; I miss you now, as I sleep through the day, I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say. Old market town, the aftermath, of British summer, suicide bath; of open mics and closing the shutters, of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters. Hopeless climbs, of dreary times, of childhood state and nursery rhymes; each time that I come home, I know you less, becoming a stranger in my redress. Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud, singing for history long and proud; of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?” What if I was born to some lover's tiff? To some large and friendless town, to some body of land, which I drown; to some active place of pain unknown, to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown, oh Rugby dear, stay with me, let me live on the periphery; and although this town seems terribly dull, it could be worse – I could live in Hull.