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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Shoreditch clung to its ruin Its roughhewn gate staring out at corpses And the clutch of travellers heading from the fields, The shepherds rambling onwards, The herders with their slow-moving cattle, hoofs Thudding on the stones. Amongst them the knights recently Back from troubles in the north, armour Burnished like Sunday roast yelling oaths Like washer women until they were, like the beasts they rode, Quite hoarse. Troubadours sang of the adventures Of heroes long dead, within narratives of love and Infidelity. The city had traveled into itself, Avoiding the river as it soaked up history The grand surfaces filled with time Gargoyle's faces crumbling into varnished vistas. The Strand flung out Fleet Street with Slingshot efficiency, and in its palm Drury lane full blown spilled over In laughter and song, knights and Whores billowing over to greet the oncoming Hordes expanding out towards Cheap Street. Raddled students lawed in mysteries, Filed out of Kings College, its cloisters ringing with ancient High Church bluster Red brick intensity gathered with Victorian splendour Into class and rule. This is where I learnt to define myself As a class above, even though I went for learning, My hunger blanching degree by degree. Below Euston, London’s universities club together Each rubbing shoulders in scholarly promiscuity, And nervous tribalism, furiously snapping at each other’s heels Going for jugulars, in inept competition recognized only By each other. Imperial College like an island behind walls, University College expressing it all, Birkbeck College where I psychologized Myself on Freud and Jung. A centre of brick and granite, St. Paul’s blistering presence copied From St. Sofia, boils and carbuncles. And a little further on St Barts Hospital as prescient in its way as London Wall, Hung with time like cracks in a dying face. Brittle, grievous granite Where Princess Diana, head lowered entranced by the ground Blond hair dribbling over her eyes to hide her tragic fate, her eyes like Periscopes as she gently passed through the wards, I offered my hand. She ignored it and paled by shame I sought The comfort of white-washed walls. Worth a quick word or two, London Bridge sturdily coveting The harvests beyond, filled with traffic rushing along like Red blood cells from one advantage point to another. 2. When you’re tired of London You are tired of life-or was that wife? Oxford Street is so neat Piccadilly is a crusty lily, Hyde Park is a lark Regents Park a stroll in the dark The Tower hides two boys and kingly power, The London eye moves with a sigh, Greenwich gave birth to Elizabeth the First, Hampstead Heath is the fun abode For those who make love in the cold. 3. St Thomas- Hospital expels babies In contorted bursts of variety, And Guys, also near the river referencing Plenty, where Mary Nursed her career in nostalgic innocence, where one City expands into another, One friend becomes a lover, One road becomes a highway One birth becomes a byway. Between fields and seas, the rumbling Torments and practices revive and Blakean Joyfulness as steps are retaken and buses break Through crowds, doubling up in the sunset. The healing scent of thyme, garlands of rain, The final shriek of expanded time.
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