Best Hackney Poems
Bun the feds dem coming str8 from the lava ground
A young brother moving mad cause I brown
I hate the police force their all full if pricks
They had the audacity to call the authorities
Bun that dough cause I ant for one
For a place full of pig’s wit a badge & gun
To be kill you know or dash in jail
It’s definitely on sight if I catch him in the cell
Moving wit jaff cause I so certified
Wit a ankh around my neck I feel qualified
Searching my yard looking for the herbs
Try to live peacefully but always disturb
You’d love to see me receive 10
Than the cert poet from the hood talking the truth again
Fling the rotten speaker’s outta the estate
And when I finish draw for the blue & white tape
To tape of the scene of the slaughter
Still moving g’d from yam and water
I defo know that their fish indeed
Pat a brother down and grabbing my seed
And on the other hand without a 9 they can’t hurt none
But I promise if your black it ant really fun
KKK will string man str8 to the tree top
Black boydem bull licking the white fed
Yoo Jaff will create a storm
On any idiot in a black uniform
Cause I from Hackney see
Nuff boydem are shook of me
A young rebel on a warpath
And when I finish (they claim) it’s gonna end in a bloodbath
Of jakes moving outta east way, I told you already I’ve been real from day
Inspired by N.W.A. F*** The Police
In Dickensian time
Upon sunset hour
Overshadowing Thames
Is London Tower
Blackened cobble streets
Shimmer in the rain
Big Ben at Westminster
Chimes an eight bells refrain
At Euston Station
A passenger alights
On Platform 3
And enters the caff
for a nice cup of tea
At the local tavern
Behind steamy windows
The opportunists sit
Gleaning local gossip
Ever watchful to ensnare
Any hapless stranger
come wandering there
Covent Garden
still well lit
As lamplighters
carry out their remit
Striding with ladders
about old London town
With a cheery wave
and a purposeful frown
Patrolling policemen
in forbidding places
Echoing footfalls
as boots make paces
A courting couple shelters
under the arches
Oblivious to passerby's
and dray cart horses
A hackney driver cracks his whip
As high stepping hooves
on cobbles clip
From Westminster
stove pipe hatted M.P.s from
parliament sitting
enter a members club
to continue their
political discourses
unremitting
Mudlark urchins ankle deep
in moonshine glow
watch chugging steam boats
along the Thames flow
Billingsgate Market's
straw boated and
stripe aproned men
are found sluicing
with brooms in hand
the blood drenched ground
Along the West End thoroughfares
Come wealthy patrons
in open carriages with lantern flares
wearing evening attire
Bejewelled ladies in fanciful frocks
And around bare shoulders
Stoles of mink and silver fox
They ascend the red carpeted stairs
And look towards the royal box
A pretty young street seller
of violets and roses
with straw basket on hip
proffers up the scented poses
A peasouper fog blankets from
Thames to chimney tops
As a trader hooks his shutters down
Outside his haberdashery shop
Across London Bridge the East End rabble
Trail homeward to Hackney, Bethnal Green
and Whitechapel
From an open pub door
streams a music hall tune
played on an accordion
in a crowded tap room
Wending amongst the walkers
in the Strand
run beggarly children
with outstretched hand.
And......
Charles Dickens
walks the streets
at night
taking note
of every sight.
Sir where may I drive you
With your finery and trappings
To the world renowned palace
So high in the rankings
And what do you do there
For you plainly are princely
I order activity
Of circuits and machinery
Now leave me to working
While you do drive me
I know where you hail from
Of your far away kingdom
How could you know it
A mere village hackney
The tales of your queen
Are known in our country
Does the queen tell you kindly
That you're a fine scholar
Have you known a lord
To praise you a driver
I sing my own praises
To myself softly
What wisdom I have
That is enough for me
Tell me now of the princess
For whom shall she marry
I know not who warrants
There are too many vying
Name the three manners
That rise above others
Philosophy bravery
I can't name another
Here is the palace
The trip has passed quickly
I hope to drive you
Again if you need me
I will sing your praises
And I'll sing them loudly
What wisdom you have
That is enough for me
You frowned at that fraudster called age,
The fiend that lets no one sleep light,
In book of life age is a page.
A child lets life a free passage,
Flying off in a fancy flight,
And this creature’s caught in a cage.
Grown up when knows, hedges on hedge,
Balks at calling this boaster’s blight,
Life’s a long book, age passing page.
Pushing up life’s hackney carriage,
Reaping fruits, in fair-weather flight,
He copes with that impostor’s rage.
When old enough, bit of a sage,
In vain trying life’s wrongs to right,
He prepares to pen life’s last page.
But you lived in heaven’s image,
Fought your best to give age good fight,
And frowned on that fraudster’s false rage,
Proved, life’s a book, age but a page.
______________________________________________________
Inspired by my father who led an exemplary life and died at the ripe and rewarding age of 102
______________________________________________________
Villanelle | 01.10.08 |
Ghetto people, where ghetto people
North, south, east and west, its ghetto
Ghetto’s and garrisons, we have to live with it
From the cold hearted streets, you got to deal with it
Born and raised in the east side of that London
Hackney to be preside, try and get a job most likely made redundant
Remember 011 when the riots happened
I think that’s only time everyone came together as friends
A brother named Mark Duggan had a gun which was a lie
Shot 2 times in cold blood, left to die
I don’t understand why he was killed in the streets
When a police officer could kill any brother who is black as me
To most people the ghetto is their reality
I’m from the hood were hustling makes up your salary
People say I wonder if heaven has a ghetto
But we have hell on earth, I just try to stay mellow
Ghetto’s, garrisons, hoods and projects
Everyone dreaming of having a million pound or dollar checks
I know sometimes life isn’t fair
But to be honest, it’s like that everywhere
There is always a light a light at the end of the tunnel when you get there
As Tupac Shakur said, even though you’re fed up
You gotta keep your head up
So don’t give up my people
Let’s go beyond greatness, 1,2,3,4 like a sequel
Hey you! You’re a mum
‘Bout time you talked to your son
Where was he last night?
Came home, what a sight
Lingering smoke
‘Bout time you sat down and spoke.
He ain’t got a job
Well dressed, not a slob
Cut hands, torn clothes
Bruised cheek, bloody nose
How come he ain’t broke
‘Bout time you sat down and spoke.
No sense in avoidin’
What went on in Croydon
In Hackney and Ealing
You must have a feeling
The destruction and riot
This ain’t the time to keep quiet.
Full of excuses
Substances abuses
Lack of respect
Which you’ve come to expect
Why d’you let it go on
Where did it go wrong?
Hey you! You should listen
This discord and friction
It won’t go away
This ain’t no way to behave
You need to ask questions
What are his intentions?
Hey you! You’re a mum
'Bout time you talked to your son?
hackney ride
flowers birth swimming pool alliance
Court hiss sea hove The Irish Times,
this hum mere ruck can bloke
kin esse spy climb mitt till impact
desiccation ravaging with choke
hold thee aim rilled isle,
which haint ok key doke
cuz won hoot rook froom sun
whelps like heretic burned at stoke!
- - - - - - - - - -
More to the point (meaning jaw
ken minus **** faux
hackney poetic strung bow
Willy Wonka barely understandable
twanged and twinged) accent
hen reed how, accomplishment
in garnering alarming
news-worthy ailment
while this Unit Aryan ensconced
within beef hoar tee four comfortably
numb burred battlement,
here at Highland Manor,
I pay (if totally tubularly pennies rolled)
approximately equaling bedazzlement
17,500 viz copper cent,
per month gratuity clement,
sans Grosse and Quade
associates co-management
offered rental assistance congruent
(predicated on social security disability)
to occupy one bedroom
apartment kept air
conditioned 60°Fahrenheit
perfect for concupiscent
activity, albeit unfortunately marriage
shot thru with celibacy
suppressed sexless existence
more difficult to control
than catching a tiger by the tail,
hence this damned delinquent dependent
Dickensian dada cooly cruising thru
cyberspace espying embodiment,
how measurable heating up
Gaia, i.e. Mother Earth (she) evinces
no illusory figment, and just by a fluke,
the spontaneous Google search,
keyed revealed tumy mine eyes,
wretched webpage showed
stark rising temperature gradient
Dublin, Ireland experiencing
worst drought since
records began 168 years ago
where Irish Water (utility)
warned Dublin would run out of water
in 70 days, a “worst-case scenario”
necessitating hyper-efficient
protocols immediately inherent.
Its been taken,lost, buried.
Non existent
The ashes crushed and grey gather in my palms
A faded pretty picture
The sweetest ... Bitter
A wisp of memory brushes past
Caught by my the strands of coil on my head
By the touch of scalp
My heart begins to beat red,pink,orange
Living
Wide eyes
Bones of steel
But as quickly as it came
It return on its journey
Dancing in the glint of the sun
My eyes clinging on
Following into the sun and poured back into my sockets
High bury and Islignton
Left with blue and smothered in black
the road of independence awaits
Ice for muscle, sharpened bones the human bleeds
Confusion stands behind the yellow line
Wisps of memory pass once more
A wounding memory
Caresses an iron cheek
But Without refuge,it dances again to the sun
The violent heart darkens black
For what are memories in the dark
Light blown out by the sigh of the weak
The present serves the grey and strong
Colourless life
Hackney central
Dreamless sleep.
Once in a while my brainpan looks alike
a hackney carriage full of hackneyed clichés
and tired words. In times like this, my psych
advised the psycho to unharness wishes,
to burn the carriage down, to make love
to the imaginary charioteer
and, having smoothly closed the above
gestalt, to go for a walk. Oh, dear,
how silent and empty are the streets!
My head is silent and empty either.
This emptiness miraculously treats
a writer’s block. I feel how formless ether
morphs into words again to give a birth
to the entire world and this small verse.
No accent comes with an ace
Or perfect words' tones at place
It doesn't assume a good act
Or speech determining lie or fact
Does it make one wise like ants?
Growing impact in their solemn chants
Within the sounds; clear twist, breaths fan
Bad difference with apt touches, do ban
Yet, good ears see purely hints like cat
Stressing out the orthoepy to combat
Meanwhile, same is tasty food all eat
Packaging only brings to some extra treat
Though, misquotation may set in a net
The selected few are still in the same set
From background check of environs tan
To the informal training by your clan
Which everyday gives as breakfast tea
Its lunch and dinner then turned you- devotee
Till time grows years into an adaptive ten
Hold not those for you who see it a den
More or less a disease: black-like-acne
Load enough enlightenment into your hackney
With which you hit ideas unalloyed cane
That laughter gets foes entertain
Accent doesn't make your talk(s) a cant
When words contained are well implant
Forget thoughts; value the worth beyond a cent
Fight not to cement points; pour content
Matters how the breaths voice words discreetly
Than how fluent the flow caress ears sweetly
Commune words of sound fairly much good interacted
Other diacritics are same; above is none ever enacted
Happiness, over-rated
in the lizard of a soul
You call your own.
And the trainee smiled
while I lusted after his
bottle of rosé.
And undone, these white teeth
Clenching for London Smiles.
I gat no ing job
All I do is place a daring bet
Sometimes I hit the big stone with my toe
While if luck gat my back, it catapults me like a jet
Madness permits corncob
Yet remain hopeful to have a cot
How come seedling germinates below
When no dropping deposit could have actually clot
Life's race shouldn't be for only ace
Though one needs to be steadfast on his lane
And before hand tighten the golden shoe lace
To avoid the awful onlookers laughter-like-cane
Before pretence make you ale
Try be for everyday as sun and moon ache
Bottom-side-up, toughness won't make chance hale
Its way through fate's hopeful touch of the unknown at stake
On God I lean
Even as flesh gets faith to leach
Empty me of sins and make me clean
Every flaw is free of me but upon him is each
His strength is my will
Driving my steps off "I CAN"
And bless the anxious quills to thrill
Beyond the great proposed altitude span
Imagine a super hen
Grazing on a snowy lea
Then go ahead to feed in a den
Giving òsùbà to lion and lioness via plea
If never suffered acne,
One would simply pray to heal
Its skin lacking favor be put in a hackney
For other hens to learn first how to deal
What if a hand lance
Stunningly to launch and cancel
Will the super hen ever get another chance?
Placed before the brethren on the holy chancel
The pain in its body
Will not bail out the wish to live
In all ramifications be classified bawdy
Even at the expense of grace fortunes give
So soon sun shying
Shall shun skipping sky
So shy sailing saliva silently sighing
See soaked season secretly scouting shall shoot
Blessing unto every eel
In its own world that enrich feeds
Which are rare, lofty and hard to steal
Nutritiously blessed of adequate needs
Walk, walk in a cemetery. Old and imposing necropolis. In Hackney.
Poe lived here, in this amazing main district.
Walk, walk. Silent...
You don't hear the voices of the dead, no, never
They tell you to wait, stop, don't go any further.
Listen to us, you are with us, but carry on the news of our past.
On and on, because we also lived here, and we are making our future generation live on.
Live on
Thomas Hobson (1544 –1631)
in 19th century late
a Cambridge ostler and postal carrier
set his priorities straight
he owned a livery stable
of 40 Hackney horses or more
plus boots bridles and whips
and put the horse the cart before
after the animal left the barn
by bolting fast the door
and as precautionary balm
the nag nearest the stable gate
the worn-out equine storm to calm
was the firm rule he did make
this one or none in the stall
was that which customers had to take
or do with no ride at all
but for the paying equestrians
either way they win or lose
as there was no choice but accept or reject
for any of them to choose