For I'll consider public hell with red buses and an incessantly ringing bell.
For I won't escape the angry shouts, the rage-filled screams, the duck-faced pouts.
For I'll consider how I ran to reach the idle standing bus,
with the driver pulling away, looking for pay, leaving me by the pavement to wait another day,
the amber light flickers between passion and jealousy.
Damn! Do I have the £2:35 or is it £2:40?
For I'll consider the window seat to enjoy the view. I sure hope you don't consider it too.
Or worse, I hope you don't join me and inflict a curse, by speaking in unwanted verse, if that's the case, I'd rather take a hearse,
For I'll never escape the modern-day Rousseau staring out of the glass,
or the bus driver screaming "fuck out the way or I'll tan your...behind."
For I'll consider the angry young man speaking his mind or the philosopher trying to think, the middle-aged drunk with his open can of drink or the chatty passenger thinking he's a shrink.
For I'll consider the tube accessed only by ticket or card.
Got no money mate? Sorry man, you're barred!
For there'll always be windows carved with names
Dan, Tom, Michael, James
For there'll always be that one man staring at me from Uxbridge to Aldgate, from zone 1 to zone 8, from Epping to Ealing Broadway.
They never stop, do they?
For there'll always be me squished between two men, like a battery-reared hen, reading the Metro over someone's shoulder, trying to pretending I'm not getting older, as I hear
patronising people saying public transport causes less pollution, congestion, aggravation.
Do they not hear the moans, the shouts, the frustration?
For there'll be always be that one selfish bastard throwing himself under the tracks, making us all late.
It's not our problem. Why do we have to wait?
For we are Londoners with our stiff upper lip, letting nowt affect us, unless our transport cocks up, which is when we jump ship.
For there'll always be rescheduling and delays and a busker singing "bout your plans to make me blue."
But I wanna know if the trains run for 24 hours on weekends, will the rail replacement bus service run for all that time too?
For there'll always be a taxi painted black, with a driver nattering away
"the other day, my little girl said the metre's running,
I think she'll grow up to become a cabbie, just like her daddy."
I wasn't so sure.
For I'll never escape the driver asking "where to mate?"
Oh just down the street? That'll be £9:28."
For there'll always be middle finger salutes, cunts calling each other cunts.
For I'll never escape the seatbelt getting jammed or my body being crammed or my suitcase getting slammed.
For there'll always be the demon ghosting into the taxi rank, playing a prank,
But he doesn't fool me.
For there'll always be that mug, stealing innocence, numb to their screams, while the concrete walls look on. They're used to it.
For I'll never escape the inevitable Atmos sticker or the CO2 fumes becoming thicker and thicker or the split oil making the road slicker and slicker.
For I'll never escape London's leading attraction,
the one you should always book for.
For I'll never escape the taxi filled with Saharan desert air,
For there'll always be apple and pear, or a chocolate eclair or a steak done rare fighting in my stomach to be the first to make the return journey.
For I will never escape public transport, as I live in London and the congestion charge makes it freaking expensive to drive there.
*Author's Notes*
So this is a poem I originally started writing in a Creative Writing lecture months ago and I left it untouched, until a few weeks ago, when I thought I would end it. This poem may seem a little different from my others, as I've tried to make this one a 'performance/slam poem' and I'm not sure how successful I was. Compared to my other poetry, there is much greater emphasis on rhyme and rhythm. If you're from London, then you know my troubles.
Homage to Public Transport poetry performance
Tuesday 31 January 2017
Tuesday 17 January 2017
Soldiers in White Coats and Blue Scrubs
The Men in Suits always come to visit us when they need to be popular:
the wrinkled old man, me with the tube up my nose. They promise
to sand down the floors, to carry the nurses' bags,
but they're not the ones who keep away the grime, who keep away the hunger.
The Men in Suits don't have the time, so instead,
we rely on our soldiers in white coats and blue scrubs.
The Men with black shoes always visit us when they need to be popular.
They always visit me when my bags are heaviest,
when my bones are achiest,
after I've just finished washing my hands.
We wouldn't want to get other people's muck
on their spic-and-span shoes, would we?
The Man in a blue tie ignores me, as he walks across the polished floors.
He takes notice of the naked yellow sunshine,
the cracks in the walls
and wrinkles of our exhausted soldiers,
of our buildings stacked on top of one another,
like a game of Tetris gone wrong.
If we don't get enough ticks, it might
be game over for all of us.
The Man with studded cufflinks points to the running junior doctor
with a crooked tie and wavy hair.
He is pointing to me, as I hold pink lansoprazole to quell Mr. Watson's raging stomach.
He's an old man, you see. He can't take much pain I tell him,
We're understaffed, I tell him,
I'm always running, I tell him,
from patient to patient, from nurse to nurse, to
the senior doctor to decode my colleagues' hieroglyphics.
The Men in Suits line us up for our final register,
They straighten their ties,
They uncrease their trousers,
They clear their throats,
They inspect every single one
of our loyal troops.
The junior doctor who is still panting furiously.
The nurse displaying her polished silver watch, as if it were a war medal,
The cleaner with his trusty mop and bucket always standing by,
The hospital consultant whose forehead displays his battle scars,
The electrician trying to protect the lightbulb's modesty,
And me, the civillian, with the tube up my nose.
The Men in Suits take out their checkboards and pens.
One cross is all we need
to be dissolved.
Our victories will be forgotten,
our trophies will lie buried underneath
the dirt.
Never to shine again.
*Author's Notes*
So this is the second draft of a poem I'm working on for a competition about the NHS.The general idea behind it is how the NHS is suffering from being underfunded, but it's still soldiering on and doing what it's doing without complaints. Thanks to Jaz for beta-reading this and my dad for telling me about lansoprazole.
the wrinkled old man, me with the tube up my nose. They promise
to sand down the floors, to carry the nurses' bags,
but they're not the ones who keep away the grime, who keep away the hunger.
The Men in Suits don't have the time, so instead,
we rely on our soldiers in white coats and blue scrubs.
The Men with black shoes always visit us when they need to be popular.
They always visit me when my bags are heaviest,
when my bones are achiest,
after I've just finished washing my hands.
We wouldn't want to get other people's muck
on their spic-and-span shoes, would we?
The Man in a blue tie ignores me, as he walks across the polished floors.
He takes notice of the naked yellow sunshine,
the cracks in the walls
and wrinkles of our exhausted soldiers,
of our buildings stacked on top of one another,
like a game of Tetris gone wrong.
If we don't get enough ticks, it might
be game over for all of us.
The Man with studded cufflinks points to the running junior doctor
with a crooked tie and wavy hair.
He is pointing to me, as I hold pink lansoprazole to quell Mr. Watson's raging stomach.
He's an old man, you see. He can't take much pain I tell him,
We're understaffed, I tell him,
I'm always running, I tell him,
from patient to patient, from nurse to nurse, to
the senior doctor to decode my colleagues' hieroglyphics.
The Men in Suits line us up for our final register,
They straighten their ties,
They uncrease their trousers,
They clear their throats,
They inspect every single one
of our loyal troops.
The junior doctor who is still panting furiously.
The nurse displaying her polished silver watch, as if it were a war medal,
The cleaner with his trusty mop and bucket always standing by,
The hospital consultant whose forehead displays his battle scars,
The electrician trying to protect the lightbulb's modesty,
And me, the civillian, with the tube up my nose.
The Men in Suits take out their checkboards and pens.
One cross is all we need
to be dissolved.
Our victories will be forgotten,
our trophies will lie buried underneath
the dirt.
Never to shine again.
*Author's Notes*
So this is the second draft of a poem I'm working on for a competition about the NHS.The general idea behind it is how the NHS is suffering from being underfunded, but it's still soldiering on and doing what it's doing without complaints. Thanks to Jaz for beta-reading this and my dad for telling me about lansoprazole.
Tuesday 10 January 2017
Country Roads
All roads lead to nowhere,
except for the one that takes me home,
my favourite one that stretches
into fields of nothingness.
Bare land whose only
inhabitant is an idyllic peace,
held by generations gone by.
Sitting in the field's centre
is a creaky, comforting farmhouse,
that'll always exist
even as an everlasting memory.
Mind your head!
Watch the rafters,
which hang as lazily as
the farmer does,
on a long, long, so long Sunday afternoon.
His only companion is a Sheep dog
and the Murder of Crows that are sheltering in the stables.
Why not? All of the little ponies
have gone out to play.
People always say that there's a difference
between loneliness and solitude.
A rocking chair endlessly sways,
as the chirping of cicadas fade into silence.
The farmer stares into serenity,
as the wind dances through the corn and barley.
The Murder of Crows take flight from the stables
and fly into the silhouette of the dying light.
*Author's Notes*
So, this is the first thing I've posted on here in quite a few months, but I wrote this in a creative writing seminar I had. Our prompt was to talk to someone and get them to describe their home to you and from that we wrote a piece of writing. The girl I was talking to described her home as an old farmhouse in the middle of the country. Hope you enjoy. This was the second piece of writing that I have had published.
except for the one that takes me home,
my favourite one that stretches
into fields of nothingness.
Bare land whose only
inhabitant is an idyllic peace,
held by generations gone by.
Sitting in the field's centre
is a creaky, comforting farmhouse,
that'll always exist
even as an everlasting memory.
Mind your head!
Watch the rafters,
which hang as lazily as
the farmer does,
on a long, long, so long Sunday afternoon.
His only companion is a Sheep dog
and the Murder of Crows that are sheltering in the stables.
Why not? All of the little ponies
have gone out to play.
People always say that there's a difference
between loneliness and solitude.
A rocking chair endlessly sways,
as the chirping of cicadas fade into silence.
The farmer stares into serenity,
as the wind dances through the corn and barley.
The Murder of Crows take flight from the stables
and fly into the silhouette of the dying light.
*Author's Notes*
So, this is the first thing I've posted on here in quite a few months, but I wrote this in a creative writing seminar I had. Our prompt was to talk to someone and get them to describe their home to you and from that we wrote a piece of writing. The girl I was talking to described her home as an old farmhouse in the middle of the country. Hope you enjoy. This was the second piece of writing that I have had published.
Tuesday 3 January 2017
Silence
It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak out and remove all doubt Abraham Lincoln
Everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you. You're the lovable fool, the village idiot. Everyone already knows you're the one who sits back, who stays silent. You're the passive one, the submissive one, the subordinate one. Everyone already knows you're the one who ignores the pain, who dances in the sunshine and runs from the rain. You're the one who walks on by, you're the one who never says a word. You know that everyone already thinks you're a fool. Why shatter that illusion? After all, everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you.
Her transmission is lost in the static. Your transmission is lost in the static. Yet you know that she's still watching you. Judging you and your every movement. You want her to send words swimming into the void. She wants you to send words swimming into the void. You speak. She thinks, ponders, contemplates. She sighs out a response, which sends the words crawling back down your throat. You should have stayed silent. She already thought you were a fool and now you've just confirmed it.
Silverware dances through the darkness. A splash of red. One last cry. One last glint of the moonlight. You have so many regrets, but one last threat persuades you to shut the window, to lock the door. The key sticks in the hole, but it turns full circle. You see the sideways stare. The black metal striking up; staring into the eye of the devil. You're safe. The person next to you isn't. You want to call, to shout, to scream, but the words are hiding in the bottom of your stomach. You're already a fool. Why remove the doubt?
They want you to stay silent. They want you to listen. They want you to forget the mushroom clouds, the wall of skulls, the bloodthirsty crowds. They want you to forget Vietnam, the Somme, the gladiatorial games. They want you to forget Khan, Stalin, Zedong and all of their victim's names. They want you to forget the horror, forget the pain. They want you to run from the rain. They want you to stay the lovable fool, the village idiot. Ignorance is bliss, isn't it? It is better to stay silent and remain a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt, wouldn't you agree?
*author's notes*
Bloody hell, this turned out dark and very abstract. This quotation really describes me. Yes...my very fragmented, disjointed thoughts concerning the given quotation. Hmm. All credit to Abraham Lincoln for the quotation, although it could have been Rami Belson who said this . With thanks to my friend Zayd for helping me edit this. This is one of my more abstract poems. Have a go at interpreting it. What do you think it means?
My latest in my poetry inspired by famous quotations.
1. Left Behind
2. Shattered
3. Crystal
4. Revival
Everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you. You're the lovable fool, the village idiot. Everyone already knows you're the one who sits back, who stays silent. You're the passive one, the submissive one, the subordinate one. Everyone already knows you're the one who ignores the pain, who dances in the sunshine and runs from the rain. You're the one who walks on by, you're the one who never says a word. You know that everyone already thinks you're a fool. Why shatter that illusion? After all, everyone already likes you. Everyone already loves you.
Her transmission is lost in the static. Your transmission is lost in the static. Yet you know that she's still watching you. Judging you and your every movement. You want her to send words swimming into the void. She wants you to send words swimming into the void. You speak. She thinks, ponders, contemplates. She sighs out a response, which sends the words crawling back down your throat. You should have stayed silent. She already thought you were a fool and now you've just confirmed it.
Silverware dances through the darkness. A splash of red. One last cry. One last glint of the moonlight. You have so many regrets, but one last threat persuades you to shut the window, to lock the door. The key sticks in the hole, but it turns full circle. You see the sideways stare. The black metal striking up; staring into the eye of the devil. You're safe. The person next to you isn't. You want to call, to shout, to scream, but the words are hiding in the bottom of your stomach. You're already a fool. Why remove the doubt?
They want you to stay silent. They want you to listen. They want you to forget the mushroom clouds, the wall of skulls, the bloodthirsty crowds. They want you to forget Vietnam, the Somme, the gladiatorial games. They want you to forget Khan, Stalin, Zedong and all of their victim's names. They want you to forget the horror, forget the pain. They want you to run from the rain. They want you to stay the lovable fool, the village idiot. Ignorance is bliss, isn't it? It is better to stay silent and remain a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt, wouldn't you agree?
*author's notes*
Bloody hell, this turned out dark and very abstract. This quotation really describes me. Yes...my very fragmented, disjointed thoughts concerning the given quotation. Hmm. All credit to Abraham Lincoln for the quotation, although it could have been Rami Belson who said this . With thanks to my friend Zayd for helping me edit this. This is one of my more abstract poems. Have a go at interpreting it. What do you think it means?
My latest in my poetry inspired by famous quotations.
1. Left Behind
2. Shattered
3. Crystal
4. Revival
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