writing and writers – Page 161 – don't confuse the narrator

London poetry

Tomorrow, the South Bank Poetry Magazine launches issue 11, the ‘London Poems Anthology’, with prize-winning, commended and short-listed poems from the inaugural South Bank Poetry Competition judged by Niall O’Sullivan. The event is at the Poetry Café in Betterton Street and will include readings of some of the poems.

In the meantime, for those who won’t be there, here’s a London poem. Coincidentally, the original notes were taken when I was going to the award ceremony of the Barnet Poetry Prize a few years ago.

Towards High Barnet

We’re moled and burrowing
through London’s longest stretch
of tunnelling dark, until East Finchley
where sudden sunlight dazzles us.
A shock of daffodils tousles the embankment.
Ivy-drab drapes a dull brick wall
beyond which, an old man digs for victory
against perennial weeds in his allotment.

red wellingtons on a grey day

The poem I posted on Thor’s Day last week has never been quite what I wanted it to be.

The original notes are for a bullet-point poem with the things children love about rain contrasted with the things that it means to an adult – leaking window frames, wet washing draped everywhere, rising damp and higher prices at the green grocer’s.

It was intended to end up with the (adult) narrator adding a pair of red wellingtons to her shopping list. (As the photo suggests, I’m a great believer in bright boots and umbrellas for grey days.)
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“first there is a mountain”

Every time there’s a break in the storms and the clouds start to peel back from the mountains, I hear the jangle of Donovan’s lyrics in my head.

cloud peeling from the mountains after storms

There is a mountain may not be a poem, but the line “The lock upon my garden gate’s a snail” is poetry I’d be proud to have written.

Perhaps I should re-read some of the popular philosophy books on my shelf: they certainly provided plenty of inspiration in the Sixties.

notes for a poem

Bonfire smoke mixes with drizzle.
From beyond the olive grove,
the stink of pigs rises defiant.

end of the season

The lack of rain meant that most vegetable plots didn’t do very well this year, but there is still a tangle of tomato vines straggling alongside next door’s pig sty.

Seeing the plants reminded me of a line from this piece, which, to judge from the pumpkins, was probably written in late September. It was published in South Bank Poetry Magazine back in summer 2009, so I shall resist the temptation to start tweaking it now.
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