london – Page 2 – don't confuse the narrator

distorsions*

Glass

Seen through old sash windows, a crinkle of brickwork
and ripple of wrought iron remind me that glass is liquid:
cool and viscous, it creeps earthwards through the centuries.

This thought occurred to me when looking out at the buildings in the picture. Then, of course, I felt obliged to go and research whether glass really is liquid or whether that’s just an old wives’ tale. The idea is discussed at some length and technicality in this paper.

I think the conclusion is that, although glass can be considered a super-cooled liquid, the variations in thickness of old glass are nothing to do with the pull of gravity. Still, I was trying to write poetry not science, so I’m leaving it as it is and will blame any inaccuracy on my fallible narrator.

*oops: I really did spell it that way and publish it without checking. I’ll blame the fallible writer for that; and the fact that it’d be distorsión in Spanish.

more horsey bits

The horses and riders who passed by at 7 am were obviously up too early to have had a chance to titivate. But at the ones who came by at eleven had all their ceremonial trimmings and trappings, and positively sparkled in the sunlight:

guards and horses in ceremonial uniforms, london

This gives me a chance to look back at a word I learned yesterday when I ‘bumped into’ the Lord Mayor’s Show. I knew the parade was scheduled, but was really rather hoping to avoid it. I was on my way to an exhibition when I suddenly heard drums and trumpets and found myself in a perfect position to watch everything. Since I rather like marching bands, I stayed.
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three by three

I know London is not as quiet as the pueblo, but I didn’t expect to be woken at 7am on a Sunday. Then again, I’m glad I didn’t miss this scene:

It was the completely unexpected sound of hooves on asphalt that woke me – there must have been around fifty horses, and they made quite a noise. I have no idea where they were being taken or why. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

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.

do not adjust your screen

The world has not turned to black and white. This is a perfectly normal English day in mid May with 100% cloud cover, a bitter wind, and noisy aeroplanes directly overhead.
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