How do I think of you, London, my lovely?
Last time I saw you, alas, you were dirty:
Oxford Street cluttered with boxes and beer cans,
litter and dust clouds there, blown by the wind.
I'll forgive you the way all lovers forgive
their beloveds their failings and each fleeting
lapse, for these are not thoughts I wish to retain;
they cannot erase the warmth that I feel
for galleries tucked out of sight in your back
ways; dealers inviting the populace in.
Colourful, small, like the stalls in a kasbah -
not that they'd thank me for putting it so! -
with paintings and prints to delight jaded souls.
In one such a gallery, columns of smoke
signalled the end of my favourite coat -
one extra tale for another occasion,
one extra lapse, already forgiven - how
could I drop you, your House of Commons?
(The best entertainment for free you can get!
Dead meats and their prices debated for hours.)
How not to forgive who showed me the ballet,
Berisova, Fonteyn, and then Drury Lane,
not least, The Royal Court, Pinter, Osborne and co.
Oh London, my Lovely, I'll pardon your faults,
though the riots, I grant, will take a wee while.
Oh London, my lovely, your charms are sublime,
brighter by far than a bright starry sky,
more abundant than stars. But these are the charms
that remind me I love you - and why that is so.
The suggestion to write about a city was made by dVerse ~ Poets Pub
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
Tom Lubbock, writing in The Independent (friday 15 May 2009) returned to the age old topic of censorship in the arts. Well, in painting act...