Any Old Jerusalem
By ralph
- 1077 reads
On the laps of our beloved smoking mothers –
I heard them talk about the world
when they were young.
The festooned nights of war-torn bingo halls –
where everything was just about right and unjust
about wrong. Where no one owned a phone.
How Steph danced with a Stepney Elvis –
love me tender, love me true. The mortgage
and the factory belt. The disappointment of the pill.
Gloria and her boy from Des Moines.
That morning he found God, the evening she found gin.
Waving him off at Tilbury Docks. Another sailor, every sin.
And Julie wondering how to make ends meet.
As she pushes the roundabout, rocks the swing.
Beans and bread in a plastic bag, snagging on a ring.
Yes. I can still see them on abandoned mornings –
alone with scratched blankets for their winter ghosts.
Cigarettes in mouth. Eyes down. Enraged of England.
Image:When Docklands Meant Docks by Peter Jeffery (Wiki Commons)
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Comments
I feel like you've caught a
I feel like you've caught a place and an era. Loads of short, apt, loaded descriptions that catch eyes and brain, like 'snagging on a ring.'
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Congrats -- this excellent
Congrats -- this excellent poem about an England from a different time is our Pick of the Day.
Do share on social media if you can.
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Really enjoyed this visit to
Really enjoyed this visit to the past - so beautifully done. Congratulations on the golden cherries Ralph!
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You are definitely on my
You are definitely on my wavelength with this poem. So much of it stirs the memories of another time.Nostalgia is something I always enjoy reading.
More please.
Jenny.
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'That morning he found God,
'That morning he found God, that evening she found gin.' What a brilliant line. Evoking that time so well. I could hear my mother and her relatives saying all these things.
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So good.
Seems famliar from your past collection, is this a re-write?
best
Lena x
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Ah!
Yes tricky, in dismantling ( literary toffee hammer) may lose central coherance of your muse. Good stuff tho'
Not for me to tweak, though an interesting addition would be a subtext of observed competative dynamic between the women, who, non conforming through circumstance to top down acceptable standards, had their own internal heirarchy...maybe for another poem?
best to you Lena x
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Lovely and haunting,
Lovely and haunting, congratulations on Poem of the Week!
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