London Poems
In A London Drawingroom
by George Eliot
The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
For view there are the houses opposite
Cutting the sky with one long line of wall
Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch
Monotony of surface & of form
Without a break to hang a guess upon.
No bird can make a shadow as it flies,
For all is shadow, as in ways o'erhung
By thickest canvass, where the golden rays
Are clothed in hemp. No figure lingering
......
The River's Tale
by Rudyard Kipling
Prehistoric
Twenty bridges from Tower to Kew--
(Twenty bridges or twenty-two)--
Wanted to know what the River knew,
For they were young, and the Thames was old
And this is the tale that River told:--
"I walk my beat before London Town,
Five hours up and seven down.
Up I go till I end my run
......
Prothalamion
by Edmund Spenser
Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
When I (whom sullen care,
Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
In prince's court, and expectation vain
Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain),
Walk'd forth to ease my pain
......
Last Instructions To A Painter
by Andrew Marvell
After two sittings, now our Lady State
To end her picture does the third time wait.
But ere thou fall'st to work, first, Painter, see
If't ben't too slight grown or too hard for thee.
Canst thou paint without colors? Then 'tis right:
For so we too without a fleet can fight.
Or canst thou daub a signpost, and that ill?
'Twill suit our great debauch and little skill.
Or hast thou marked how antic masters limn
The aly-roof with snuff of candle dim,
......
Don Juan: Canto The Eighth
by George Gordon Byron
The town was taken--whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now:
His stubborn valour was no future shield.
Ismail's no more! The Crescent's silver bow
Sunk, and the crimson Cross glar'd o'er the field,
But red with no redeeming gore: the glow
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
Was imag'd back in blood, the sea of slaughter.
All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;
......
Big Ben
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
Every city has her peculiar charm.
London has her peculiar chime.
It’s proudly owned
By a tall, fragile, splendid house
Where Time rented a space.
It speaks with the tone of a clock
And with the audacity of an imperious tower,
Blending flying, fleeting bits of seconds
With the austere stroke of twelve
To lend London its uniquely powerful voice.
......
Trafalgar Square
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
I detest a late appointment, be it love or business,
on the breath of the Trafalgar,
and with Nelson peering down at such looseness
on the revered Square, teeming with man and pigeons.
Imagine being on surveillance from such dizzying height!
Give me a break and come early,
Before Big Ben, the lone cockerel of London,
Crows with that huge metallic tone,
Ushering in dawn and her smiling, smouldering light.
Meet me at the Trafalgar with a bouquet of flowers
......
E Street Market
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
It thrives with communal brio
And the breath of commercial nerve
And strives to reckon with the assembly of
Men and beasts, from cockcrow to roosting time,
All dressed for the talking-and-chattering event.
Wares have the abundance of aquatic life,
Displayed luminously on broad street squares, tabled,
And on fringes so remarkable for their liveliness.
I get relieved by what the Germans call Günstig —of
Prices friendly and heart-warming; of traders and customers
......
The Wrong Train
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
London fog, harshly early with strained warning,
Looms all over the image of the hectic city
There’s the smell of mists and the taste of
Frozen rain gathered before dawn.
Pulses brake and start,
And lungs are besieged by distilled grime,
Industrial tainting.
I can’t see well beyond five feet ahead of me
As I labour to walk,
But headlamps from crawling cars and buses
......
Oxford Street
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
I walked down the alleyways of London
Early one edgy Friday evening.
I am a touring, curious resident, mind you.
The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and
With the hushed melody of frazzled fog.
I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured
Heels and hills, and stumbled upon
Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz
And devoted heartbreaks.
It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime.
......
