Silent Poetry Reading, as spotted on Bekki's blog. I first saw this poem in a mock A-level exam, and stole the paper so I could copy it out. It's very London, but I love it. Finally typed out before the clock turns 12 and we all turn into poetry-lacking pumpkins.
Rising Damp, by U.A. Fanthorpe
At our feet they lie low,
The little ferment underground
Rivers of London
Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy,
Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet
Whose names are disfigured,
Frayed, effaced.
These are the Magogs that chewed the day
To the basin that London nestle in.
These are the currents that chiselled the city,
That washed the clothes and turned the mills,
Where children drank and salmon swam
And wells were holy.
They have gone under
Boxed, like the magician’s assistant.
Buried alive in earth.
Forgotten, like the dead.
They return spectrally after heavy rain,
Confounding suburban gardens. They infiltrate
Chronic bronchitis statistics. A silken
Slur haunts dwellings by shrouded
Watercourses and is taken
For the footing of the dead.
Being of our world, they will return
(Westbourne, cages at Sloane Square,
Will jack from his box).
Will deluge cellars, detonate manholes,
Plant effluent on our faces,
Sink the city.
Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy,
Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet
It is the other rivers that lie
Lower, that touch us only in dreams
That never surface. We feel their tug
As a dowsers rod bends to the source below.
Rising Damp, by U.A. Fanthorpe
At our feet they lie low,
The little ferment underground
Rivers of London
Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy,
Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet
Whose names are disfigured,
Frayed, effaced.
These are the Magogs that chewed the day
To the basin that London nestle in.
These are the currents that chiselled the city,
That washed the clothes and turned the mills,
Where children drank and salmon swam
And wells were holy.
They have gone under
Boxed, like the magician’s assistant.
Buried alive in earth.
Forgotten, like the dead.
They return spectrally after heavy rain,
Confounding suburban gardens. They infiltrate
Chronic bronchitis statistics. A silken
Slur haunts dwellings by shrouded
Watercourses and is taken
For the footing of the dead.
Being of our world, they will return
(Westbourne, cages at Sloane Square,
Will jack from his box).
Will deluge cellars, detonate manholes,
Plant effluent on our faces,
Sink the city.
Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy,
Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet
It is the other rivers that lie
Lower, that touch us only in dreams
That never surface. We feel their tug
As a dowsers rod bends to the source below.
10 comments:
Love, love the poem. Will have to add it to my files of favorites. :)
I'm left quite speechless by that poem. Thanks.
That's gorgeous. I love London's hidden rivers.
Excellent poem I love it too because I've received classes of poetry and I can see this is a perfect work, the only one was missing here was the perfect rhyme.
Wow - thanks!!
This is all erroneous what you're writing.
Really useful information, lots of thanks for your post.
Great post. I think one of the basic things that we should know know is that we must always make sure that you are safe in every transactions you wanted to indulge with.
This can't really work, I believe like this.
The last line of the poem is missing. It reads:
Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, Styx.
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