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poem

This was meant to be a performance piece. But, well 2020 happened. There’s nowhere to perform…

I don’t write poetry

As you can see

All that ‘Iambic Pentameter’

Just isn’t for me

I did. For my degree

Write a poem or three

But now I don’t write poetry

Can’t get my head round rhyme

And splitting ideas

Across lines wastes my time

I prefer to write prose, free flowing and loose. I break up my sentences. To short. Sharp. Fragments. To make my reader. Breathless. To show pace. 

Or I write long, detailed, sentences, with lots of sub clauses, so that the reader has to concentrate, or to slow down the pace, to hide the murderer’s identity in a clause so complex the reader has forgotten by the time they get to the end, and has to read to the reveal. 

I can start a new paragraph with a new idea, not just when I’ve hit the beat. 

Then another one. Which jars, because it’s incomplete.

No I don’t write poetry

As you can see

Well, maybe the odd Haiku

Cos I understand

Five syllables, then 

Seven in the second line

Five more to complete. 

© Chris Johnson 2020. 

I miss the old St Pancras

Hiding in the archway from the rain

The darkness, walls embedded

With the soot of a million trains

 

The newspaper stands’ patina

The noise, deisel fumes, dust

‘Lend us 50p mister?’

Seats all plastic and rust

 

The new station is clean and tidy

Well policed, welcoming, smart

But it’s lost some if its character

And replaced it with modern art

 

I miss the old St Pancras

The gritty, noir place of my youth

Today I closed my eyes on the platform

And returned there for a moment or two.

 

I was lucky enough to be in London on Thursday, a trip I make periodically for work. Whiling away some time waiting for a train I tried to recall the ‘old’ St Pancras, the one I remember from exciting trips as a teenager and early work trips. The poem pretty much wrote itself over a coffee.

(c) Chris Johnson 2018