Nights in London (Poem)

(Note: I wrote this poem during the same summer as I wrote "Cambridge Ghost Walk." Admittedly, this was a very productive period for me as a writer, as I was trying to assimilate the whole experience. This poem tries to capture my experience with London. It was not my first metropolitan city, I had been to New York, Madrid, Paris and other, but it was the first time I was standing in such a city completely alone. It was an interesting feeling.)

Nights in London

Nights in London,

lights mix with dark skies.

Heads bobbing up and down,

lips moving, faces gesture,

hands move..

Silence.

I walked around Piccadilly Circus.

Cars, night buses, pedestrians in a rush.

I entered the crowded Tube,

bumping, pushing, shoving,

an accordion fills the tight space.

No one speaks.

Flashes, rocking,

Mind the Gap.

Westminster, Clock Tower,

a bell named Ben.

Parliament, spotlights,

Lionheart leads the men.

Faces in a sea of flesh,

moving and colliding and

breathing for air.

No voice.

Nights in London,

I walked through the

Tower Bridge.

Thames runs silently

past me.

Hail the Mighty Tower,

fortress of forgotten pain.

Ancient screams and sobs

that nobody hears.

I walked alone

through the

damp

streets

filled with

old

air.

(1999)

 

Cambridge Ghost Walk (Poem)

(Note: I wrote this poem as a student at Cambridge University's Summer Programme. I went to the U.K. with a small group of fellow English students and a couple of professor, all of whom I miss dearly, and had the experience of a lifetime. Not only were we taking courses with amazing professors, just the idea of walking through history was mind-boggling. This poem is an attempt to capture that feeling. The people mentioned are Rick, my amazing friend and fellow English student, who's one of the most fantastic writers I have ever met, and Nicole, a German student we met there.)

Cambridge Ghost Walk

Walk through Newham,

coming from Sidwick,

Concert Hall melody still in me.

The ancient Cam wakes

old memories,

of dead sages,

forgotten clerics,

and old feelings.

Nicole and Rick talk,

about Germans and Latins

and old Rocks.

I fall behind,

walking past the bridge

that exact science made,

looking at the stars,

sniffing the cold air.

Darwin strolled down here.

So did Tennyson.

Before days of glory,

before householding

and eternal flames.

Young, starless,

minds full of ideas,

ideas full of possibility.

Past the Anchor.

A drink.

Maybe later.

Gloomy goodnight,

I walk gently.

The stars show in the

dark

but not in the

day.

Corner of Trumpington,

almost there.

I catch up

with Rick and Nicole.

Hey guys, wait

for me.

Memories that

aren’t mine

vanish as a

Cambridge

ghost walk

draws to a close.

Ghosts of

Darwin and Tennyson

fade, don’t ever go

away.

I sigh.

There is St. Cats,

we are

home.

(1999)