20th Mar - London, my Son

Since the tail end of last year, I've gladly rediscovered my love for poetry. One exacerbated by Mrs Amos, my English teacher during secondary school. I'd stay behind on Wednesdays and attend 'poetry club' between 3.30pm-4.30pm, analysing iconic poems from various generations, with my own penchant instantly gravitating towards Wilfred Owen's famous 'Dulce et Decorum est'. I've since been working on my own anthology, which is gearing towards the final stages of publication currently. So until the release of said book, I thought I'd provide a teaser, on this fine Sunny Sunday, of a piece I wrote at the tail-end of last year, titled 'London, my Son'. Enjoy!

The bleating bleep of monitors, and wires on his throat,

Remind me of resilience, of this great ye olde moat, 

A small soft hand, so innocent; An island shorn of pity,

Yet size can be irrelevant, as taught us by this City.

Ingesting rich, thick, smoke of fire, bed-ridden by black death,

Londoners, by nature, refuse to feel bereft.

“We shall fight, on the beaches”, dulce et decorum est, 

pro patria mori, and jubilance suppressed. 

But when our chips are down, we rise. Uniting at our core. 

A message laid by Winston, Elizabeth, and more. 

Riots, loots, and epidemics, Thatcher’s bold reforms, 

Southgate’s miss in ‘96, old Wembley… Forlorn.

A proud and sturdy capital, tough like a Camden boot,

Our steel-capped sense of buoyancy, our capital’s green shoot.

In Edgware Road, Liverpool Street; deep in Tavistock Square,

Defiance in the face of terror; Compassion, strength, and care.

7/7, etched in mind, 52 could not survive,

London united, more than ever, in two-thousand-and-alive. 

For every burning window, on each and every Grenfell floor,

Illuminating the skyline, as the flames doth flicker more,

And every shriek or cry of life echoed against this door.

I remind myself of adversity, and how we’ve dealt with it before. 

The Saka miss which crushed our hopes, When we felt it might come home,

Or watching daily briefings, wishing, Boris… Just use a comb.

Wistful sunsets on Primrose Hill, Spring strolls through Regents Park.

Wearing a mask, washing your hands, stay 2 metres apart.

The noise in corridors behind me, wheeling past a bed, 

As I reach down to this incubator, and softly stroke his head.

I’m no longer filled with fear, Just encouragement inside,

The twenty-twelve Olympics… Bobby Moore.. I’m filled with pride. 

To reach inside and know he’ll make it, my wife doth need not stress.

Our premature un-named miracle, saved by our NHS.

And so my boy, you’re a fighter; 

I know what we’ll name you, son. 

Your resilience? Inspiring. 

Your name is now ‘London’.