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The Tower

10th September 2017 by Sedley

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The Tower 24 – 1

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1: Here is a poem about a tower
It’s not the tower the poets spoke of
Built of brown stone, with a round
Squat turret, where one can pace
And pronounce from the battlements

2: Here is a poem about a tower
It’s not the tower I leaned in when
Little or the one I lived in back in 91
When I was oh so much younger then
Younger than before. With parents.

3: Here is a poem about a tower
It’s not the tower I looked out of
Or smarted from one Baltic spring
It was freezing and I was cold;
The rockets blazed in a fiery ring

7: Here is a poem about a tower
Who speaks about its residents
Does not speak of a president
Or even a precedent in the numbers
Of people left in a burning slumber

8: Here is a poem about a tower
Old neighbours and non-presidents
Huddled together, they managed I hope
To muddle and cuddle through
I doubt very much they could cope.

9: Here is a poem about a tower
An Italian doctor phoned home
And said, “Goodbye, Mama. Ciao.”
She did not have much more time
For dolcelatte cheese and a glass of wine.

13: Here is a poem about a tower
Where the arguments will go back
And forth about the abuses
They will have reasons, no doubt
We all need sometimes excuses

14: Here is a poem about a tower
People say these things don’t happen,
They will fight to put it right,
But it doesn’t make up for
What can never be put right.

15: Here is a poem about a tower
They could not speak about
Because they felt awfully bad about
It went badly, sadly wrong
I am sorry they are now all gone.

19: Here is a poem about a tower
There’s Blood on the Bureaucrats'
Hands, a lady from the flat below
Watched her son’s burn on the 23rd floor.
She’s one of them: the urban poor.

20: Here is a poem about a tower
We can put labels on them –
The sofa surfers and refugees,
The pensioners and absentees –
Unofficial residents, no longer present

21: Here is a poem about a tower
Now they’re whipping it all up
In kitchen cups. What about the missing?
Some people are still wishing
They could turn back the clock

Grenfell Tower at 4.43 a.m.

Grenfell Tower at 8.05

Grenfell Tower 16/06/17

4: Here is a poem about a tower
It’s not the tower opposite
That blots out the sun, or where
Someone once held my brother
With a baseball bat and/or gun

5: Here is a poem about a tower
That was blackballed once
It didn’t wear a dinner jacket
But still went for a packet
No one dusted down the jacket

6: Here is a poem about a tower
I heard about an artist, a millennial
Who had an exhibition at the Biennial;
That was in Venice, where nothing
I hope did daunt or menace her.

10: Here is a poem about a tower
Two brothers hanged and harangued;
They hung up on each other
And never got to complete or repeat
The argument because it is spent now.

11: Here is a poem about a tower
Bo Peep lost his way in the dark
Won’t be playing again in the park,
His mother will think it’s all her fault
Poor Bo, poor sheep, poor lady.

12: Here is a poem about a tower
Everyone watching was asking how
And why as it lit up the sky; then
Some people began to cry this is not
Happening in Kensington or Chelsea.

16: Here is a poem about a tower
That was wrapped in cladding
Burnt to cinders amid the madding
Crowd; they had their reasons,
These midsummer murder seasons

17: Here is a poem about a tower
80 poor people and more died
Someone somewhere economised or lied;
It was a litany of errors that led
To the Blockbuster, Towering Inferno.

18: Here is a poem about a tower
That became a terrible, burning babel
McQueen didn’t get to attach the cable.
No one cares, not the Matrix,
Not the Contractor’s Cabal.

22: Here is a poem about a tower
Change the locks, re-wrap the cladding
Don’t think it won’t happen ever
Again – ever. It will, knowing Man
And his capacity to kick the can.

23: Here is a poem about a tower
I put a fiver in the collection box
And take my old jeans and shirts
To the village church. That will fox
Your conscience; you genius skiver!

24: Here is a poem about a tower
The skiver prays to God and his dog
New lives can be lived one day
Some will begin again but not today
Not by those who died then.

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Filed Under: Grenfell Tagged With: cladding, Grenfell, poems, tower

Sinbad’s Trick

26th January 2017 by Sedley

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“What an absurd story!” declared the Sultan. “Why, even my victims stop crying when they know it’s time to meet their Maker.”
Scheherazade did not comment. “Sinbad had an idea,” she went on.
“Old man," he said, untying the piece of cloth from around his waist, "put on this blind.”
The old man looked at him through his tears.
“Is this one of your tricks?”
“I promise<" said Sinbad, "I will do you no harm.”
Sinbad led the old man through the streets, past the basket seller and the candle stick maker. When they saw the old man with the blind drenched in tears, they did not dare approach.
“Have mercy on your souls!” cried Sinbad. “Give food for the poor fakir!”
People started dropping food into Sinbad’s hands.
When they arrived home, he called to his mother.
“Mama, I am back. Did you miss me?”
“Did you bring food?” she replied.
“I have brought better than that,” said Sinbad. “I have brought someone to chop the onions.”
The old man bowed humbly.
“I am at your service, Madam.”
While the old man chopped the onions, Sinbad’s mother prepared the food for them to eat.
“Why, old man,” she said, “this curry is all the sweeter for your attention. But my son is right. You should not be sad with a gift such as this. What has befallen your life to reduce you to tears?”
The old man bowed his head.
“I will tell you my story,” he began. “Though little good it will do to alleviate my suffering.”

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Filed Under: My English Heart Tagged With: english heart, sinbad, stories

The Tears That Never Dry

2nd January 2017 by Sedley

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“Catch me if you can!”
The boy ran through the busy street. He dodged the basket weaver and knocked over the candle stick maker’s display. They chased him down an alley. He lost them in a fit of pique and sat down next to an old man who was in tears.

The boy looked up at the old man and pulled a face.
The old man ignored him.
“Old man,” he said, “why do you cry?”
“These tears do not go away,” said the old man. “They never dry.”
“How can tears never dry? Do you cook with onions? – Why my mother says all you need to do is eat a piece of bread when you chop them.”
“These tears cannot be stopped by eating bread,” said the old man. “These tears are the tears that never dry.”
The boy whose name was Sinbad was silent, perplexed by the words of the old man. What could they mean? – He was a queer old fish, but what did he care?
He skipped over to the candle-stick maker and – just for fun - knocked over his display.
“Catch me, if you can!”
“Come back here!” cried the candlestick maker.
The whole merry dance began again. The candlestick maker shook his fist; the basket weaver stopped short of breath.
Finally, Sinbad made his way back to the old man and sat down beside him. Tears were still streaming down the old man’s face.

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Filed Under: My English Heart Tagged With: english heart, stories

Two Brothers

18th October 2016 by Sedley

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Two Brothers

(After Pliny)

There were two brothers both called Percy. Men said they were perhaps not so close, but rather men who spoke few words who were indeed close. The truth of this was demonstrated when the elder Percy was taken ill.
At death’s door he called in his wife and servants. “Send for my brother,” he told them, “and tell him to make ready the funeral arrangements.”
Percy fell into unconsciousness, but just when it was thought he was dead, he awoke and called again to his wife and servants.
“I have just come from my brother’s house,” he said, “where he told me to make ready the funeral arrangements for him.”
When he felt stronger, they all went to his younger brother’s house and found that it was as Percy dreamed.
Then Percy called to his brother’s daughter. “Go to the bottom of the garden,” he said. “There you will find a tree with a knot. At the foot of the tree my brother has left his heart.”
It was as he said. At the foot of the tree was buried a strong box and in the strong box was his brother’s fortune.

On hearing this story, retold by Scheherazade, the Sultan said nothing.
The following day, he sent for the Vizier.
“Go to my brother’s house,” he said, “and bring him this gift.”
He commanded his servants to accompany the Vizier with a strong-box of money.
In this way, it is said, the Sultan was reconciled with his brother after twenty years of silent recrimination.

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Filed Under: My English Heart Tagged With: english heart, stories

The Tell Tale Heart

30th September 2016 by Sedley

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The Tell Tale heart

(Homage to E.A.P.)

The old man shivered in his socks.

“Who’s there?” he said. “Ah, it must be the wind in the chimney. Or a mouse crossing the floor.”

Either that, or the beating of your own hideous heart, old man.
Poe stood silently in the darkness. Although, notionally, he was fond of the old man and had, for years, tolerated his faults, he was seized with an impulse to put him out of his misery.
Without further ado, he brought the lantern down on top of the old man’s head. He turned over the bed and sat down smiling and chuckling to himself. “That did it!” he said. “I stopped it in its tracks, just like a clock.”
Then he took up the planks in the floorboard and deposited the body between the scantlings, taking extra care not to leave a stain.

There was a knock at the front door.
It was two policemen in windbreakers.
“If you are looking for the old man,” Poe said, “he has gone to the country.”
“A neighbour heard a scream.”
“Please, come in,” he said. “By all means, search the house.”
In fact, Poe was so confident he brought them into the old man’s room and had them sit, with a cup of tea, at the very spot where the body lay.
When he heard the sound, it was a low, dull, quick sound, like the sound a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.
The noise steadily increased.
Poe could bear it no more.
“Villains!” he shrieked. “I admit the deed! Tear up the planks!”
The policemen were amazed, but Poe could no longer bear the sound of the old man’s tell-tale heart.

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Filed Under: My English Heart Tagged With: english heart, stories

The Runners

5th September 2016 by Sedley

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Hoplitodromos, 323-22 BC
Hoplitodromos, 323-22 BC

Butt naked
But for their wide shield
And plumed helm
Behold the athletes

With their greaved shin
And their bodies all sinew
From no surgery or pin
Behold the runners
In lightning haste post
To the cheers of all Olympus host
Did they run as Johnson knew
And Bolt still can?

Behold the runners
Seekers beyond their light,
All thigh and thrust
And that unspoken lust
For something other
Not to be found
In the grasp of another
Or glory of polis
Did they run as Johnson might
And Bolt still can?

 

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Filed Under: My English Heart Tagged With: Aeneas, english heart, poems

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