Anna
Robinson
Anna
Robinson was born and brought up in Central London. She writes about working
class experience because its the only one she knows.
History
is and was and so is that patch
of pavement where one tiny leaf shape
is never wet no matter how much rain.
It’s in the shards of clay pipes on the
banks
of the Thames and the salt-glaze
fragments.
It’s in the loose change in my pocket
and the fact that there is never any
loose change in my pocket. It’s in the
bits
and bobs, the fairy on the rock cake,
at the foot of our stairs. It’s t’ick
as a coddle and mild as milk.
There’s
a king and queen and offspring
and they’re effing and blinding or not –
‘cause that’s common! It’s in the
darkness,
the rose moon, a clear deep navy sky
and a box of Price’s candles to light
the longest street market in London
where we ply, plight and sing a bit.
It’s in the pain of home and the urge
to command that pain with real true facts.
It is what it is, although that’s
contentious.
It’s a bumble bee, a Brussels sprout,
and sometimes, even, a brown-tail moth.
GoScratchYerself
-
i.m. Aunt Beat
Wha’dus she mean? Is she chuckin’ ya’rin,
fa’ ya’ sawce -
to tha| room where no wun stayz, if they
don’| ‘av ta,
are ya’ bein’ mayd ta si| on a sowfa, oose
faydin’ pa|ern leaps
sudden-like - acrosh’ya - wiv a ping you
can almost ‘ear -
fayverin’ yur’ankles an’ wrists - or is
she callin’ you a mu| -
or a pigeon, or any beast ov’a fiyald - or
is she suggestin’ maybe
you dohn’| wash? She is ‘avin’ a larff.
‘Er fin showlders movin’
inside ’er lemon cardigan, which is nylon
an’ noo an’ very clean.
Meanwhile a ghost of ‘erself is bizy in
the upstairs room, pu|ing
moff-balls in ‘er slippers, wrappin’ ‘er
good skir| in wax paypa.
The Back Room
How
many bodies have lain in this room -
letting
the sleep breath rise, coming to
with
the sun, letting out groans as they shift
their
legs. One, then the other. Have risen,
letting
their wake breath rise, steady,
and
lit a flame - lifted or switched a kettle.
Their
hands, one then the other, steady.
Found
bread in a container for bread
while
the lit flame burns under the kettle,
found
some butter in a container for butter.
Their
hands: one then the other, steady,
spreading
what tastes they can bear.
Gostratchyerself is written in London accent with my punctuation mark | which is a London style glottal stop and is from The Finders of London Enitharmon Press 2010. The other two/three are from my latest book 'Whatsname Street' published by Smokestack books 2021.
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