Vincent in Spitalfields

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Circle Line rambles comfortingly

round the City's historic places

taking its time like a

pre-Beeching branch train.

 

Grey autumn day in east London.

From out of the darkness

and traffic of Commercial Street

we’re immersed in Van Gogh,

you lured by his sunflowers,

vases, bedroom, starry nights.  

 

Light illuminates art but

can dazzle, drive you mad.

Shot himself at just thirty-seven,

took two days to die.

Doomed rock star artist

we all think we know,

 

pictures on our bedsit walls.

Coffee in church crypt,

cheap Greek vegan lunch

in pricey, hipster market.

Sculpture of refugees

in authentic boat.

 

Still human, this district

of Irish and Huguenot

silk weavers, stone’s throw

yet miles away from

Liverpool Street’s

grasping monoliths. 

 

◄ The Ritz, Surbiton

A way back ►

Comments

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Graham Sherwood

Tue 2nd Nov 2021 14:41

Verse four is excellently put together. My favourite.

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Greg Freeman

Wed 20th Oct 2021 08:31

Many thanks for your kind comments, Julian, Stephen, and Ray. Glad you enjoyed this. And for the Like, Holden.

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raypool

Tue 19th Oct 2021 22:06

I love this almost staccato rendition of so much detail and atmosphere that conjures up the whole ethos of an area Greg, and casually flowing like a metropolitan waterway.

Ray

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Stephen Gospage

Tue 19th Oct 2021 21:54

Great poem, Greg. I completely empathise with your description of the Circle Line.

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Julian (Admin)

Tue 19th Oct 2021 19:38

Superb poem, fab final verse, magnificent last line.

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