1–2 minutes
Today I attended a City Lit Masterclass at Keats House, run by the author Helen Cox. It was a wonderful day. Firstly the setting which even the intemperate weather couldn’t diminish; and the pleasure of an afternoon of writing poetry, shared with students who were engaged, open and generous and led by a talented writer who loved teaching. My advice, unasked, would be if you have an opportunity to attend a class of Helen’s, take it, and visit Keats’s House in Hampstead.
There were a number of writing exercises. As a group we listed things or people that don’t receive a lot of love and then picked one of them to write about.
Lists:
Homeless
Pigeons
Ex's
Rats
Foxes
Carers
Menopause
Periods
Prisoners
Police
Immigrants
Ourselves
Floating turds
Flies and spiders
New mums
Gypsies
Sex workers
Nurses
Weeds
Mondays
Socks
Commuting
Queues
Cancelled trains
This is the second draft from that exercise
Walker in West End Lane
I see you, sitting on haunches outside Cafe Nero on my way to work, hunched
against the day. Sometimes you nurse a coffee, other mornings your hands are empty. Your hair is silver and grey and your clothes are old, navy and black. Your anorak hangs as a superhero's cloak. The dirt is ingrained to form the pattern of the darkening sky. You are always walking, a Greek hero. One day, I overhear a group of workmen talk of you. 'His daughter died'. Was that the day that your Odyssey began, when the pavement became your bed and strangers your companions? Did you leave your house, close the door and start your journey. Did you say good-bye to anyone? Are you walking to reach your daughter? I offer a greeting when I see you, my head full of thoughts of the day, my concerns and cares. But we don't talk. I don't know how to help him I tell myself. Do I need to? Maybe saying good-morning is enough to remind him that we do not walk alone.
S.Abdallah ©️
Bonnie Braw Press 