written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts

Wednesday, 3 June 2026

Ancient Cities

Two of the problems when it comes to writing about ancient cities are a) what is ancient and b) what is a city. I was reading an article the other day that kept referring to Ancient Rome. Ok, Rome is definitely a city but the ancient part of it is debatable when you consider that the Rome being referred to was 2,000 years ago whilst the earliest cities (and we’ll come to them) are considered to have existed 3,000 years before that i.e. 5,000 years ago.

artist's impression of Uruk, circa 4500 BCE
Incidentally, Rome at the height of its power had over one million people in it before it collapsed in around 400 CE. The next city to have over a million in its population was London in the 19th century.

So what is ancient? Well, for the purposes of this article, as it relates to cities, I’m taking a time period where we have physical evidence and texts that the places exist.

Much of the following is taken from the World History Encyclopaedia by Joshua J. Mark published on 05 April 2014:
In the study of the ancient world a City is generally defined as a large populated urban centre of commerce and administration with a system of laws and, usually, regulated means of sanitation. This is only one definition, however, and the designation `City' can be based on such factors as the:
population of the settlement
height of buildings
density of buildings/population
presence of some kind of sewer system
level of administrative government
presence of walls and/or fortifications
geographical area of the settlement
or whether a `settlement' was called a `city' in antiquity and fits at least one of the above qualifications.

the fertile crescent
Professor George Modelski, of the University of Washington, encourages a definition based on the work of the historian Tertius Chandler (in his book Four Thousand Years of Urban Growth) which defines a city, as distinct from a village, based upon population. Modelski writes:
Adopting Chandler's means of definition, then, settlements such as Tell Brak in modern-day Syria (first founded in c. 6000 BCE) cannot be considered cities.

The city of Uruk, today considered the oldest in the world, was first settled in c. 4500 BCE and walled cities, for defence, were common by 2900 BCE throughout the region. The city of Eridu, close to Uruk, was considered the first city in the world by the Sumerians while other cities which lay claim to the title of `first city' are Byblos, Jericho, Damascus, Aleppo, Jerusalem, Sidon, Luoyang, Athens, Argos, and Varasani.

All of these cities are certainly ancient and are located in regions which have been populated from a very early date. Modelski cites the population of Uruk at 14,000 in the year 3700 BCE but 80,000 by the year 2800 BCE. I was a bit surprised by the figure of 80,000 as when I was checking I found that Carlisle has much the same population now and that seems, to me, a fairly large city.

the ruins of Uruk today
I wanted to use a poem that actually praises the city, from the ancient to the present day, as a place to live. There is a reason why people have wanted to live in them but I can’t find one that really suits my purpose so I’m going to make use of this chance which sort of works.

Ever since my school days I’ve disliked Robert Browning purely on the basis of one poem. This is a short section with a corrected title:

Up the City – Down the Villa

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!
There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast;
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull
Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull,
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!
--I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.

But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why?
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye!
Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry;
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by;
Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high;
And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

Down the Villa
Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Thursday, 23 March 2017

A Turn of Events - Murder, mayhem and madness.

I wasn't going to write this week. Couldn't really separate one turn of events from another. I suppose that, now I that I am well into my third-term, (my mother is 97 this year and definitely reaching the end of her fourth), past events develop a blurriness at the edges. Dates and times become less well defined but some events stick clearly in your mind. They are indelibly imprinted on your memory, in clear photographic detail.

In the early 1980's I worked for several companies, including The House of Carmen, demonstrating their products in large department stores around the UK. I enjoyed the work and did very well, enjoying the company of regular store staff but also the change and challenge of each new location. My first assignment was pre-Christmas product promotion at Lewis's store in Liverpool.   One day the store was packed with shoppers when a bomb alert was sounded. I followed training procedures and took the escalator to the ground floor but on the way down, spotted a young boy around 9 or ten, taking the escalator up to the toy department.

Instinctively, I got to the bottom, went back up and collected him, then walked the outside of the building holding his hand until eventually we located his mother. I was 22 years old. The IRA had an on-going campaign of bombing on the UK mainland and when I think about the evacuation procedure that day, I realise that if a bomb had gone off, most of the people who left the building would have been killed. The modus operandi at the time was to stuff bombs into dustbins or cars.  An alert often triggered the evacuation and then the bomb was timed to explode as people crowded out.  Perhaps the boy and I might have survived.

Two weeks later, I began a four week stint at Boots 1600 store in The Arndale Centre, Manchester. In 1983 I worked for a week at the Conference Centre in Brighton. It was the same year that an attempt was made on the heart of Government during the Conservative Party Conference: A bomb in the Grand Hotel. The event sent shock waves through our Nation. Then in 1996 The Arndale Centre was virtually demolished by IRA bombs.  Cities and major conference centres are always the most desirable places for acts of terrorism.  It is easier to find a needle in a haystack than to spot someone different in a cosmopolitan environment. Although, my parents' village pub was also an IRA bomb plot target because of its proximity to an active army barracks.

Our own security forces, police and intelligence services have averted many bomb plots in recent years. They are constantly changing their procedures and tactics. Security at airports, railway stations  and stadium events, perhaps covert, has never been stronger. They are doing a great job, despite cuts in Police numbers. The turn of events that has changed the effectiveness of the current wave of terrorism, has been its simplicity. A high powered vehicle is stolen or hired by an assailant who drives at a crowd of people, armed with only a large knife and in ten minutes changes 'business as usual' into mayhem, murder and madness.

This type of act is almost impossible to prevent. So I ask, during troubled times, how can we protect ourselves? How can we protect our cities and events from random attacks? I am certain that we must not surrender our way of life to this extremist pressure. We live in a wonderful country, where we are free to express our dissent by peaceful protest, petition and in person to our MP. Those freedoms have been hard won over centuries. Those who challenge our freedoms, by acts of terrorism against our freely elected representatives, should be treated as traitors. There is a gate in our great city that once bore their severed heads.

Yesterday, many of the victims of the blind fury that drives such attacks, were young people, some children. Let's stop treating terrorists differently and assigning them kudos that they do not deserve. They are murderers, criminals and bad people. There is no 'just cause' that mows down innocent children. There is no 'just cause' that uses a moving vehicle as a battering ram with human flesh as a target. It is time to tell those who plan such acts that we do not acknowledge their terrorist status. We need to let them know that we do not recognise their 'cause'. If they disagree with our way of life, if they were born in our country, they need to be taught that they have a grievance platform. We all do. It is called democracy. It is our greatest asset, our treasure, it is who we are. And I for one am very proud of who we are.

The poem below is partly my own work but also a tribute to the power of written word. The original version was written by William Wordsworth, whilst standing on Westminster Bridge on 3rd September 1803. His poem expresses many feelings about the city, about that day but also about the nature of the country in which he was born. Apart from the wonderful view of London, Big Ben and The Palace of Westminster, 'Upon Westminster Bridge' may itself, be the reason that many tourists make a pilgrimage to that same spot. It is with great sadness, that I present my own 'mashed up' version today.




Upon Westminster Bridge

March 21, 2017 (with deference to William Wordsworth, Sept 3 1803)

Hell has not anything to show so foul,
Void would they be of soul who could pass by
A sight so tragic in its circumstance:
This city now doth like a garment wear.

The madness of this carnage: frantic, raw,
As innocents abroad, lie murdered, maimed.
Strewn broken bodies, looking to the sky 
All wrapped in blood-soaked sirens’ wail.

Never did dark shadows deftly seep,
Into our courtyards of democracy.
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a shock so deep!

The river flows against an unjust will.
The mother of all parliaments with never sleep
And all our mighty heart is beating still. 

Adele V Robinson

(In tribute to the bravery of PC Keith Palmer and the valour of MP Tobias Ellwood).

Thank you for reading.  Adele

Saturday, 18 October 2014

His Dark Materialism

This is a weighty subject indeed, too big for a simple blog to do justice to. Where to start? Random musings.....Maslow's hierarchy? Religion and the rise of capitalism? The fact that 7% of the population owns 84% of the wealth? Civilisation and its discontents? Letters to Santa? Bloody hell...

Money can't buy you love, though the love of money is, reputedly, the root of all evil. It can buy well-being, security, status. But beyond that, do human beings have an 'acquisitive' gene? Why this escalating getting of possessions? Is it because we're bored? Missing some deeper satisfaction in our lives? Shoring up fragments against our ruin? Looking to challenge time and death by surrounding ourselves with totems of worth and permanence? So many questions, so few answers.

I wrote today's poem in response to the way that commerce has transformed the country's capital and its inhabitants over the time I have known it. I lived in London for many years [until it became too expensive to do so!] and have watched beautiful areas of civilised architecture and real community get bastardised or bulldozed to build more and bigger shops, stores, mega-malls. The scale is ridiculous. The need is questionable. The profit for the developers is obscene. 'Retail therapy' rules!


I've titled it simply London, partly in a nod to William Blake's own scathing poem to the city he loved...

London
Dirty city,
wet with disillusion,
you gleam through the grime
but you're rotten to the core.
Backbone of the nation,
you have cancer of the spine
and it spreads its infestation
from each market-stall to store,
down the length of every high street
to your bright satanic malls.

These scars that mar your fading glory
tell a sorry tale:
your breath of wealth is stale,
your winking
'come and buy' window-eyes
are glazed
and when our want outstrips our need
we stumble numbly
through your gaudy, soulless maze,
dazed and poisoned by our woeful greed.


Thanks for reading. Have a good week-end - enjoy some simple pleasures, S ;-)


Thursday, 24 April 2014

What's your name?

Because I thought it was Wednesday (and not Thursday) today's post is both late and short.

There was a time about 10 years ago when I returned home to my London flat and felt guilty for not properly acknowledging someone. On realising I couldn't even describe him, despite only passing thirty minutes earlier, I wrote this:


Homeless

I passed you on Blackfriars Bridge,
dropped some change in a polystyrene cup,
and said - you're welcome.

Your sign said you were hungry,
I thought money would be enough
to fill the gap,

But how could it?

I should have stopped,
asked your name, and allowed you for minute
to be someone again.



Thank you for reading,
Lara

Thursday, 4 October 2012

POKE (poetry and smoke)

10:42:00 Posted by Ashley Lister , , No comments
by Vicky Ellis

 [Note from Ash: Vicky is away from her PC today. She's in London for National Poetry Day experiencing the companionship of poetic greats such as Roger McGough, Grace Nichols and Jamie Field. She's sending her blog content through in small bursts and I'll be updating them throughout the day. Please keep checking back for further updates.]

Fat, broken frog,
its insides a string of pearls,
lunar glisten on mottled pavement.
An explosion of belly.
Heavy boot?
Bicycle?
Dropped from the sky?
 Long fingers reaching up dramatically,
legs splayed indecently,
a ripper victim beseeching the clouds to cleanse its past.

New body - water
dropped over months and
now the fields mirror the clouds which
bore them.
Vain sky.
A crane crouches,
sulking at the soft jawline of her powdered visage.
How do the fish travel to new water?
How does the bird know when they've arrived?

Cat.
Tiny in an
expanse of grass and lake.
Beneath a hedgerow, ginger head watches the train.
No houses visible this side of the tracks.
Has it built a home
beneath
the
hawthorn?

Poetry.
An app from the Poetry Foundation. Random
words: spin
to discover
convoluted extractions old and new.
Linh Dinh eats sparrows.
Ish Klein ('No Promissary Note') makes me smile,
a penis in
the opening
line will do that.

Trepidation.
30 minutes to touch down.
The city scares me in the approach. Mass. Congregation.
I want to see
the river today.
When I'm in the country I long
for fences.

The gentleman
on the seat in front
has well oiled skin which stretches
across his dome,
the colour of fat on Jersey milk.
His eyebrows are thick and
grey as the underbelly of clouds.
I see him
in profile.
I guess that his eyes are blue.

He isn't bald. When
leaning forward he revealed a
Patrick Stewart band of silver hair
and frown of flesh
in the centre at the back.
I feels its discontent at my
previous
observation.

Is it all poetry?
What?
Is all this poetry?
Huh?
Are all these books poetry?
It's a poetry library.

John Berryman wrote
prolifically. 3 stanzas
on every page. I hope
his content is more
creative
than the form.

Roger McGough has silver
hair, Grace Nichols
has a gold scarf. Teens know of
love and snow.
Ira rhymes with admirer,
not hearer.
Rachel Rooney thought
day was night
(the cosmic theme confused perhaps).
Heads make better doors
than windows. Phil Jupitus
propped up the bar, beard
in tow.

Monday, 6 August 2012

Writing the Olympics, throw the superlatives.



London, a badly surfaced road, sometime in August. Bradley Wiggins, rides a bicycle steadily, taking care not to be crushed by a taxi, blown apart by a rogue backpacker or happy slapped by a local teenager. Overhead, the sound of planes can be heard, accompanied by more planes, beeping car horns and the flash of digital cameras.
This is just any other day, it is any other month, it is any other place, give or take a couple of acoustic details. This is the day we will all live every time we leave our houses in a morning- except just for this month, this somewhat special occasion when we can actually choose not to talk about the weather, gripe about the price of milk or moan about the length of time spent queuing up for things. This month, we can unite over common ground and choose, amidst bleakest of long term prospects, to actually celebrate some achievements.

The London 2012 Games has led a furore of opinion and dominated the news with politicians and dignitaries fighting amongst themselves for photo opportunities and retweets- everyone from Boris Johnson to Morrissey has had a go, and with mixed success. To think that London has been magically transformed in a year is a triumph. This time last August we were streaming live pictures, from many of the same places, but in that short space of time the flames have somehow accumulated- as if gathered in copper petals- and become a symbol of strength, unity and achievement.

The Mayor of London led the way with the soundbites, 'call me jingoistic' he said,

Tuesday, 13 March 2012

Tick Tock

07:38:00 Posted by Lara Clayton , , , , , , , 4 comments

Time is one of those things that is impossible to avoid. It scares me. It makes me feel under pressure. It makes me feel wasteful. It makes me worry. In fact, I can't even have a non-digital clock in the house because that tick tock feels like nails being hammered into my brain. I even refuse to wear any type of wristwatch that has ticking hands because, believe it or not, I can still hear it counting my life away.

Poetry is about time. Ideas require time to mature. And once an idea has been captured on paper, it requires even more time. Editing time. Time to be away from the poet, locked in a drawer and allowed distance. More editing time. 

Poetry isn't easy and effortless. It requires dedication. It requires you to give it a significant amount of your time. It is like a needy child that never grows up.


I'll conclude this post with a little piece of silliness. I sometimes think it is good to just play with language, have fun, and write something that isn't polished (and which you have little intention of polishing). It takes the pressure away (sort of).

                                                                              s
                                                                            d
                                                                                             r
                                                                                          a
7:24 a.m.                                                    w
                   at the entrance – banging & bleeping     p
machines as commuters rush – I send smoke rings    u
before joining
Slipping into black-suit currents that give
the direction I am yet to discover. Swarming d
Posters sing out dream,                                   o
excitement, sun, escape                        w
            Sliding past as the stairs clunk                  n
            taking us further beneath the city.

The new sun, green foliage and yapping Yorkie
is distant now.    LOST
to tunnels, stale urine light and a voice
(neither robot nor human) that warns of gaps



I forget what above ground is like
The scents and sights of High Barnet’s
open platform fizzle into darkness
Down here, rats scuttle
below feet
steal and move at speed.

An artificial breeze as tube arrives
packed – humans as sardines – I wait
for the next
                       
                        Take a seat
at 7:38 a.m.
                 remove a book
read poetry until I reach my destination.


Thank you for reading,
Lara