Madrid muse

I apologise for the lack of contribution to either this blog or indeed my own for so long. I have been rather busy with teaching work and a friend here on holiday but I do enjoy reading this blog and the emails and glad all is going well. I have some free days now with little distractions so I am going to have a writing fest! Happy summertime!

Rain on a Windscreen

Rain on a windscreen, lit by streetlamp —

late evening in East Dulwich.

The lamp projects the droplets, each dark nucleus

and bright surround a Kirlian fingerprint that

straightway after impact fades.

Ascending the grey dashboard, they streak

a flowing background for the younger drops.

All move to meet and mingle, but

can never meet their source beyond the glass.

Against the tide

Just as I reach the bus stop at the beginning of the No 12 route, lightning cracks the gloomy clouds. As if waiting for the signal, water droplets the size of small birds eggs hit the pavement — others baptise my head while the thunder grumbles its response from left to right. Waiting passengers scramble to be under the shelter's inadequate roof, and we huddle together like tight typography, close, not touching. Bags are adjusted and pushchairs are manoeuvred to allow soggy stragglers to join us, willing the No 12 bus to come. It does, as we are beginning to think it won't. Three entrances of the bendy bus separate us. Most step out into the rain and get soaked before its doors open. I am the last to leave the shelter, jumping through the nearest door as the others clear inside, feeling the doorway gutter overflow pouring over me as I enter, leaving a wetness down my neck, and my jacket sticking coldly to my back. I hurry to grab a seat, forgetting to scan my pass, then leave the seat to correct the omission and the bus moves off.

What am I doing here risking my health? I have an assignment to video the tango dancers on Westminster Bridge. One of the 14 locations around London picked to recognise and pay respect to those who lost their lives, limbs or loved ones in the 7 July Bombings of 2005, by raising the spirits of sad and jaded commuters on 7 London Bridges and in 7 London rail stations with the joyful, connective dancing of the Tango. Having created four such videos for the event last year, one of which has received over 3 thousand viewings on YouTube, I am keen to do an even better job this year. I have learned a lot since the first one and have plans for a vastly improved production. I have even taken a couple of Tango lessons. Interviews will be conducted and I can edit it to ten minutes long like a professional news item.

But the rain has changed the plan. I text the architect of the project, an enthusiastic german called Tom: "Donner und blitzen in Peckham. How is it where you are? Want to switch to Waterloo station?" He replies: "Lets go victoria station." I respond: "Ok may be late have to switch buses. Approaching Camberwell." As Camberwell Green is announced, I step off the bus into a veritable torrent and leap into the nearest doorway, displacing a couple of sheltering males, who step aside to allow me in. One tells me that Stratford High Street is flooded and all traffic halted. We wait until there is a lull and then make for the bus shelter. Once there, while waiting for a 36 to take me to Victoria, I grab the camera and video the floods swelling the gutter flow across the pavement.

As I switch off the camera the next No 12 pulls away like a riverboat and its wash covers my shoes. I miss my No 36 in the confusion and have to wait for another.

I am now on the bus, upstairs (just in case) but unable to see out due to the windows being totally steamed up inside and wet with rain outside. I console myself by scribbling some additional paragraphs to a short story I am writing.

Arriving at Victoria at about 6.25pm, already missing half an hour of action, I discover it has stopped raining, but there are crowds of commuters unusually not milling around, but standing still, staring expectantly at the closed main gate. The station is flooded. I call Tom.

"Where are you?" I ask him.

"Inside the station, dancing." He says, happily.

"How did you manage that?" I ask him, "The station is closed."

"No, it's open. We are inside, dancing."

"Tom, which station are you inside?"

"King's Cross" says Tom.

"Tom, you told me Victoria. What's going on?"

"Well, Pippa texted me that Victoria was flooded so we changed it. I texted everybody. Didn't you get that text?"

"No, Tom, I didn't."

"Oh. Sorry, I must have missed you off. My fault. But come anyway", he said.

"No, Tom," I say, "There is no point in my trying to get to King's Cross, it would take me half an hour at least by bus, and all alternatives are out. Tango Commute was 6pm to 7pm. If I arrive at 5 to 7 that means 5 minutes of filming. That is not enough for a serious video."

"Come — we're going for a drink afterwards."

"No, Tom, I am going on to a Poetry event this evening. I am going to go home now. Heaven knows how long it will take." It does take a time; I have to queue for a bus in the middle of the road. The bus queue itself is a flood of humanity. Four busloads of people had failed to get onto their train. The first bus hoovers up its load surprisingly quickly, and we are left in the road. The jam of bodies prevents our retreat to the pavement. The second bus driver lets on too many people and I have to stand halfway up the stairs of the bus, trying to hang on to both rails to keep from being thrown down and to simultaneously protect a heavy bag of equipment. I find I can best manage with the bag on a stair. Eventually of course, some passengers have to squeeze past me to get off, and I move up to stand in the upstairs aisle — totally against regs, as is standing on the stairs. After a mile or so I am able to sit, and place the equipment bag on my lap, transferring its base wetness plus the grime of the bus stairs to my trousers.

When I arrive home I dump the camera, grab my poems and drive straight to Walworth. A poetry picnic in Burgess Park. How likely is that in this weather? I drive straight past the park and leave my car in Westmoreland Road yards from the Red Lion. It was the right decision. Even so, only Liz, Janet and Annie are there, and no-one arrives after me. A quadrilateral quorum.

Frank's Restaurant Views

The first view from Frank's Restaurant, on top of the Multiplex Multistorey Carpark, Peckham. Centre: The London Eye. Right: Norman Foster's Gerkin.

The second view from Frank's Restaurant with Canary Wharf and the O2 Arena, right.

Canary Wharf.

The O2 Arena.

Moonbow

A reverse-fleched arrow

runs its vapour shaft across

the new moon's bow,

seeking to nock the missing string,

continues unnocked as if loosed

in the wrong direction,

vapour trailing off

missing the point.

Will it be shot from the bow

more expertly

when the flight returns?