Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Cover-1-525x700London Historians member Victor Keegan has a new anthology of poetry out. Unlike its predecessors, this one focuses entirely on London. Entitled London My London, it comprises 84 poems. They are autobiographical, philisophical, whimsical, sometimes political and often funny. I like the deliberate anachronism in this one.

We learn of ancient Greece and Rome
But not of history nearer home
If in time travel I had wandered down
To live my life in Lundenwic town
There’d be no one but Saxons there
From Fleet Street to Trafalgar Square. 

I quote this one in full as a neat and typical example that I could transcribe easily! Other topics include the Underground, cigarette cards, Tate Modern, graffiti, Tooting, the Walbrook River, St Mary’s Woolnoth [a favourite!], the Thames estuary, Sir Henry Havelock, and on an on. Oh, and fellow poet Ben Jonson.

Stand-up Poet
Oh, rare Ben Jonson,

As should be known
by every London cabbie,
He lies buried standing up
in Westminster Abbey.

Read what Vic himself has to say about this work here and here.
The anthology costs a mere fiver in paperback or £3.99 Kindle edition both at Amazon.






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A guest post by Thomas Hood.

Thomas Hood (1799 – 1845) was a humorous writer, editor and poet. Born in the City of London, he was very much the patriotic Londoner. I’ve always enjoyed his pessimistic ode to this month, conveying an outlook I strongly share.


No sun–no moon!
No morn–no noon!
No dawn–no dusk–no proper time of day–
No sky–no earthly view–
No distance looking blue–

No road–no street–
No “t’other side the way”–
No end to any Row–
No indications where the Crescents go–

No top to any steeple–
No recognitions of familiar people–
No courtesies for showing ’em–
No knowing ’em!

No mail–no post–
No news from any foreign coast–
No park–no ring–no afternoon gentility–
No company–no nobility–

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member–
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,

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A guest post by Rudyard Kipling.

Last week’s Poetry Please on Radio 4 featured a reading of The River’s Tale by Kipling, written in 1911. I’m so glad I caught it because I hadn’t heard it before. It celebrates London and the prehistoric Thames. But before reproducing the words, I must recommend two video clips of readings on the same work. Both are lovely and will make you tingle if you love London, even just a little.

This one has archive footage from the BFI.
This is a more polished number with super aerial footage.

Both these clips have had a paltry few hundred reads and deserve far more: let’s spread the love.
And finally, if you’re interested in London’s bridges, there are quite a few books, but I’d thoroughly recommend Crossing the River by Brian Cookson, London Historians Member.

Here’s the poem.

The River’s Tale by Rudyard Kipling

TWENTY bridges from Tower to Kew –
Wanted to know what the River knew,
Twenty Bridges or twenty-two,
For they were young, and the Thames was old
And this is the tale that River told:-

I walk my beat before London Town,
Five hours up and seven down.
Up I go till I end my run
At Tide-end-town, which is Teddington.
Down I come with the mud in my hands
And plaster it over the Maplin Sands.
But I’d have you know that these waters of mine
Were once a branch of the River Rhine,
When hundreds of miles to the East I went
And England was joined to the Continent.

I remember the bat-winged lizard-birds,
The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds,
And the giant tigers that stalked them down
Through Regent’s Park into Camden Town.
And I remember like yesterday
The earliest Cockney who came my way,
When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand,
With paint on his face and a club in his hand.
He was death to feather and fin and fur.
He trapped my beavers at Westminster.
He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer,
He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier.
He fought his neighbour with axes and swords,
Flint or bronze, at my upper fords,
While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin,
The tall Phoenician ships stole in,
And North Sea war-boats, painted and gay,
Flashed like dragon-flies, Erith way;
And Norseman and Negro and Gaul and Greek
Drank with the Britons in Barking Creek,
And life was gay, and the world was new,
And I was a mile across at Kew!
But the Roman came with a heavy hand,
And bridged and roaded and ruled the land,
And the Roman left and the Danes blew in –
And that’s where your history-books begin!

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edward learWhen we were boys, my brother and I used to love reading funny books together. We loved to giggle, and still do. Sometimes our heads go purple with laughter, veins threatening to pop.  Anyway, the most fondly remembered book was The Armada Book of Fun. One of our favourite items within was nonsense botany by Edward Lear (1812 – 1888).

Phattfacia Stupenda
Manypeelplia Upsiddownia
Piggiawiggia Pyramidalis

And here they are!

As a writer of nonsense poetry and an illustrator of zoological books, perhaps these came to Lear particularly easily. Who’s analysing? A Londoner of Note, Lear was a prodigious talent, as an illustrator, as a cartoonist, but most of all as a writer and poet.

Today we celebrate his 200th birthday. Of all the centenaries and bicentenaries of 2012 – and there are many – this has to be my favourite.


Here’s a decent Lear website.
And please check out Virtual Victorian, who has done a far better job of this than me 

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