Good Morning London

[Keith]

Edit 2 abu and Poe

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
A day of waste is crushed away
in the mouths of talking trucks.
Underground she groans awake,
coping well with screeching brakes
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Edit1 (thanks Tectac and Chris)

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Original

The scrub of nylon brushes
scratch the back of dirty streets,
outside the shops of sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste,
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte,
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn,
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

[ChristopherSea]

Love this rich London city-scape Keith. I think you may want that to be ‘Quiet’ and ‘into’ in stanza 2. Thanks for the post, cheers/Chris

[tectak]

Oh, yes, Keith. Observational poetry and very accomplished. small nits only.
Best,
Tectak

The scrub of nylon brushes Maybe. "Scrubbing nylon brushes.." to avoid this " the scrub (XXXXXX) scratch the back of dirty streets"
scratch the back of dirty streets,Period. This is really the end of the sentence as you move on in the next line unconnectedly
outside the shops of sagged oak beams with sagged. "of" exemplifies,"with" categorises. Pedantic 'ould prat
untold news is gagged with string.I am envious. A great little line. You may have started a cliche but it ain't one yet. Excellent
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste, I want it to say "Reverse away a day of waste". Did you? Your poem, small point
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs. She cannot groan WITH her legs but she CAN groan whilst ON them.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte, Typo
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know. solid but meter takes a hammering in this stanza. How important is that? Not very. As I am pedantically fond of pointing out...while the words do all the work, meter can take a rest. The job will still get done

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn, siren's...but the next line does not help me understand THIS line.
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

Neat petite. I like it a good deal. My points are extra curricula as it doesn't need to stay back after school...only voluntarily.
Best,
tectak[/b]

[Keith]

Love this rich London city-scape Keith. I think you may want that to be ‘Quiet’ and ‘into’ in stanza 2. Thanks for the post, cheers/Chris

Thanks for taking the time Chris and the typo's. best Keith

---

Oh, yes, Keith. Observational poetry and very accomplished. small nits only.
Best,
Tectak

The scrub of nylon brushes Maybe. "Scrubbing nylon brushes.." to avoid this " the scrub (XXXXXX) scratch the back of dirty streets"
scratch the back of dirty streets,Period. This is really the end of the sentence as you move on in the next line unconnectedly
outside the shops of sagged oak beams with sagged. "of" exemplifies,"with" categorises. Pedantic 'ould prat
untold news is gagged with string.I am envious. A great little line. You may have started a cliche but it ain't one yet. Excellent
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste, I want it to say "Reverse away a day of waste". Did you? Your poem, small point
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs. She cannot groan WITH her legs but she CAN groan whilst ON them.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte, Typo
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know. solid but meter takes a hammering in this stanza. How important is that? Not very. As I am pedantically fond of pointing out...while the words do all the work, meter can take a rest. The job will still get done

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn, siren's...but the next line does not help me understand THIS line.
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

Neat petite. I like it a good deal. My points are extra curricula as it doesn't need to stay back after school...only voluntarily.
Best,
tectak[/b]

tectak, many thanks for your considered reply I have looked at your comments and made some changes in the edit. I am grateful for the time you have spent on this. Cheers Keith

[poe]

This observational poem is refreshing next to the plethora expressive works. I'm a New Yorker lately feeling the bug to travel. I feel as if I've done that now, for a spell. Been to London, look forward to getting back some day. Would you say why you took out the last stanza?
poe

[Keith]

This observational poem is refreshing next to the plethora expressive works. I'm a New Yorker lately feeling the bug to travel. I feel as if I've done that now, for a spell. Been to London, look forward to getting back some day. Would you say why you took out the last stanza?
poe

Hi Poe Thank you for the kind comments, I wasn't that happy with the last stanza so I moved it up one and added another I was trying to show how quick the pace is on the streets, Many thanks Keith

[abu nuwas]

Keith,

I liked this a lot in its original form, and I find this edit quite delightful - and I am a Londoner. There are just two things you might consider:

1 ) ''Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste''.

This appears to make 'rubbish' the subject of 'reverse' which would then need to be 'reverses'. You obviously don't wish to put 'which' after 'trucks' to make grammatical sense. The only possible solution I can think of, would be a dash after trucks, so that it would have the sense of a command 'Reverse away...'

2 ) I recognise all too well the hustle and bustle, the tunnels which do throw out hundreds of passengers/commuters; but where is the city? Where are the constantly changing sky-lines, the Thames, the buses? Are we by Westminster tube, looking at the Houses of Parliament and across to St Thomases? In the heart of the City by the Gherkin? In the shadow of the Shard? Are we in Knightsbridge by the Park, or Harrods? Camden or Hampstead even? Canary Wharf?

I am sure you were aiming at something general -but even so, there is no picture. I am not sure that this comment can be of much help, as I doubt you want to expand it to an epic, and it would need to be a little longer to encompass some more picture-painting stuff. However, if you have doubts about some parts, perhaps this would help.

[Keith]

This observational poem is refreshing next to the plethora expressive works. I'm a New Yorker lately feeling the bug to travel. I feel as if I've done that now, for a spell. Been to London, look forward to getting back some day. Would you say why you took out the last stanza?
poe

Hi Poe
Happy that you enjoyed the Poem, its a bit wet in the UK at the moment so your better off in NY.

I added a stanza and bumped up the previous end one and I also changed quite a bit, hence why you missed it. I wanted the last stanza to sound rushed as the pace picks up and I felt this was missing previously. Best Keith

---

Keith,

I liked this a lot in its original form, and I find this edit quite delightful - and I am a Londoner. There are just two things you might consider:

1 ) ''Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste''.

This appears to make 'rubbish' the subject of 'reverse' which would then need to be 'reverses'. You obviously don't wish to put 'which' after 'trucks' to make grammatical sense. The only possible solution I can think of, would be a dash after trucks, so that it would have the sense of a command 'Reverse away...'

2 ) I recognise all too well the hustle and bustle, the tunnels which do throw out hundreds of passengers/commuters; but where is the city? Where are the constantly changing sky-lines, the Thames, the buses? Are we by Westminster tube, looking at the Houses of Parliament and across to St Thomases? In the heart of the City by the Gherkin? In the shadow of the Shard? Are we in Knightsbridge by the Park, or Harrods? Camden or Hampstead even? Canary Wharf?

I am sure you were aiming at something general -but even so, there is no picture. I am not sure that this comment can be of much help, as I doubt you want to expand it to an epic, and it would need to be a little longer to encompass some more picture-painting stuff. However, if you have doubts about some parts, perhaps this would help.

Hi abu
Thank you for taking the time and such a considered comment, I had missed that the two lines, rubbish/reverse doesn't work and I will try to fix that. I'm not sure this one has the space for the detail required to do London's skyline justice, I guess I was trying to capture more of a feeling than images but I have done a little of both. Having no picture leaves it generic this could be a bad thing when I chose to name the city in the title and I do take note of your comment. It is always the detail that interests me and I have details on all the places you mention, so I will think about a separate poem. Many thanks Keith

[abu nuwas]

Hi abu
Thank you for taking the time and such a considered comment, I had missed that the two lines, rubbish/reverse doesn't work and I will try to fix that. I'm not sure this one has the space for the detail required to do London's skyline justice, I guess I was trying to capture more of a feeling than images but I have done a little of both. Having no picture leaves it generic this could be a bad thing when I chose to name the city in the title and I do take note of your comment. It is always the detail that interests me and I have details on all the places you mention, so I will think about a separate poem. Many thanks Keith
[/quote]

Keith,

I agree there is a problem of length. Thinking about it again, I see that you have noises covered, but no visuals or smell. It might be possible to have it still readable (on the basis that most people don't read what they perceive to be long poems), by adding a line to each stanza, perhaps the first line, and this might describe an area, and some visual stuff in it, but so as to enhance what followed.

It often happens that natives are not good at describing their surroundings, because as they write, they have a picture of some sort in their head, and subconsciously assume that the reader will have the same picture. A foreigner, or stranger, tends to think ''Wow!'' and to convey that. But yes, a rather cosy second poem might be good. E

[LorettaYoung]

I think the flow and pace of this is great. Some beautiful lines; "untold news gagged with string": it's very moving as London is in all it's history; you paint a picture of a city alive. Thanks for the read, Loretta




Edit 2 abu and Poe

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
A day of waste is crushed away
in the mouths of talking trucks.
Underground she groans awake,
coping well with screeching brakes
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Edit1 (thanks Tectac and Chris)

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Original

The scrub of nylon brushes
scratch the back of dirty streets,
outside the shops of sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste,
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte,
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn,
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

[aramsey]

I enjoyed the imagery in the poem and I liked how it improved through the edits. Very good work. Makes me want to visit the city!

Edit 2 abu and Poe

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
A day of waste is crushed away
in the mouths of talking trucks.
Underground she groans awake,
coping well with screeching brakes
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Edit1 (thanks Tectac and Chris)

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Original

The scrub of nylon brushes
scratch the back of dirty streets,
outside the shops of sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste,
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte,
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn,
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

[Keith]

I enjoyed the imagery in the poem and I liked how it improved through the edits. Very good work. Makes me want to visit the city!

Edit 2 abu and Poe

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
A day of waste is crushed away
in the mouths of talking trucks.
Underground she groans awake,
coping well with screeching brakes
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Edit1 (thanks Tectac and Chris)

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Original

The scrub of nylon brushes
scratch the back of dirty streets,
outside the shops of sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste,
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte,
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn,
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

Hi aramsey, the comments always help the edit and I need the help as everything I write always reads perfectly brilliant to me Thanks for your comments. Best keith

---

I think the flow and pace of this is great. Some beautiful lines; "untold news gagged with string": it's very moving as London is in all it's history; you paint a picture of a city alive. Thanks for the read, Loretta




Edit 2 abu and Poe

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
A day of waste is crushed away
in the mouths of talking trucks.
Underground she groans awake,
coping well with screeching brakes
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Edit1 (thanks Tectac and Chris)

Scrubbing nylon brushes
scratch the backs of dirty streets.
Outside the shops with sagged oak beams,
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse away a day of waste,
underground she groans awake
on gyroscopic legs.

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,
commune on phones with robot thumbs.
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields
that keep in the morning dead.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs dress out of place
and trace the steps they've come to know,
handed out with backstreet grace.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian soles.
Traffic fills like grain to silos,
till the volume stems the flow,
slowly revving to the grind.

Moving faster watched by time,
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,
none stop feet reveal the smart,
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,
the slightly mad, the latest fads
the single parent working dads,
the bus riders without a seat,
all proudly swing with London's beat.


Original

The scrub of nylon brushes
scratch the back of dirty streets,
outside the shops of sagged oak beams
untold news is gagged with string.
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks
reverse the day away of waste,
underground she groans awake
with gyroscopic legs.

Quite queues crave Chai Latte,
commune with phones on robot thumbs.
Wired earplugs have become the source
of force-fields snug inside their heads.
The shelter tells its guests to go,
slow limbs file in to place
and trace the steps they've come to know.

Styles hang without conclusion,
collars fold against the old,
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,
while winkles pick Italian boots.
The sirens handle takes its turn,
slowly revving into grind,
city life begins to breathe,
clicking feet steps up the beat.

Sorry Loretta I had missed your post, thank you for you kind comments. Best Keith