Week 33 – Photograph by Chris O’Connell
This week poets had the iconic image of Battersea Power station as the starting point for poems and eight poems came in some writing directly, others more obliquely about the subject. The winner is Shirley Wright’s wryly humorous poem, Defunct. Congratulations Shirley! Thanks to everyone who submitted and voted.
Poem 1
Sorted
You are solid.
You are sorted.
You are safety.
Sometimes gloomy
and still a work in progress
even at the age you are.
But the brightness,
that gleams,
the hopes and dreams
the future radiance
that I saw in you
at fifteen
reflect the years
of darkness and light
we have come through
and they will keep us
together
forever.
Angie Butler
——————————————————————————————————————————————————-
Poem 2
Assignation
The sky flushes a carmine sunset
framing the concrete blocks of the power station that once filled homes with coal-fired love, four chimneys grasp the sky their mottled by the nougat of decay, windows broken open to pigeons seeking roosts in vastness where turbines turned
I see you dwarfed by vastness
the pecking defunct cranes, new blocks
lit by the spotlight streetlamps
casting silver beams over the tide
a red light carries a message
whispering to me like liquid rose.
Carolyn O’Connell
———————————————————————————————————————————————————-
Poem 3
Defunct
What, me? I’m a national
treasure, me old mate,
a film star, just ask The Beatles.
Word is, I’ve something
of the Titanic in my profile.
Whaddaya think?
Difference is, I’m unsinkable,
and rumours of my demise
are greatly exaggerated.
I’ve done a Take That video
and been aPop-upPark, with me
tall towers towering over
The Power Of Summer – street
nosh, outdoor movies, the whole
shebang. Awesome. Like
this face-lift. Get a butcher’s at
my bright new future, snazzy
one-bed appartments, eh,
looking a million dollars
(give or take). I’m iconic.
TotallyThames.
Shirley Wright
————————————————————————————————————————————————————–
Poem 4
Chocolate Silk
“Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.” Edmund Spenser, Prothalamion, 1596
“It’s all about power—” we’re told.
Macho towers & scissoring cranes rear up
Defying, blotting out delicate star-flowers
Over the chocolate silk
Of Edmund Spenser’s calm, fast-flowingThames.
“—And keeping on the electric lights!” they chorus.
Oh, needle-lights swinging in the rolling river—
Swinging, as we do: demented compasses
With no true bearings, pillaging fossil fuels
From the chocolate silk of shale & coal—
From the landscape’s green but shrinking soul.
Lizzie Ballagher
————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Poem 5
Not Here?
In the yellow light
In this town for the world, once
Brick walls smelled.
The burning inside reassured humans
Who went home to put the kettle on
While in the turbine hall coal was interpreted.
Like a god, this place made power.
Now bricks don’t smell,
Cranes don’t lift coal –
Light isn’t yellow.
At Bankside,
Behind similar bricks
In the same town for the world
Matisse’s cut-outs course
With kilowatts of colour,
Installations spark with meaning and
Art crackles with the power
Of a god towards the human fingers far below
Its secular Sistine ceiling.
Still we must go home, put the kettle on
And interpret the burning inside.
Michael Docker
———————————————————————————————————————————————————
Poem 6
Palace
I, the palace of power watch quietly,
now resigned to my waiting doom.
I once lit your roads, powered your so essential kitchen tools,
enabled your trains to run, your machines to hum,
I was the heart of your city, you lived by my industrial beat.
Yes, I confess. I was a polluter, a smoker, a burner of fuels,
dressed in my best brick clothes,
my tall chimneys creating soot filled clouds.
But I powered your city, gave life to darkened streets,
enabled you to live your modern lives.
Who cares for me now.
A survivor of of war, gaining an iconic status,
I make those who would tear at my fabric, wary.
My walls resonate with a reverential praise.
What will you do now, with this old powerless creature.
Although my turbine organs have been stripped away,
arteries of sparkling electric severed.
I still have a generating force,
one that lights human spirit and runs an ingenuity,.
that may yet allow the Power palace to remain
Martin Fuller
—————————————————————————————————————————————————–
Poem 7
A Romantic Walk along the River Thames
Imagine the great river, even if you haven’t seen it
picture a few miles of approaching the city
wooded pathways, barbwire fences, a footbridge
desolated built up areas, taking you to see.
Along the banks, see the river belongings
and London city buildings outlining the sky.
Further along, starry-eyed a power station is competing.
Power stations, the demanding of places, real.
Know-how at its best, spilling out like the river.
Docklands watch this space, a busy place is the Thames.
Johanna Boal
———————————————————————————————————————————————————
Poem 8
Across my river
source of warmth and light
Patrick’s island powerhouse –
childhood horizon
Diane Jackman
—————————————————————————————————————————————————
