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NaPoWriMo 20

April 20, 2012

Poem: I’ve turned to the NaPoWriMo website for inspiration today.  The suggested topic is travel.  This suits me as I’d written a poem earlier about this.  This poem is about my commute to Bradford where I work.  It’s a complex city with a rich heritage and I’ve grown to admire it.  The closer I grow to it, the more it defies its stereotype.  However, there is a lot of deprivation and poverty.

 

Bradford Journey

Where industry once made people proud.
In summer; scrub, grass, daisies, fox gloves
push through the grave mounds of forgotten buildings.
In Winter’s slate sharp winds
buddleia branches rattle.

These new meadows
their verges and hedgerows
edged with carbon coated trees
pennanted with tattering, flackering bags
littered with tumble dryers,
bed frames, chairs.

Boys in ragged tracksuits
forage these hedgerows.
Harvesting the fly tipped
abandoned metal –
loading their windfall fruits
onto Bradford carts.
They only know their own rules,
they freely flick the finger,
protecting their mournful, skewbald
curb crawling horses
from impatient drivers

Ponies appear abandoned on verges
outside scrap metal merchants.
Tethered to engine blocks
and vandalised trees.
Chewing mournfully
in chained circles.

Dirty wind
coats all
with
feral smells of
rotten pork and decaying chicken.
Souring
the breakfast van’s
curling gusts
of fried bacon.

Cruising the strip of Richmond Road
crowds of shouting lads
hurl attention grabbing ‘Fuks’
and girls shriek, thrown back by
Thub, Thub, Thub.
Percussive shocks of sub-woofers that
vibrate the fittings of poorly pimped-up cars.

A screeling pack of quad bikes aggressively howl.
Their riders, man boys
with more testosterone than sense
belligerently provoke.
Goading reactions
from startled drivers.

Through the bus station.
Fresh disinfectant fights stale piss
Sour smoke
trapped in cheap clothing.
And a sign saying
‘Don’t cook when drunk’.

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