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Damian: posts feature the pen and the pixel

@ukdamo / ukdamo.tumblr.com

Gay guy in England's north west. Retired Forensic Learning Disability nurse. Travel: Photography: Music: Literature
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Piccadilly

Ezra Pound

Beautiful, tragical faces— Ye that were whole, and are so sunken; And, O ye vile, ye that might have been loved, That are so sodden and drunken, Who hath forgotten you?

O wistful, fragile faces, few out of many!

The crass, the coarse, the brazen, God knows I cannot pity them, perhaps, as I should do; But oh, ye delicate, wistful faces, Who hath forgotten you?

#piccadilly#west end#london#poetry#Ezra Pound#lives#loves#lost#forgotten
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Homespun

Helen Cruickshank

I met a man in Harris Tweed As I walked down the Strand; I turned and followed like a dog The breath of hill and sea and bog That clung about the crotal brown. And suddenly, in London Town I heard again the Gaelic speech, The scrunch of keel on shingly beach; The traffic’s never-ending roar Came plangent from a shining shore; I saw the little lochs where lie The lilies, white as ivory; And tumbling down the rocky hills Came scores of little foaming rills. I saw the crofter bait his line, The children herding yellow kine, The barefoot woman with her creel, The washing-pot, the spinning wheel, The mounds thrown up by patient toil To coax the corn from barren soil. With buoyant step I went along Whistling a Hebridean song That Iain Og of Taransay Sang to me one enchanted day. I was a man renewed indeed Because I smelt that Harris Tweed As I went down the Strand.

#poetry#Helen Cruickshank#western isles#hebrides#scotland#london#evocation#heritage
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Smoking

Elton Glaser

I like the cool and heft of it, dull metal on the palm, And the click, the hiss, the spark fuming into flame, Boldface of fire, the rage and sway of it, raw blue at the base And a slope of gold, a touch to the packed tobacco, the tip Turned red as a warning light, blown brighter by the breath, The pull and the pump of it, and the paper's white Smoothed now to ash as the smoke draws back, drawn down To the black crust of lungs, tar and poisons in the pink, And the blood sorting it out, veins tight and the heart slow, The push and wheeze of it, a sweep of plumes in the air Like a shako of horses dragging a hearse through the late centennium, London, at the end of December, in the dark and fog.

#poetry#nicotine#smoking#habit#addiction#aesthetics#elton glaser#london#health#death
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Shadwell Stair

Wilfred Owen

I am the ghost of Shadwell Stair.       Along the wharves by the water-house,       And through the cavernous slaughter-house, I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,       And eyes tumultuous as the gems       Of moons and lamps in the full Thames When dusk sails wavering down the pool.

Shuddering the purple street-arc burns       Where I watch always; from the banks       Dolorously the shipping clanks And after me a strange tide turns.

I walk till the stars of London wane       And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.       But when the crowing syrens blare I with another ghost am lain.

#poetry#wilfred owen#ghost#WWI#death#haunting#daily#nightly#london#docks#wharves
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Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 2nd, 1802

William Wordsworth

Earth has not any thing to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

#poetry#william wordsworth#Westminster#london#city#urban
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