POEM ABOUT HACKNEY WINS PRIZE
Friend | 15.05.2003 13:43
This poem was written for a competition run by BBC London
called 'Roots Around London', which it won.
called 'Roots Around London', which it won.
MURDER MILE
They call it Murder Mile, I call it home.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Waiting for the 253 bus which never seems to go beyond Hackney Central Despite telling us they've improved the service.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it The Sam and Annie Cohen Day Centre full of Afro-Caribbean elders The Turkish bakery selling ackee and saltfish bagels, bacon bagels, croissants and pizzas The Chinese Take Away selling kebabs, jamake patties, and fish and chips.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Marvin, trapped in his third floor flat No longer able to visit his book-lined study, the British Library Since the council took his Freedom Pass away He wonders why his wasted body should condemn him to a wasted mind.
Yes, it's murder all right When you're trying to raise your kids And two of them have asthma from the cars Racing through as they make their way to important other places that are not your street And you've just heard they're shutting the local sorting office 'for economy reasons'Like it's going to be very economical to get the bus to Leyton to collect a registered letter that arrived while you were out.
They call it Murder Mile, Yet it throbs with the life of every continent With the live and let live of every imaginable cultural variation With the black and the white and the red and the green and the purple and the pink and the brown Of a swirling kaleidoscope of life
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Rabbi Grunbaum arguing with Mr Fawzi about whether we should support Bush over Iraq Even though, or maybe because They are both on the committee for Muslim Jewish understanding Which, as everybody says, could teach the Middle East a thing or two about peaceful co-existence.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it A heartbroken mother whose teenage son has just been given two years for possession and dealing They've shattered her dreams, shattered her nerves And all because a young boy wanted his own mixing table Since they shut down the youth club and took his hopes away.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it The road stretching between the shtetl on the Hill Where the residents dwell, occasionally to excess, on matters of the soul And the Town Hall Square, the so-called Heart of Hackney Where the politicians meet, and the residents wonder if they have a heart at all.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Justin and Marie who moved to Clapton when their youngest was born and they were priced out of Stoke Newington and are slightly nervous about what all these killings will do to the value of their house.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Despair, as yet another friend announces they are leaving Because it's so dangerous in the city Remember Soham, I say Remember Dunblane Remember Hungerford Remember Telford Remember that farmers have one of the highest suicide rates Consider the pesticides and the sheep dips and the chemicals which deform growing foetuses Remember being teased at school, and thinking you were the only gay kid on the planet Remember going out of your mind with boredom in the small town where you grew up Then tell me it's so dangerous in the city.
Wherever you live, the time comes to die
And Murder Mile is fuller of joyous life
Than all those places where alarmist headline writers pass their time when they're not at their desks giving us a bad name.
C Gail Chester, 2003
They call it Murder Mile, I call it home.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Waiting for the 253 bus which never seems to go beyond Hackney Central Despite telling us they've improved the service.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it The Sam and Annie Cohen Day Centre full of Afro-Caribbean elders The Turkish bakery selling ackee and saltfish bagels, bacon bagels, croissants and pizzas The Chinese Take Away selling kebabs, jamake patties, and fish and chips.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Marvin, trapped in his third floor flat No longer able to visit his book-lined study, the British Library Since the council took his Freedom Pass away He wonders why his wasted body should condemn him to a wasted mind.
Yes, it's murder all right When you're trying to raise your kids And two of them have asthma from the cars Racing through as they make their way to important other places that are not your street And you've just heard they're shutting the local sorting office 'for economy reasons'Like it's going to be very economical to get the bus to Leyton to collect a registered letter that arrived while you were out.
They call it Murder Mile, Yet it throbs with the life of every continent With the live and let live of every imaginable cultural variation With the black and the white and the red and the green and the purple and the pink and the brown Of a swirling kaleidoscope of life
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Rabbi Grunbaum arguing with Mr Fawzi about whether we should support Bush over Iraq Even though, or maybe because They are both on the committee for Muslim Jewish understanding Which, as everybody says, could teach the Middle East a thing or two about peaceful co-existence.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it A heartbroken mother whose teenage son has just been given two years for possession and dealing They've shattered her dreams, shattered her nerves And all because a young boy wanted his own mixing table Since they shut down the youth club and took his hopes away.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it The road stretching between the shtetl on the Hill Where the residents dwell, occasionally to excess, on matters of the soul And the Town Hall Square, the so-called Heart of Hackney Where the politicians meet, and the residents wonder if they have a heart at all.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Justin and Marie who moved to Clapton when their youngest was born and they were priced out of Stoke Newington and are slightly nervous about what all these killings will do to the value of their house.
They call it Murder Mile, I call it Despair, as yet another friend announces they are leaving Because it's so dangerous in the city Remember Soham, I say Remember Dunblane Remember Hungerford Remember Telford Remember that farmers have one of the highest suicide rates Consider the pesticides and the sheep dips and the chemicals which deform growing foetuses Remember being teased at school, and thinking you were the only gay kid on the planet Remember going out of your mind with boredom in the small town where you grew up Then tell me it's so dangerous in the city.
Wherever you live, the time comes to die
And Murder Mile is fuller of joyous life
Than all those places where alarmist headline writers pass their time when they're not at their desks giving us a bad name.
C Gail Chester, 2003
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I cry in the dark as the shadow envelops
15.05.2003 14:09
Hackney, it has an interesting ring to it. Yet all I know and all I think I know is based around what I have been told. How can I know what is real and what is false. When hearing from someone who lives there and not some hack, then I can begin to learn the truth. I have never visited Hackney, to be honest i have never had to. I might have passed through the place without realising it and giving it a second thought.
A cynic would say how can you tell? How can you say that this author lives there? Easy, I would reply. Heart and Soul. That is what made this poem. The very essence of human existence. The things that make life worth living. This author wrote it because he meant it, and when you combine that with the talent of creation. In all honesty that is all you need. I could continue by being cliqued and quoting John Lennon. But you should know what I am thinking of
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