My DePreston

I was asked by my Lecturer to write something that was 3 pages about a dim and uninspiring walk around Preston. First thing I didn't write in the early hours of the morning. Tada?

My DePreston.

By Elinor Williams

 

A man once told me to call it "De-Preston",

With the black, the blue, the bruised

The lack of impression.

The bloodied chicken turned ripe

By being curried or fried

The taste to awaken the hungered windpipe.

Gnawing and grappling the remains of bones,

Sucking fingers dry

To get the most of what they'd owned.

Almost matched in exotic stench,

These people carriers

Produce an eloquent roar and wretch.

So heavy, it forces its self into our senses

To warn away pedestrians

With the intent to scare pretenses.

The further from UCLan you stray,

The less the book bags carried,

The paper bags of the hallmarked ‘Primark’ obey.

The superfluous of cheap,

And the pride of a bargain

Enough to leave your pursed wallets weep.

The student loan was not cut out for this,

For the Miss Selfridge or the Topshop or the Accesorize

That Fishergate or St George’s or St John’s consists.

Everyone demands you to split with your finance,

They hand you freshers adverts

For “fiver on the door, 3.50 advanced.”

No, I don’t want your booze.

No, I don’t want your flyer,

But still you offer to abuse

The liver and the mind.

A Contrast to the room of a lecture,

Counter balanced by the tutor's kind.

The market’s a busy and alive fete,

The dust and cracked spines of books,

The feel of old versus the new high street.

Camera’s from the 1970’s,

Sold, starting at £2

Film, undeveloped, forgotten memories.

Second hand to be loved once more,

“Cheap and cheerful”

The student’s ideal score.

Now, I choose to retire.

As every market and bookshop must close,

Every Hobbit must return to the Shire.

My Unexpected journey has ended,

I need to go back to my land.

Preston is more than I’d comprehended.

The country girl came to the city,

Hoping to learn more of life

And what it has to offer me.

The night life doesn’t excite me,

I prefer less gyrating and petting

And more books and tea.

I’ll always find more solace in Plath’s “creel of eels”

Than any bottom of a glass,

To drink until I lose my feel.

This town is nothing like home,

It has no fields nor mountains

Nor nothing of my own.

You alien, you hustler

And you changeling, you.

I have nothing more than I can muster.

This town is strange

And I’m its stranger

But in three years’ time, that will change.

Reviews

[SteveB]

Well done!
I love pieces that almost seem to be reportage. Reading this I can see the street scene and then feel the pain and confusion of being the stranger in strange land. Strong vivid images, nice mix of the mundane with the elevated and a very subtle use of rhyme.
I realy liked this.

[redflutterby]

Amazing write...you give a gritty view of the city as seen through the eyes if a newcomer.

[sayed Mudasir Ali]

Very nice poem with the great feel.

[Douglas White]

It always sucks to be in a new town, but at the same time, at least there is a good reason. I think that this was a thoughtfully written poem on being the stranger and feeling out of place where everyone is trying to make a buck off of you. Great flow, great imagery, Elinor. Well spoken and truthful, which is the best poetry of all.

[Patrick O'Neil]

Wow, this was really well written, it took my mind to this place called Preston. It was a very vivid trip , loved the sites, sounds and smell. My favorite line ":

As every market and bookshop must close,
Every Hobbit must return to the Shire.
My Unexpected journey has ended,
I need to go back to my land."

As i too like to visit the big city but love the small town / country life more. Great write indeed.

[Baby Ricochet]

Some great imagery here. Great job Einor

[Rita L. Sev]

I think you met this challenge very well! Love the lines "This town is strange, and I'm its stranger." Well done, Elinor!

[icelandicblue]

What an interesting assignment to write something about a place that is dull and uninspiring. I would imagine that to be a most difficult thing to do but you have risen to the occasion. I think this is a job well done:

Film, undeveloped, forgotten memories.
Second hand to be loved once more,
“Cheap and cheerful”
The student’s ideal score.

Oh, and I love what you did with the title.

[Elinor Williams]

Thank you very much! It was quite hard to find something to write about when it's something that doesn't inspire xD