St. John-at-Hackney

I entered a competition in which I had to write a poem inspired by East London.

I take a seat on a bench, right
in front of the tomb of
Beaufort and his
beloved.
Notebook and pen out; the Sun's
lustre darts into my eye, yet
the air, unfriendly,
lacks the warmth of feeling.

What am I? Nothing but a young
muse with a Pen that overflows
with ink, seeking inspiration
from the world around me.
Hack-knee;
The world around me.
You live up to that which we
call your name.

Hack-to be cut with rough or
heavy blows. Forsooth.
Hackney; vulgar, commonplace.
People walk past-not all
different-noses, mouths, eyes,
similar things, and one face.
Brown people, tall people,
people. All the people.

Yet, only one moves the ink in
my Pen to the stark blankness
of my page. A vagrant; imp of
inequity, exuding penury. My
Pen follows her every move, as
she travels from one black bin
to another; picking pieces of
her life together, from trash.

Is it her life? What is she?
Who is she? I scribble. I
scribble questions, until I
uncover what-or who-she is.
A-ha! She is the abstraction of
east London; well, only the
share of the Lion.
Oh, Hackney.

Hackney-when did you become the
third world in London?
It breaks my heart, yet at the
same time, I am gladdened.
To have sat here, with
Beaufort, while East London
glutted my thoughts and filled
my notes.