NW3 – A Sonnet to a Postcode

keats_free
Keats’ house, Hampstead.

For a brief while during my student days in London I lived at a very desirable address in NW3 – on the Hampstead/Belsize Park borders. Not far from Keats’ beautiful home. Of course my accommodation was a typical student hole with shared facilities, but for a while there I felt I could soar. Here’s another sonnet – I told you I’ve been working hard on poetic form – but some rules are made to be broken…

You called it precarious and spindly, so I stopped

inviting you up dusty stairs,

my isolated bubble-nest at the top

of the world. Forget shared kitchen, bathtub hairs.

Across the hall Ariel made yoghurts live,

while Tosh wrote cleaning rota lists.

I draped white billows over furniture

mouldy, mismatched and grim. I felt the bliss

of my first double bed.  Alone.

This attic is forever summer, on the brink

of endless choice, dreams all my own.

A room of pleasing no one but myself and Keats,

the desk where I write Chapter One again,

again, ‘cos time is endless and I’m at peace…

Once in my life I had a posh abode:

an empty shell in the correct postcode.

 

Flash of Memory

You hunch over all gangly, tongue-twisting blush,

 

thick glasses peering at your computer, the visual rush,

 

while I bask in the warmth of drawn curtains, crumpets for tea.

 

Distant buzz of communal payphones. You never quite ignore me.

 

‘Mmmm, speeeed…’ you mutter

 

and the honey-drenched murmur seeps through my body like butter.

Buttered crumpet
Buttered crumpet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is my offering for the Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub. Do join us there for some fun and huge diversity of voices!