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POETRY
Fragments from London Shorts 
Jo Urtasun

00:00 / 01:05
00:00 / 00:44

ON MOVING

 

September  is  the  best  time  to  find  a  new  flat.  You  escape  high  rent  by  living  in  neighbourhoods

the tube doesn’t reach. You  remember  moving  from  student  halls  to  Friern  Road  and  how  obscene

the train journey felt to Brixton because it was followed by eighteen stops on the bus. But it didn’t matter because South East London  was  finally  going to be more tangible than The Windmill. And even though

the  fridge  was  empty,  the  room  unfurnished   and  the  call  unreturned,  your  first  night  was  happy

and unintellectual: sitting  cross-legged on the floor eating  mango  sorbet  while  it  thundered.  It  would

be the first  and  last  time  you’d  meet  your  neighbours,  the  last  time  they  would  see  the  kettle  you

borrowed.  And  by  the  end  of  the  contract, you’d learn to bleach the bath and your hair and to forgive

the acerbic tongues of your friends.  As  you  flattened  the  cardboard  boxes,  Paul  mentioned  you were

an ingénue and that living on a street with a telephone booth meant good luck.

ON A VISIT TO HASTINGS AND RYE 

 

You realise the  churning pit  below  your  ribcage  has  nothing  to  do with New Brutalism or the vague

blue  of the  Thames.  And  even  though  you  needed  the  city  to  be  your  scapegoat,  you  can’t  help

submitting  to  a  sunny  indifference  when  reading  a billboard with William the Conqueror’s timeline

or queuing for fish & chips. It took you looking at the English Channel to realise you’d rather be aimless

in  London  if  you  have  to  be.  You  think about everyone who’s left and come back just to leave again.

The Marylebone bookseller speaking about  the  Lamb House. How sunset happens  at  lunch  for  most

of the year and the autumn summer is holding.

ON MOVING

 

September is the best time to find a new flat. You escape high rent by living in neighbourhoods the tube doesn’t reach. You remember moving from student halls to Friern Road and how obscene the train journey felt to Brixton because it was followed by eighteen stops on the bus. But it didn’t matter because South East London was finally going to be more tangible than The Windmill. And even though the fridge was empty, the room unfurnished and the call unreturned, your first night was happy and unintellectual: sitting cross-legged on the floor eating mango sorbet while it thundered. It would be the first and last time you’d meet your neighbours, the last time they would see the kettle you borrowed. And by the end of the contract, you’d learn to bleach the bath and your hair and to forgive the acerbic tongues of your friends. As you flattened the cardboard boxes, Paul mentioned you were an ingénue and that living on a street with a telephone booth meant good luck.

ON A VISIT TO HASTINGS AND RYE 

 

You realise the churning pit below your ribcage has nothing to do with New Brutalism or the vague blue of the Thames. And even though you needed the city to be your scapegoat, you can’t help submitting to a sunny indifference when reading a billboard with William the Conqueror’s timeline or queuing for fish & chips. It took you looking at the English Channel to realise you’d rather be aimless in London if you have to be. You think about everyone who’s left and come back just to leave again. The Marylebone bookseller speaking about the Lamb House. How sunset happens at lunch for most of the year and the autumn summer is holding.

Jo Urtasun is a Basque poet who writes in English and Spanish. She grew up between Bilbao and the UK and moved to New York to complete an MFA in Poetry and Literary Translation at Columbia University. Her work centers on the poetics of place, liminal encounters and the anecdotal.

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