This Sunday Stack is dedicated to London. The Melancholy City. Where the rains really do come in every afternoon, no matter how optimistic the morning. To vaulted inspirations and rose glass. Tower and light. A city of poets.

There are two collections of poetry I would like to feature that reflect my feelings and short time in the city. Something old, something new. And I don’t mean to present a representative from each— an “old” and a “new” but to share two poets that sew both of those concepts into their words in equal fashion. Greta Bellamacina and Ted Hughes.

I would have jumped over the moon to acquire Greta Bellamacina’s book(s) of poetry and I felt I had a duty to at least attempt as qualifying a ceremony. As I love “collecting bookshops”, I found it only fitting to find her work in London’s oldest bookshop— Hatchards. Past the threshold, I let the creaks in the floor intuitively guide me to the poet’s floor. I am enraptured by Greta’s work and feel us sisters cut from the same cloth of sky. I love what she does with language, it feels at once ancient and new. Cannot recommend her books “Tomorrow’s Woman” and “Who Will Make the Fire” enough. Also, her and her husband run a press. Ever-praise.

I would be amiss to mention English poets without Ted Hughes. And while there is no shortage of greats to choose from, I think he is in good company with Madame Bellamacina as they both have a way of bending language. There are also a few ghosts in the room that link him to where I am from—Slyvia Plath and Leonard Baskin, both of which deserve their own time in the sun, maybe the next Sunday Stack? As specific as I like to get with suggestions, I encourage you to select what seems to move you from Mr. Hughes’ list, I have a well-loved copy of Collected Poems that is in a prominent place on the shelf.

Something new for the stack— an original poem.   These words poured out of me after a midnight traipse on the Southbank and a float by Westminster Abbey. Enjoy xx

POETS SLEEP UNDER ROSE GLASS

It turns out melancholy is just a city

And not within you but outside of

A place you don’t have to go

But the train is always running

You dreamt of open road

And you got a circus

Invented fanfare

Streets buzz whispers mostly lies

Tell your heart to hold fast

The trees will bend toward us again

Opening ceremony guiding the way

Like elders who smell of smoke and musk

The sea stores time because it is so great

Because it is so great it needn’t be concerned 

What becomes of this we cannot know

But it is driven by horses the color of whitenight

Time is measured in hooves

In fog painted by breath

The wind toasts to you

Because your secrets are worth carrying

Poets sleep under rose glass

Together in a stone corner

Where it is safe to dream