Hum
Blue sky goes down behind the buildings
all the way to the shining river.
Buses are rumbling
over Waterloo Bridge;
my sandals vibrate.
Not a moment’s rest –
I feel every semibreve
in belly, chest, throat.
I look towards Blackfriars
as particles of road dirt
are drawn silently
to the walls of the National Theatre,
and voices rise like birds
over the pale dome of Saint Paul’s.
The city’s electric hum
laps at my skin
as I lie in the dark
wearing only earplugs.
I don’t hear the street cleansing team
emerge from the depot;
the roar of the squat vehicle
with revolving brushes,
the clang of empty litterbins
hurtling back into place.
I don’t hear the clubbers arguing,
the purr of rickshaws,
the inline skaters rattling past.
I sleep in silence, twitching.
by Polly Blackley
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This is wonderful, Polly.
Polly, I love the way this poem explores the relationship between two senses, not just hearing. And it’s so evocative of London too. Thank you!
Polly. Your words have me back in London’s hum. You have encapsulated it perfectly.
A city’s pulse, a body’s twitch in sleep – interesting. Well done, Polly.
So vivid & clear a depiction that I nearly headed for the station for a taste of the city!
I really like the sky going down round the backsides of buildings–out, then in–like sound going round our own, other backside, sleep. Sides hidden in sight’s shadow are dreamed of in dust and sound.
I like!
And the persistent twitching, twice hidden — Aaghh!! (hands to head)– Wonderful.