Lost in London by Georgie Hart

I am lost in a sea of formless faces.

The crowd mummers and mutters like a beast,

splashing against the concrete walls

of tenant buildings incessantly like the tide,

the constant swish of steps is its own language,

taps and slaps. Incomprehensible.

The city is a storm of life that bubbles and roils

and I have been cast adrift.

I hear screams of my name like gulls calls

as I race over London Bridge,

my little legs flying in my yellow wellingtons.

I vanish in a scattering of grey feathers

and muddy puddle water,

laughing as pigeons take to the sky.



About the author:

GeorgieGeorgie Hart is an English Literature and Creative Writing Student at Uplands Community College who hopes to go on to become a proper writer. Living in close proximity to quite a few libraries’, she spends most of her time reading just about anything she can get her hands on. She loves poetry and when she’s not working, she likes to visit London.


Photograph © Fabio Venni

A Hundred Tastes of Me by Jhilmil Breckenridge

I am the whisper of a leaf in the breeze

I am the flutter of a butterfly against the white honeysuckle so sweet

I am the gurgle of the flowing river

I am the wind in the willows

I am the waitress picking up coffee cups in the cafe

I am the old woman reading a newspaper against the window

I am the siren of the police car as it drives by

I am the laughter of an old man who twirls his moustache

I am the chatter of a young child

I am the taste of sugar on your tongue

I am the scent of a hundred roses in your nose

I am the sound of plaintive notes on a flute in a land far away

I am the smell of candles and incense in a wooden church

I am the flavour of Marmite on hot buttered toast

I am the feel of the cool granite table against my wrist

I am the refugee who hides in subway tunnels

I am the man who cheers for Arsenal

I am the woman buying anti ageing creams

I am the child kicking stones on the path

I am the smell of rain

I am the taste of freedom

I am the sun upon your skin

I am the honeyed kiss of your lover on the inside of your wrist

I am the taste of violence upon your lips

I am the woman in the red dress and the ebony skin dancing

I am the poet on Speaker’s Corner

I am the woman licking her fingers as she eats

I am the autumn leaves that rustle under your feet

I am the man checking his phone

I am you and you are me and we are a hundred other things

And we are all unseen, forgotten, experienced, reviled, overlooked, and replaceable

And the music plays, the clock ticks, and we look away

About the author:644677_10152082376660655_708559998_n
Jhilmil Breckenridge was born in a sleepy town in India and travelled most of her childhood. She was always found with a book in her hands and still is! She is filled with self doubt now that she has actually embarked on the arduous journey of crafting her first novel.

Photograph © Chris JL

Silly in Spitalfields by Amanda Fuller

I left Serious procrastinating by Liverpool Street station,

And skipped into Spitalfields looking for Ludicrous.

In this place, in the city but not of the city,

Lissome youths in skinny black jeans loiter by stalls,

Selling things that no-one needs.

Rockabilly chick, in my splurty out dress,

Petticoats flouncing,

I twirled and giggled through the Goblin Market into the Water Poet,

Curtseyed gracefully, accepting a liquid offering,

Prepared to hold court.

Later, we may find sustenance,

Or resume the dance on sticky floors.

It’s time to let go of plans, responsibility and care,

To run, to laugh, to pirouette, to dare.

Leave me here or join me,

But beware!

The labyrinth is tricksy

And the way back

Is by no means guaranteed.



About the author:Irregularchoicelips
Amanda Fuller is a mother of two and a Software Development Manager for a global engineering organisation based in the City of London. She has been writing poetry and prose fiction for many years, and is delighted to be studying for her MA in Creative Writing with the University of Westminster. Amanda’s writing explores topics such as gender and identity, sexuality, childhood, parenthood and city life.


Photograph © Jasn

Visible by M.E. Rolle

Nothing is unseen in London.


On Oxford Street, a woman adjusts a turned strap

briefly exposing flesh to the lenses above her.

It could border on erotic to the right pair of eyes.


In Green Park, a boy kicks at a pigeon that has no toes on one foot

‘Fucking garbage,’ he says, aping the voice of his father.

It flies away, its path monitored.


Around the corner in Soho, a first date.

Their first kiss seen.


In a large doorway in Camden, a small dog with matted hair curls

at the end of a filthy blanket,

under which sleeps the only person she’s ever trusted.

They can’t give each other much, but they stay warm together.

Their tender exchanges are the subject of films no one watches.


A discarded length of plastic bunting swirls in circles in the wind

around the base of a statue in Holland Park,

catching in it bits of garbage and curled brown leaves.

Even this dance of refuse is recorded.


In London, nothing is unseen.

Mechanical viewers observe it all,

placed strategically – everywhere – for your protection.



About the author:11081047_10205291567701520_3084136575215819956_n

M.E. Rolle studied English and Political Science at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. She holds a J.D. in Law from the University of Wisconsin-Madison and an LL.M. in Environmental Law from Vermont Law School. After a twelve year career as an attorney for U.S. federal government, M.E. decided to pursue her passion for writing in London. She is currently taking part in the University of Westminster’s program, MA Creative Writing: Writing the City.


Photograph © Steve Rotman