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Down Ingrave StreetListening to Van Morrison on Ingrave StI dream of the time "way back when" which is always now, I live in the wilderness of Spirit which was always present. Here dreaming comes alive and hope and truth and beauty. Hopelessly Romantic. These towers become mountains and these people angels, all that matters is God. Hopelessly Romantic and Sentimental and all is bathed in Holiness and it is the Longing, The Almost, The Not Quite which is far away and always, in all ways present. Le CorbusierThe Crow flies highthrough perfect skies, Above concrete constructions of cities. Beneath it, The Rectangles of Tenements: Symmetry of Sign And Solidity of Space ... Form Estates like Regiments. But the Crow flies calling In the purity of blue skies. Ascending to heaven It becomes a non-referencing dot: A black spot transcending its perfect hell. WeWe have made lives in Tower BlocksConstructed loves (and hates) In Cardboard-walled Boxes. And we like them (or hate). But we have to live here Whether it is paradise Or paradox. Whether it is temporary heaven or a permanent hell. We have made lives Where they only crowed of purity and form. This Autumn LightIn the morningbefore Day and after Dawn in between somewhere the air is indeterminate with rain, the cloud is solid, the grey uncomplicated and Ingrave Street sits motionless in this heavy light. I am mesmerized by this heavy light its impeturbability its leadenness. It makes the people slow-footed and tired. It is a wet light: cold, unfriendly. It is a myopic light: blanking out the distant line of city tower blocks. It stays us heavy to the ground: To this place To Battersea where the buses grind slow up Falcon road and we try to remember the other days previous to this When the lights danced and it was bright and warm and delicate like a fresh born thing; Or when it was mellow and blurred in the womb of summer; When it was angry and startling in the instant of lightning. This is the autumn light When we sit back and remember The way it was, The way it used to be When we were younger And our eyes saw in a clear light. Morning FogThe Fog,Yes, The Fog has come. A dense myopia descends: The shroud of London. I remember, but do not see The outline of the city; the fire of the sun. For the light is thick, misty; Dullest of lights: indefinite and grey. The cloud which filtered light In gentle quietness Has descended And I am blinded quite. I struggled to see In the many lights But now I see God clearly: That I do not see; That I see but some short way And understand nothing of the day. November FallWhat is this?What could this be? This light Gentle, where there was hard stone: Edges softened, Noise blurred, A white light radiant in the dimness of dawn. Snow has fallen Softly, Gently; Covering, Smothering The harshness and coarseness of the city. The grey light has turned white And reflects vibrant Such wonder, such mellowness ... But soon The cars have smeared the road The footsteps trod the path And dull warmth Melts the crisp magic of the coldness Into insipid liquids - Slushed And swept Down gaping drains. NoonNow comes the noontide hues;And this midday light is not heavy For the grey is dappled: Here pale, Here dense with the threat of thunder; It is infinitely varied But one colour. Its weight gentle In the quiet hours before schools close. Gentle now, As the people walk brisk Along cold pavements And the wind lights up their faces With rude redness. This midday light is eternally subtle. While the people toil It scatters many shades and meanings Under a high sky With a wind quick and cleansing. The Glamourous DuskThis glamourous evening,Clothed in velvet, Fades to night. Sensuous, Serene, But I walk scared Of inward doubt and outward risk. For The awesome height of towers, Lit by bright of urban orange And shrouded in that deep and subtle blue Might move my heart ... But as we tread the way back home Dread stalks us. Fear waits Wrapped in the glamourous cloak of dusk. The WindThe Wind was blowing down Ingrave Street.A strong wind. It often blows Down that Causeway through Concrete. Hard As I walk back home Blowing and Buffeting Billowing my clothes But I could not find God in it, No Holy Spirit, No Comforter Just the Blowing of the Wind Hard In my face. It blows from the Russian wilderness And off the wild oceans. It blows through the prison camp And down the hungry mountainside: Veering through the streets of a northern town And soothing the heat of an olive grove. Ingrave Street catches winds And sea breezes, Faint whispers And the cold draughts ... Not releasing Howling Gales And Great Hurricanes But the hard wind Which blows full in your face On the way back home. NoiseThey throw televisions from 10th floor windowsAnd project voices late into small hours. They open windows and share Black Box With a thousand ungrateful ears. And bottles of water Crash from unknown hands. They let screams fall down concrete stairs And kick children out to howl and shout. They screech sirens through deserted streets And verbally assault each other. And a man is prosecuted For praying too loud next door. ViolenceI do not know about violence.It slumbers here and wakes frequently. Once, in the Laundrette, My clothes were scattered on the floor. I shrunk back from my six-foot strength; but maybe that saved me from more than the violence of words. Outside my window They gunned down a man, but no-one ever told me why. In the stairwell of Inkster House They raped a woman; Dragging her, terrified and silent, I will never understand why (although we know who did it). And in the pub they smashed a snooker cue On a friend's head: The Men of Violence. Violence sleeps here and wakes frequently. (I'll never understand why) and our dreams are troubled. ConciousShe walkedAnd she was concious Concious of the Eyes And of every move that her small body made: Tight Round Swinging Tight Round Muscle Under flesh And skirt clinging And I was concious too. And you? And you - you are concious too! James ' SongYou got to be laid back in this place.Too much aggravation. Too much consternation: The noise when you need to sleep; The violence when you want to wander in the night lost in grace. All the sick people cry out silently - Too much stress Amongst these towers, You got to be laid back. You got to be friendly in this place. Too many people I don't know. Too many locked doors. The men are too mean. The women too weak. Got to catch each drop of human sympathy And pool them into oceans. Too many lonely people Amongst these towers, You got to be friendly. You got to be tall in this place. Too many shrunken people. Too much self-loathing: The babies never grow, The children never learn. We got to be giants together in the shadow of these towers; There's too few giants Amongst these towers: We got to be tall together. You got to take your shoes off in this place ... What! Why you got to take your shoes off? 'Coz this is a Holy Place. God Lives On Ingrave StGod lives on Ingrave StreetHis Spirit blows the litter down the road and his angels climb the concrete stairs to home. His hand eases the pensioners fall And finds the giro that was lost. He hushes the baby's crying When all was almost lost and gone. His hand made the rusting cars And through the skill of mechanics on side streets ... He repairs what we have wrecked. His name is heard in conversation and desperate prayers echoing round the silent towers and singing in the music. On a summer evening, Or in a winter dawn, After three when the kids come out, Or late in the night between days, God moves and hustles like the Wind. Like the noise of people And the bouncing of loud music through bright air. Like the wailing of police car sirens and old men hobbling to the shops. God lives on Ingrave Street Sometimes he is in and sometimes out But he has made his home here And I have met him. The Celestial Ice Cream SellerMy God is the celestial ice cream sellerHis ice creams are the best Espeicially in the summer When the weather is hot. My God has made his home on Ingrave Street He likes to live here, In the great bulk of Scholey House, Because he is a humble God. My God sells his ice creams in Sutton And by the Houses of Parliment. Sometimes he sells them outside St Pauls Or even nearby to the "March for Jesus". My God's ice creams are the best. But he doesn't make much money Because he doesn't sell them ... No! He gives them away to rich old men and Japanese tourists. Sometimes I go and visit my God, Often he isn't in Because he's selling ice creams in Sutton or by the Houses of Parliment. But He doesn't live there. No. He lives on Ingrave Street, in Scholey House, Next to the man who plays his music Loud and late into the star-encrusted night. The TowersFather GodMake us strong and tall Like the Towers of Ingrave St: Guard us from Infestation, Keep us cool in the Summer Heat And sweep us with your Cleansing Broom. Make us safe behind our Security Doors But let us not be unwelcoming And Suspicious of every Stranger. In the Daytime grant us the joy of laughter and friendliness And in the Nightime the refreshment of quietness and peace. |