Arun Jeetoo

“The Mall, Wood Green”   

A July Saturday in 2001,  

slam shut the door of mum’s cardinal Ford Ka

the door hinge squeaks,

emerging from the damp carpark 

running into the shoddy elevator

that 

smells of earwax

& poppadums

 

***

the metal doors open 

on

a goliath of colourful shops

NTwentytwo, Select, Giorgio

Awesome chips, Cook’s meat Inn,

Mr Prezel, Shakeaway and Toy City

are now ghost-shops

 

spectres of the past hover around in

grey, empty spaces

which from a distance looks

like a 

Peter Doig painting

 

A closed down Cineworld with graffiti on it:

‘RIP CINEWORLD 2002-2014’

 

*** 

Woolworths tills dinging and clashing,

HMV restocking their items,

Pearson’s empty as usual 

until mum buys 

another

dinner set

queues as long as a 

Python reticulatus

in Cineworld. 

 

*** 

soothing sweet Mandazi 

and roasting bread fruit

profanities full of rassssss 

or sousouttes  

rolling off salmon 

tongues. 

West Indian dialects and 

their malapropisms 

 

Dem yah pickney dem a drive mi mad! 

she says to her kids hanging off her legs

 

*** 

Now it’s 

 

Forgive my late arrival, Cassandra

and haughty laughter. 

 

a putrid scent of processed food 

from Pret or Costa 

clogs my nostrils 

European delicacies for the middle class

nothing fresh. 

 

*** 

Woolworths is silent,

HMV a trashy Ella clothes shop for lazy consumerists—

Pearson’s downgraded to a Primark

and mum shops 

there even more

                             now. 

Silence along the corners of the mall. 

 

***

 

I pass the ground floor space 

on the way to meet the face painter 

and burst through the doors of Toy City,

waving at the smiling grey-haired man 

grabbing the newest Marvel superhero action figure

knowing mum will buy it for me.

 

***

I pass the ground floor space 

which is now a

New Look & Primark

I stand outside Toy City with its lights off 

knowing the smiling grey-haired man 

died a long time ago

like Wood Green shopping mall.  

 

This poem is about growing up in Wood Green and reflecting on the changes that have happened throughout the years. There is a strong sense of nostalgia in this poem where I return to shopping in The Mall back in 2001 (when I was six) and coming back again in 2018 (when I was 22). I comment on the changing nature of places and space and how new is not necessarily good.


The King Who Lost His Crown 

A King has been crowned

An American socialite gets a divorce

The Church of England describe her as coarse,

But in scandal their love was found. 

 

Monarchs do not have the luxury of falling in love

But the burden is his abdication,

The King discharges himself for the American dove

Disowning the British nation. 

 

The King’s actions seem elementary 

Choosing his temptations,

While the press covers his royal treachery.

 

This is the love story of the century

Of feelings over expectations—

The monarchy’s penitentiary.

 

This poem is about Edward VIII’s unprecedented abdication for love in 1936. It created complete anarchy for the British monarchy at the time because Edward abdicated to marry a divorced American socialite (Wallis Simpson) – which caused ruckus for the Church of England too as marrying a divorcee was considered ‘sacrilegious’ to God. I discovered Edward VIII abdicated for love at the age of seven (I’m 23 now), and I genuinely believe that it was one of the defining moments in my life that made me the power of love (however cheesy that sounds now… queue Jennifer Rush’s 1984 hit The Power of Love). 


Jack 

My favourite time with you

Is sitting together in the kitchen

At 7:37 am. 

Before I leave for work.

These are the only times 

You would really talk to me. 

When everyone else 

Do not make sense

As I crash onto the kitchen floor. 

 

When everyone tells me

That you are toxic—

A demon on my back, 

A parasite that decomposes 

My body and numbs my brain

From existence, 

But your slick tongue says,

“they are wrong, and I am right”.

I believe you 

Because you are 

my only friend.

 

But I use your sickness as an excuse

To show everyone I can fly,

Now my metal caged heart 

Burns under a blue liquid fire. 

I am dying on the kitchen floor. 

 

I missed birthdays because of you. 

I missed graduations because of you.

I missed weddings because of you. 

 

What I learn of sadness is from you.

 

You whisper to me every night at 3am

Telling me to slice my wrist with a butcher’s 

knife—

and suck the tainted golden liquid 

That drips out

When all the bottles are empty

and the stores have closed or

the shopkeepers will not serve me anymore.

 

I miss you. 

But at the same time, I hate you.

Because when I look at myself now,

Through shards of broken liquor glass

All I can see is you. 

 

I am half-dead on the kitchen floor,

one more sip before work,

but the day has already gone.

This poem deals with the horrific nature of someone dealing with alcoholism. This is not a poem from experience, but at University I took a module on Literature & Addiction and researched alcoholic narratives and the issues people dealing with this addiction face. I decided to turn my findings into a poem.


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Poetry by Arun Jeetoo

British Asian Arun Jeetoo is a wanderer and possesses the gift of compassion. A poet, short story writer and educator in North London, Arun’s work appears in places such as The London Reader, Lumin Journal and Breaking Rules Publishing anthologies amongst others. Arun wants his readers to reflect on what it means to be human in the 21st century.