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.
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.