Poetry About the Bloomsbury Hotel, London

They give poetry books to each guest, which is how self happened upon this poem by Jo Shapcott:

New commission

It’s a hot night. We walk our wheelies from the tube.
The brick walls seep warmth. On the way we smell shop-
flowers through the traffic, hear church bells, loiter
in the odd sweet spot until we’re here, looking up
at a paradox of double steps. Still curbside, we sense
that if there’s a muse of stairways, she lives here,
inside these buildings made of red brick and rain.
Through the doors and we’re inhabiting a chandelier
or library or a chapel or a cave, and our minds flash and glow
with noises, words and tastes until our hearts have softened
inside our bodies and when we leave, the street is silk under
the lamps.

 

2 Comments

  1. Csilla said,

    June 21, 2017 at 8:56 am

    Beautiful poem, I wish I was there again. I love Bloomsbury.

  2. June 21, 2017 at 11:55 am

    I know, right? It’s a wonderful poem.

    “It’s a hot night. We walk our wheelies from the tube.” I have done that myself, so many times!

    I also loved “a paradox of double steps,” describing the front entrance to the hotel. Did you know that there’s a little “call button” at the bottom of the stairs on the side nearest Tottenham, saying: Push If You Require Assistance. lol


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