St. Paul's Avenue: Memorial Poetry at Its Best

By Christen E

Although I have been drawing surreal pictures since I was an infant, I have been writing poetry from about the age of 12. At that time my English language skills were still marginal due to the fact that I grew up listening to both Greek and German from my father and mother respectively. My father spoke good English but worked at nights so we didn’t get to practice much with him. Also, as the oldest of three hyperactive boys we spent most of our time outdoors. Literary pursuits were low on our agendas.
I think my interest in writing and reading was sparked by three factors or influences. The first was a lucid imagination which stimulated my interest in anything unusual from fairytales, mythology and magic to Marvel comics, encyclopedias and science-fiction books. The second was encouragement from high school English teachers who were such characters that I was forced to pay attention to them. The third factor was that I was an incurable romantic, a total dreamer that dreamt of other worlds, more perfect worlds and started making notes about these visions. To sum up, I was an artist in the most sensitive and soppy manner and hungered for self-expression in as many mediums as I could master.
This innate gift did not manifest itself immediately nor quickly. I was a late developer because as a child I wanted to discover and experience everything, and spent years distracting myself from becoming who I was meant to be. There was a time, I clearly remember, when I was fascinated by absolutely everything and could have gone in one of a myriad directions. Most of this kaleidoscopic growth happened in a modest house on a modest street in a modest part of London, one of the most fascinating cities in the world.
The place that punctuated itself upon my soul for 8 years, from the ages of 10 to 18, was 2 St Paul’s Avenue, the first even-numbered house on a very long street somewhere between Kingsbury and Kenton in the borough of Harrow, in Northwest London. The family home. Here my family lived, played and fought, and then dispersed so abruptly, that the whole struggle to survive, thrive and prosper, the great adventure of growing up, haunted us for decades to come. It was as if the house was temporarily inhabited by a cultural whirlwind and then abandoned without remorse. My parents galloped off to Greece to retire in a village by the sea, and we teenagers found ourselves in colleges and universities, confronting the challenges of higher education, the opposite sex, and having to take care of ourselves.
The poems in this book, my second book of poetry, are a nostalgic review of a life gone by. The above neighborhood is run down now and our former home looks disheveled. Since those haunting days in Kenton, I have lived and loved my way across the globe. I have travelled to America and Asia and returned to Europe. Both my parents are dead. In my book Nobody Famous I have written 150 poems commemorating the life of my deceased mother, and though I touch upon these here the main focus is on St Paul’s and all the wild and wonderful things that happened thereabouts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christen E
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005872359

Christen E

I was the 14th son of a one-parent family of shepherds, largely supported by the pocketed springs of a mattress loved by geckos all over the Antarctic wilds of Borneo.

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ST PAULS AVENUE

Memorial Poetry @ Its Best

By Christen E

~~~

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2020 by Christen E. All rights reserved.

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CONTENTS

FOREWORD

ANOTHER LIFE

ALL THE GAMES WE PLAYED

ST. PAUL’S AVENUE

THE VACUUM SALESMAN

83

FRIENDS OF MY FATHER

FEBRUARY 21st

AT WORK

BY THE STREAM OF CASTLE FARM

HER BEAUTY

COUNTING

EMPTY HAND

GROWING UP IN AGONY

MISSING SNUBEL

OH LITTLE FLIER…

PRECIOUS STONES

THE FACE

CONVERSATION WITH MY RUCKSACK

34 YEARS

FOR GRANTED

IMAGINE

LAVENDER MOM

FISH & CHIP SHOP

CATCHING FIGS

IN THE TIME OF MY MOTHER

FOREWORD

Although I have been drawing surreal pictures since I was an infant, I have been writing poetry from about the age of 12. At that time my English language skills were still marginal due to the fact that I grew up listening to both Greek and German from my father and mother respectively. My father spoke good English but worked at nights so we didn’t get to practice much with him. Also, as the oldest of three hyperactive boys we spent most of our time outdoors. Literary pursuits were low on our agendas.

I think my interest in writing and reading was sparked by three factors or influences. The first was a lucid imagination which stimulated my interest in