Murder Mile by Gail Chester

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This is in the inspiration for my username. It's a poem that was entered in a poetry competition the BBC conducted.

They call it Murder Mile, I call it home.

They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Waiting for the 253 bus which never seems to go beyond Hackney Central
Despite telling us they've improved the service.

They call it Murder Mile, I call it
The Sam and Annie Cohen Day Centre full of Afro-Caribbean elders
The Turkish bakery selling ackee and saltfish bagels, bacon bagels, croissants and pizzas
The Chinese Take Away selling kebabs, jamake patties, and fish and chips.

They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Marvin, trapped in his third floor flat
No longer able to visit his book-lined study, the British Library
Since the council took his Freedom Pass away
He wonders why his wasted body should condemn him to a wasted mind.

Yes, it's murder all right
When you're trying to raise your kids
And two of them have asthma from the cars
Racing through as they make their way to important other places that are not your street
And you've just heard they're shutting the local sorting office 'for economy reasons'
Like it's going to be very economical to get the bus to Leyton to collect a registered letter that arrived while you were out.

They call it Murder Mile,
Yet it throbs with the life of every continent
With the live and let live of every imaginable cultural variation
With the black and the white and the red and the green and the purple and the pink and the brown
Of a swirling kaleidoscope of life
They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Rabbi Grunbaum arguing with Mr Fawzi about whether we should support Bush over Iraq
Even though, or maybe because
They are both on the committee for Muslim Jewish understanding
Which, as everybody says, could teach the Middle East a thing or two about peaceful co-existence.

They call it Murder Mile, I call it
A heartbroken mother whose teenage son has just been given two years for possession and dealing
They've shattered her dreams, shattered her nerves
And all because a young boy wanted his own mixing table
Since they shut down the youth club and took his hopes away.

They call it Murder Mile, I call it
The road stretching between the shtetl on the Hill
Where the residents dwell, occasionally to excess, on matters of the soul
And the Town Hall Square, the so-called Heart of Hackney
Where the politicians meet, and the residents wonder if they have a heart at all.

They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Justin and Marie who moved to Clapton when their youngest was born and they were priced out of Stoke Newington and are slightly nervous about what all these killings will do to the value of their house.

They call it Murder Mile, I call it
Despair, as yet another friend announces they are leaving
Because it's so dangerous in the city

Remember Soham, I say
Remember Dunblane
Remember Hungerford
Remember Telford
Remember that farmers have one of the highest suicide rates

Consider the pesticides and the sheep dips and the chemicals which deform growing foetuses
Remember being teased at school, and thinking you were the only gay kid on the planet
Remember going out of your mind with boredom in the small town where you grew up
Then tell me it's so dangerous in the city.

Wherever you live, the time comes to die
And Murder Mile is fuller of joyous life
Than all those places where alarmist headline writers pass their time when they're not at their desks giving us a bad name.