Caroline Gilfillan & Andrew Scott’s East End
It is my pleasure to present these poems by Caroline Gilfillan with photographs by Andrew Scott – dating from the early seventies and encapsulating that era when Caroline & Andrew were squatters in the East End, they are published for the first time today
Spitalfields Street Sweepers
Council issue donkey jackets slung over saggy suits,
the street sweepers get to work,
broom heads shooshing over concrete and tar,
herding paper and peel and fag ends into heaps,
strong fingers grasping the broom handles,
knuckles big and smooth as weathered stones
moving easy in their bags of skin, watchful eyes
on you, your finger-clicks, your lens.
Aldgate Gent
Shoes shined, trilby brushed, ears scrubbed
clean as a baby’s back, he chugs through the
sun drops and diesel clag of Aldgate.
No crumbs in his turn-ups, no fluff in his pockets:
the wife, at home in one of the new flats
over by Mile End, keeps him spruce.
He’s on his way to meet Solly at Bloom’s
for gefilte fish and a chinwag. We flew
past him in a dented van, croaky from
last night’s pints, hair in need of a good cut
and ears a good wash behind. And No,
we didn’t notice him, but he was a good
father to his sons, if inclined to sound off.
His wife went first but his sister cooked for him
after, and the nurses at the London
did him proud when the time came.
Us? We played our gigs and tumbled on,
leaving scraps of quavers and clefs
scattered across the pavement, the kerb,
the bang, rattle and clank of Aldgate East.
Stoneyard Lane Prefabs
Two ticks and the fixer of the Squatters Union
has done the break-in, courtesy of a jemmy.
The door creaks in the fish-mud breeze blowing up
from Shadwell docks. Here you are girls.
Faces poke, glint through curtain cracks.
A man comes back for his hobnailed boots. Stands lit up
by orange street lights, his meek face
breathing beer. We got behind with the rent, he says,
muddy laces spilling over knuckles.
Thought we’d leave before the council chucked us out.
The next morning two hoods from the council break the lock,
bawl through the drunken door, Clear out or we’ll
board you in. Bump-clang of an Audi brings bailiffs.
The fixer flies in, fists up to his chin.
Has words. We hunch on the kerb with our carrier bags.
Mile End Automatic Laundry
Natter chat, neat fold, wheel carts of nets, sheets, blankets, undies, pillow-slips,
feed the steel drum, twirl and swoosh, dose of froth, soaping out the Stepney dirt.
Say hello to the scruffs from the squats off Commercial Road, more of them now,
breaking the GLC doors off their hinges, and I don’t stick my nose
where it’s not wanted, though you can tell a lot by a person’s laundry,
can’t you? That girl with the hacked-off hair, no bras in her bag, and no
fancy knickers, though the boy brings in shirts, must go to work
somewhere smarter than the street where they live and that
pond-life pub on the corner. Speaking of which,
walking home the other night I heard music,
a group, with drums, guitars, the lot,
so I peeped in and there was
the girl, earnest as a nun, singing
You can get it if you really want
and I thought
just you wait
and see.
Poems copyright © Caroline Gilfillan
Photographs copyright © Andrew Scott
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Eloquent words and depressingly accurate photos, which show how life was at that time for many people. If British Land had had more sense and vision instead of greed a lot of the East End that has now been destroyed could have been restored and saved. Valerie
I could not help but notice a similarity between the poems written by Caroline Gilfillan and those written by one of our famous poets here in the States, Carl Sandberg. Each of these poets convey such clear, visual images of the cities and streets they inhabited and observed. Thank you for this lovely post.
Transported by these poems and images back to the London of my teens in a magical way.
I love waking up & checking my emails and there in among the endless ‘offers’ there’s your post like a message from a friend – golden nugget! I never know what it’ll find when I open it, this was a real treat I especially loved the poem about the launderette. Thanks to you all.
Great combinations
Great poems and photographs. I especially liked the poem about the woman in the launderette. Plus, the gentlemen with the beard, long coat and brimless hat is my husband’s doppelganger.
Terrific poems, Caroline: tough, assured, clear-eyed. Loved the Aldgate Gent. How about publishing a book illustrated by Andrew’s poignant photos?
Fantastic photos of a London that I remember so well from my teenage years. The combination of the sharp and gritty poetry makes the whole thing come alive. Terrific subject!
Thank you for featuring these touching poems. Brought back clear memories of staying in a squat in Chalk Farm where my much older sister lived. She burned her bra in the early ’70s and, amongst other things, founded the Women’s Free Arts Alliance and, I understand, sometimes roadied for the band, The Stepney Sisters, in her pink painted lorry which said “Serendipity” down the side! Perhaps this is the band referred to in the poems.
Margaret, how lovely to read your post. The Stepney Sisters is indeed the band referred to and I have vivid memories of your sister and her Serendipity van. The gig at the Women’s Arts Alliance was memorable for a number of reasons: I think that was where a speaker fell on a borrowed guitar and broke it. Benni created a sculpture of kitchen implements, too. I’m writing a collection of poetry about those times and that gig must find its way in there.
Nicholas thanks for the thumbs up. Andrew Scott and I are putting together a collection of poems and photographs and looking for a publisher. I’m sure it will happen.
Liberation and bra burning in the early 70’s.
You were on the road, singing,
being serious about feminism.
I was just starting the married road.
Spare Rib.
Their message made me feel guilty.
I was to be a wife, a mother.
My decision.
These were the different roads we took.
I don’t suppose either of us regrets our choice.
love the photos and the poems of Caroline Gilfillan.