Amy Deakin is a performance poet and writer living at the end of the Northern line. She has
inflicted poetry upon the unwary appeared at a wide range of poetry venues across London, featuring at Farrago Slam, Words Aloud Sutton and Paper Tiger Poetry. She’s also been published in several print anthologies and online magazines, including What the Elephant Said to the Peacock, Inside the Bell Jar, Birds Piled Loosely, and Spoken Word Anthology London 2015-2016. She hopes you enjoy her words as much as these publishers did.
Her debut poetry collection, Morden and Other Tourist Destinations, is published by William Cornelius Harris Publishing, and is available to purchase on the London Poetry Books website. Amy has lived in Morden all her life and is therefore permitted to slag it off.
You can also contact Amy directly for bookings, to order a book in person, or just find out more about her work, by emailing email@example.com.
Amy Deakin performing at Mind Over Matter, an independent project which aims to break down stigma attached to mental health and widen the conversation by discussing it through Hip Hop and Spoken Word Poetry. Visit their Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. All video credits to Mind Over Matter.
by Amy Deakin
At the southernmost point of the Northern line
Lies a fabled place which few men find.
Many a tales of its splendour be told.
Some say it’s streets be paved in gold.
And others say that all be rot,
Thus many a brawl doth be begot.
So on a fair and pleasant morn
I set off to this Mor of Don
Upon the nearest “via Bank” train,
To find this land of mythic strain,
And left my humble home behind
Hoping my fortune there to find.
After muche toil, I reached my quest
And I must admit I was welle impressed
By pound shops and kebabs galore,
A Lidl, Iceland and whats more
A hallowed Sainsburys did I spy!
A welcome sight to traveller eye.
Now free of worry and of care
And munching upon a chocolate eclair
I tooketh sights of this fair town
Which I heard spake of in high renown.
Fast chariots I longed to see
Blazoned 157 and 93.
Yet gazed upon in reality
Said chariots were mainly… stationary.
Their drivers clad in visage blue
Did not appear in haste to move
Their chariots forth to mysterious crags
And ‘stead quothed tea and smoketh fags.
I looked to heaven and asked The Lord
Why I had e’er headed south of Norwood.
But as I raised up mine eyes
A thing of terror filled the skies.
A concrete block of 1960s woe
Did tower over citizens below.
Wept I aloud – Poor Morden town!
(With swift travel networks to Wimbledon.)
That hatheth much to speak its name
In handy bus station and close tube train,
To be accursed by such folly!
Is not there hope to this sad story?
But sadly not one heard my cry
And ‘stead strange looks receiveth I
So swiftly legged I up to tube
To Topeth Up my Oyster Blue
And jumpeth upon firsteth train
Never to return to Morden again.
Enjoyed this poem?
If you would like to book Amy for a feature slot or find out more about her work, email firstname.lastname@example.org