How did we get here?
I certainly was not the first to have the off-the-cuff idea, but I did not take the concept from Linklater’s flick Before Sunrise, as is frequently suspected. Instead, the motivation was born from an interaction with another street poet by the Southbank some years prior, the typewriter gifted to me by my Mum as an 18th birthday present, and many hours of practice; in my bed at night, on the tube, testing my speed of thought and words on friends, on randomers in nightclubs and pubs, prepping to make the move into the outside world.
Once I finally weathered the market with a wilting stool, hodgepodge sign, bottle of water, and falafel wrap, it all coalesced. I was practicing my craft while offering a unique product. People were reading my writing. I was making money doing something I loved, and that is more satisfaction than some ever have the privilege to experience. It went well for the first few months. June turned to July, and July melted as August. Besides Mo, the grocer, just off the street coloured by a spectrum of houses, I was overwhelmingly grateful. Well, until a market steward stepped in.
I hadn’t had any problems with the council up to that point. They seemed fairly pleased with me there, or took interest, at least. But this particular steward felt that I should have a permit to sit and write poems. Some will read that and wonder what kind of freedom we have left; others will think he’s just doing his job. I would agree with the latter if there wasn’t an argument to be made that I am a busker. Many have grabbed their poems and walked off because no one is forcing you to pay, so what’s the difference between walking past me and walking past a guitarist?
He wasn’t buying that for a London second. I had to relocate, retreating to Westbourne Grove in front of the flower shop Wild at Heart. By this point, I was living between my brother’s sofa in Forest Gate and my girlfriend’s place in Holloway, making the commute any day I felt would be a busy one. I left the bits and bobs at my friend Lila’s flat, and came to collect them when needed. Yet, with each shift’s taking slowed by the unideal location, and travel time prolonged, I began to sense it wasn’t worth it.
Quicker than a mid-December day was that feeling tossed away. Mum didn’t raise no quitter. I moved around, testing different street corners while avoiding the steward on perpetual patrol. Eventually, I found my square metre in late spring ’25 outside the Earl of Lonsdale, or under the Notting Hill Bakery awning when it rains. Again, I was the means and ends of my production on Portobello—from head to hands to page to whoever passes by. No middleman, no catch.
Poetry can be seen as a snobby or posh form of art, a just critique given that some of its history is interconnected with classism. However, poetry is such a materially simple act—pen to page, mind to mouth. Anyone can try it. It can help a child understand a concept, an adult process emotions, a sad person smile, a joyous one cry, and this beautiful form of expression should not be considered out of touch or reach. On the street, everyone is welcome; there are no barriers to entry, and it’s only natural that my poems work the same.
I know I don’t want to do this forever, but if I come to have enough success in my career, so that I may write from the comfort of my desk rather than the street, I’ll always owe it to Portobello Market for housing me, the endlessly welcoming vendours, the meanderers who stopped to read, the steward who reminded me why I even do it, my mates who gave me a sofa to crash on and their ears to listen, and my darling mother for buying me that typewriter those blurry years ago.