I am a terrible hoarder - of knick-knacks, papers, memories. From time to time, circumstances force me to abandon great piles of amassed bric-a-brac and old correspondence, the residue of former lives. I've just gone through this process again.... and happened on something that had somehow survived earlier such culls (something which I thought had not survived, had long considered lost)..... and has now survived this one. A file of my correspondence with the Great Lost Love of my life, the gorgeous Aussie redhead who later became known as The Evil One. Most of this correspondence took the form of poems I wrote for her (or about the relationship, anyway). I've already posted a couple of them over on Barstool Blues last week, here and here. And now - here's another one.
The great thing about this relationship was that we got on terribly well, terribly easily together, could chat for hours about almost anything. And, for a while at least, we were living and working relatively close to each other in London, hanging out in the same sorts of places, with overlapping circles of acquaintances - so we bumped into each other by accident quite often (OK, quite a few of those 'accidents' were artfully contrived by me; and a few of them, no doubt, by her), which gave a nice relaxed, casual vibe to the affair. The bad thing about it was that, well, the one thing she would never, ever discuss was the relationship itself; so I never knew where I stood with her, was in constant fear that this would be the last time I ever saw her (or the last time I ever slept with her).
A café table apart
we meet and we talk
we sit in pavement cafés
making the most of whatever sun
the English seasons offer
drink coffee, scan the papers
watch people passing in the street
we discuss literary theory
favourite books and favourite films
and it is all very relaxed
and very comfortable
and very civilized
but all the time
I want desperately
to be in bed with you
and I do not know when
or whether that will be again
and the distance between us
is so much more
than the 18 inches it appears
3 comments:
I'm red in the face from the emotions this evokes.
It's never my wish to embarrass anyone - but I hope your blush is caused by a recognition of situations you've experienced in your own life. Which would be an indication that this piece really has some value as a poem, as an observation of general truths, and not just as a cathartic record of my own feelings.
The line I like best is 'making the most of whatever sun'. 'Whatever sun' seems to have evocative potential as a Cummings-ish compound noun, and perhaps draws in also some hints of the recently popular use of 'whatever' as a facetious idiom in conversation.
Also, of course, there's a layer of metaphor in it: you have to enjoy the English sunshine while it's there, because a lot of the time it isn't; and we were making the most of the bright spots in our relationship, even though they were intermixed with long periods of drizzly greyness. Our 'sunshine' lifted our spirits enough to make the grey days in between endurable.
Christ, that woman still owns a huge piece of my heart 10 years on!
Thank you for the analysis. It confirms my own.
"red in the face" is indicative if ~passion~, not ~embarrassment~. Indeed, the piece reminds me of moments I have experienced - the memories of which make my heart skip a beat even today.
If she still owns a huge piece of your heart 10 years on, it is because of your humanity. Obviously her love (for you?) (your love for her?) has shaped you... there's no escaping/ignoring that.
From the beginning, it has been this painful honesty of your emotions and how they vibrate that drew me into your writings.
(the type of readings that make one shiver with recognition, with remembrances...)
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