my love sold revolutionary newspapers
i once loved a
girl
who sold
revolutionary newspapers
in charing cross
road
her red
nipple-tight
tee-shirt
sang the praises
of che-guevara
as we linked arms
and marched with
thousands
on grosvenor
square
she was fearless
when the stones flew
brave when the
police charged
valiant among the
legs of galloping horses
they fined me
twenty pounds
for disturbing the
peace
and the only peace
i wished to disturb
was hers
“i’m going to
cuba!” she said
but ended up in
catford
with a bangladeshi
bus conductor
and a tenth-floor
balcony
full of nappies
my love
who sold
revolutionary newspapers
blind date
we met
under the station clock
she was slightly plump
and wore glasses
i was slightly skinny
and wore a partial denture
walking through wet streets
to the basement jazz club
we both wore
disappointed expressions
the pianist played like george shearing
wore velvet and smoked black cigarettes
dancing cheek to cheek in a dark corner
she held me to her green floral dress
beneath which i felt a bony corset
after a couple of gin and tonics
she giggled at my hand on her hip
disappointment fading
to a sort of blind friendship
french kissing
she cornered me
in the stationary cupboard
christmas eve
just before six
she was full of bacardi
and i was full of lust
an anaemic office boy
with pimples full of pus
but in the darkness
she didn’t seem to mind
even when
i held her behind
in my sweaty hands
that only came in for some foolscap
“you’re in my little trap”
said janet
breathless between kisses
french and wet
though i knew
i’d never get
any further than my tongue
between her teeth
which was really
rather a relief
with her fiancé
waiting at reception
and him a twelve-stone lighterman from tilbury
with a forest of hair
growing from his ears
and me
an underweight asthmatic little chap
who only went looking
for a ream of foolscap
ant
i step on him by mistake
not hearing
the shell-like body crunch
i feel remorse
that such a busy little fellow
should be snubbed out so quickly
on his way to a hard day’s work
i look up at the sky guiltily
awaiting the meteorite to fall
remembering my father’s death
running for the london train
and his unexpected call
kiss
would you believe
that the first girl i kissed
couldn’t even read or write?
mind you
we were only three at the time
the second girl
a dictaphone typist
was fifty-five
i was called
granny snatcher
perhaps that’s why i love
second-hand bookshops
the old bindings are exquisite
the musty perfume mysterious
they’ve been around
i love original dust jackets
even the odd stain of tear
can’t wait to take them off
to touch what lingers there
if i’m in a strange city
and i see an antiquarian sign
my mind goes into overdrive
what will i find this time?
perhaps some ancient little treasure
is hiding just for me
as i caress all those naked spines
lusting after antiquity
waving with molly
a sunday evening in tankerton
cucumber sandwiches eaten
celery dipped into pyramids of salt
fruit salad with evaporated milk
we ran to the bottom of a neat garden
crossed a five-bar gate
then a one-acre field of grazing cattle
to wave at the london-bound train
steaming to the west on its high embankment
the driver waved back
blew a high-pitched whistle
as molly screamed with delight
while we listened to that lonesome sound
fading into the bat-filled night
Cliff
Wedgbury is a Cork-based poet, born in London in 1946. His formative
years were spent in the folk clubs, jazz clubs and second-hand bookshops of the
Charing Cross Road area in London. He began writing during these years and a
selection of his work appeared at this time in an anthology published by the
Greenwich Poetry Society.
No comments:
Post a Comment