The swelling, sun-drunk clouds collapse
into a gaping gutter of blue sky to sleep off
their intoxication in the midday heat.
The sea is the colour of thunder,
and I slide down the spine of a wave,
welcoming the cold. I know I am not
seeking atonement. Does that make me
a bad person? Or just a fool?
Tori and Little Sam scramble onto a boulder
of broken bunker lodged in the sand.
They squeal as the spray snaps
at their little, pink toes. My envy
turns the water broken-bottle green.
*
I read Saul Bellow at the kitchen table.
The two roof tile-brown hens are as round
as planets and their tap-tap-tap at the window
is like a metronome. Bloom, the golden retriever,
lies asleep at my feet. She only comes to me
when I'm reading Bellow or Malamud.
I think she has a preference for
Jewish-American fiction.
*
In the evening I sneak away for my first cig in days.
I wander down the beach road towards
Cap Gris Nez and there's a strange feeling
pitching its tent in my stomach;
I have a feeling I've met him before
and in accented English he says his name is 'Déjà-vu'.
And as I sit down in the doorway
of an abandoned German bunker, I remember.
This time last year I came here for refuge -
I half-expect to find the butts from last August's cigarettes.
But no, just frozen sparks of glass on the concrete floor,
and unsuspecting cows chewing grass on my left.
Lighting up, I inspect my packet of black and gold JPS.
The health warning covers half the front, bold and
self-important, but somehow "Fumer Tue"
sounds so much prettier - the syllables curling
the tongue - than the English. I guess most things
sound better in French. Even death.
*
My sandals have left two creamy tan-lines
over my feet like the swirl in the caffe latte
I find myself sipping with Big Sam at Chez Monique.
We are sitting at a table on the terrace, blowing smoke
into our coffee, and throwing our heads back to laugh.
We know we are being pretentious and clichéd,
but we can't help it when remembering our former selves;
our socially-awkward, acne-riddled, fifteen-year-old selves
dressed in ill-fitting clothes, speaking in moans.
Things may be more fucked up now than then,
but at least I've learnt how to channel the pain -
poetry being my get-out clause.
*
I sit in bunkers, on beaches, in cafés, at kitchen tables,
thinking of you. My fingers curling over the edge of my childhood.
Comments
fatboy74 | August 4, 2011 - 19:21
She only comes to me
when I'm reading Bellow or Malamud.
classic line and I love the languid feel to this magic. Very jealous, haven't been to France in ages and you are absolutely right, evrything does sound better in french. :-)
MistakenMagic | August 4, 2011 - 20:00
Thank you, fat boy! Glad you like that line - had to incorporate my summer reading list somewhere. It's so much more accessible than last year's ;-)
Magic xxx
Highhat | August 5, 2011 - 03:57
Another one of yours I enjoyed so much Magic- such a talent you have.
loved the concluding line
" my fingers curling over the edge of my childhood" brilliant- just ad to repeat it- so mellow
don't stray too far from it as you are still beautifully young.-
atb
;)Pia
Silver Spun Sand | August 5, 2011 - 07:56
There are so many beautiful and memorable lines in this one, dear Magic, I am spoilt for choice to quote any, but I guess this, in particular:-
"The two roof tile-brown hens are as round
as planets and their tap-tap-tap at the window
is like a metronome."
Reading this you have made me 'home-sick' for France, but maybe I will go back there...one of these days.
Thank you for a wonderful read;-)
Tina xxx
MistakenMagic | August 5, 2011 - 10:34
Thanks, Pia! Glad you like the ending, it's one of my favourite lines too :)
Magic xxx
MistakenMagic | August 5, 2011 - 10:36
Hello, Tina! I had to fit the chickens in somewhere ;-) Hope you do get to France in the future!
Magic xxx
Silver Spun Sand | August 5, 2011 - 10:45
So do I, dear Magic. So do I...and as for those chickens - free-range, I hope;-)
Have a lovely day.
Tina xxx
MistakenMagic | August 5, 2011 - 16:49
Oh they were very, very free-range, Tina! We had to keep chasing them out of the kitchen :-P
Thank you, cherry fairies, you've made my day!
Magic xxx
Cavalcaderl | August 5, 2011 - 18:16
new MistakenMagic
Well deserved cherry!
Another master poem.
Yes, I too liked line same a Highhat.
"My fingers curling over the edge of
my childhood. Brilliant. And the chickens
in the kitchen. Can get free eggs here.
I gave away bracelet lady sits on the wall,
break and then she brought me, three boxes free range eggs, daughter out in the country think.
Hope your well, and maybe sunny, have now.
Keep smiling and wriing. Have a good week-end.
all the best julie xx
skinner_jennifer | August 5, 2011 - 18:19
Hi Magic,
you have sent me on a magic carpet ride to a place
I've never been, conjuring up such vivid pictures.
I loved the bit about Tori and Little Sam scramble
onto a boulder of broken bunker lodged in the sand.
Children have no fear, do they? they just do what
comes naturally, it's a shame we discover fear
isn't it?
Anyway Magic, thankyou for letting me the reader
into a slice of your holiday. Hope you had a good
time.
Take care and enjoy the weekend.
Jenny.
MistakenMagic | August 5, 2011 - 18:23
Hello there, Julie! Yes, the chickens did provide us with eggs which made excellent omelettes. Hope you have a great weekend too :)
Magic xxx
MistakenMagic | August 5, 2011 - 18:24
Thank you, Jenny! Glad I could whisk you away to France :) The kids were definitely fearless - made me and 'Big Sam' feel very old in comparison!
Magic xxx
shoe | August 5, 2011 - 18:28
Riveting, I just couldn't stop reading, then went back to read it all again and it was even better, so satisfying!,
MistakenMagic | August 5, 2011 - 18:48
Thanks, Shirley, for your lovely comment - so happy to hear you've enjoyed this one! :)
Magic xxx
RachelPatricia | August 7, 2011 - 15:57
I did what shoe did! Haha, love this, Magic - that opening stanza is just to die for :)
So jealous of your tan-lines - it's been chucking it down here for days! ;)
Rachel xx
MistakenMagic | August 7, 2011 - 16:11
Thank you, Rachel! :) It's been chucking it down in Yorkshire too since I got back, and don't be jealous of my tanlines - they look ridiculous :-P
Magic xxx
maggyvaneijk | August 7, 2011 - 20:17
This is beautiful, post-card perfect yet more because postcards wouldn't contain the originality of your voice. I love the broken-bottle green and the tan lines that swirl like caffe lattes. This is the closest I'll come to another summer holiday and it's not a bad substitute. Congrats on the cherry!
MistakenMagic | August 7, 2011 - 20:50
Thanks, Maggy! Glad you like those images, and happy I could offer you a holiday substitute :)
Magic xxx
rjnewlyn | August 7, 2011 - 22:19
Yes, very good. Well done. I think if Proust had managed to write poetry and short sentences he might have sounded something like this.
Off to France in a couple of weeks, so good to have some preparation.
Rob
MistakenMagic | August 7, 2011 - 22:52
Thank you, Rob! Hope you enjoy France :)
Magic xxx
the unfolding head | August 12, 2011 - 10:45
this blew me away... so delicate, a really great read.
MistakenMagic | August 12, 2011 - 12:38
Thanks, Danny! Glad you enjoyed :)
Magic xxx
threeleafshamrock | August 20, 2011 - 21:53
' My fingers curling over the edge of my childhood.' Beautiful; love the ending but then you always do know how to end a piece, with a 'slap'.
Paints so carefully and comprehensively a wonderful picture; I was sucked in from start to finish....terrific!
Chris ;) XXX
MistakenMagic | August 20, 2011 - 22:16
Thanks, Chris! That final line came to me late on in the drafting process, so I'm glad it still packs a punch ;-) Great to hear from you!
Magic xxx
Nicola6 | October 1, 2011 - 14:27
You create a lovely autobiographical poem that captures a moment and a time. I thought about you re-reading this work when you are old and grey, reeling with nostalgia for your younger self.
MistakenMagic | October 1, 2011 - 17:54
Thanks for reading, Nicola! I'm sure I'll always come back to this one. Glad you like it :-)
Magic xxx