Old Blue Notebook

Small, blue and battered—the size of an

unsent postcard, unstuffed from my pocket

whenever some cloud crossed my mind in a

cloudy year.

 

I have to dig carefully, my

trowel teasing meaning from dust:

what on Earth was I doing in

Battersea? Why did I list what

people drank ? Whose is that number? “Call

Myra”? Who was Myra? Was she the one who

whispered “Jeez, you’re not gay!” when I

touched her up in the crowded cab on that

wet New York night or was she the

one I slept with?

 

I was young, confused by women —the

red one I was rejected by; the blonde one for whom I was a

halfway-house to hope; those

New York girls who happily harboured a

hapless Englishman; a silent-movie,

silent movie-star; and, at first in the margins,

you, only coming into sharp focus as

sense returned from sensibility and the

reality of love rubbed out its myth.

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Comments

  • J Matthew Waters  On November 30, 2012 at 1:44 am

    this poem of yours rivals brilliance. i love it.

  • latestarterchronicles  On November 30, 2012 at 9:08 am

    YHou have posted some wonderful poems in the past, but I think this one is my favourite of all. I love the story contained within it. I can see you in New York. I can see the faceless girls. I can feel your confusion, then and now.

  • Tonya Ramey  On December 5, 2012 at 10:10 pm

    This brilliant walk down memory lane once again proves to us that you are an intellectual genius 🙂

  • Agatha-luise  On December 29, 2012 at 4:40 pm

    I keep on coming back on your page to read this. The traces of various memories embedded in this poem makes me wonder for each’s story. Wonderful yet sad journal of memories. I am happy that the absolution seems to take it all away in the end.

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