January 26th, 2010
|10:17 pm - Hillfields|
Marie, I know you by your goth-black hair
And by the searchlight sun illumining
The knuckles of your back though your white shirt,
Slumped on a bench above the council grass
In East Street Park now that the rain has passed.
I go to help, but you are not alone
- Oh, no, not in the children's park Marie -
Your punter's mouth is open and his eye complicits me.
There was a fox, a fox beside the chemists
Standing among the weeds
Would not let go its meal, as I approached.
I turn from you, I scold you to myself,
I sympathise with angry neighbours,
Quick march up the hill road.
And at the highest corner you are there
Standing with hip ajut
As if you have been waiting there all day
Innocent of custom.
Is it you?
You must have run: faster than I could go
In your high heels, a way I do not know
To be here ahead of me.
Is it you, Marie?
The same black wig, the same glowing shirt
Are there two like you?
I try to see your features
But they are obscure
The sky is thick with dark
I can't understand your face
And the rain has started up again.
It's like a movie! A black and white movie, like a Graham Greene adaptation :)
Thank you. It does tell a story, which is something I don't usually do.
Edited at 2010-01-27 09:44 am (UTC)
Thank you. I hope it works for those who do not know the people.
This poem, though it refers to specifics that I don't really understand, has stayed with me for the several days since you posted it. The image of this lost, ghostly girl with her spine like knuckles and her hip ajut is intense, vivid and sad.
Thanks emerald. Really I am hoping that the specifics don't really matter too much. The words that are available to describe the women who use the drop in shelter, and the work they do, are intrusive, they have judgements included in them (such as prostitute) which (I think) obscure them as people. So, I feel I have to write about them without using blunt but misleading language.