I swallowed her and now
She lives inside me or I live
Through her, we are alive.
I’m her friend, her teenage
And fantasies, a sixty year old-
Hair and books she ever read
Long distance phone calls
And delight matched our
Love for Sujata, Mr And Mrs Iyer
And I sat on her couch on my
Despised vacations sketching
Letters to Milena, Quabbani
And we spoke of her brothers,
Generations and cafes I went.
I’m Delhi, Bangalore and
Endless conversations-
She never met and she’s my
Lost Malayalam, postcards and
A world so familiar, a childhood.

Hold your breath and relax
I’m going to stay and listen
Till you are out of stories and
I repeat, remind and you smile.
I’ll get you melodies and 60s
Harold Robbins and Nutan,
Your weirdness and aloofness.
You don’t grow old with me
I’ll live, I promise as your fonts
Visit places you walked and
Write to you all, deep- blue
Letters, deep- blue-letters.
You are my first high-heels
Strawberry fields and music system
I’ll recite you a love story
Picture him as our classic heroes
And giggle as girls sixteen and
Seventeen. You swallowed me
And I live through you, we’re alive.

They're sorry to announce she's dead
peacefully passed over in bed
with family and dearest friends
a blessing for her in the end

They always use such clichéd weasel words
to avoid offence or create pretence
kindly perpetuate lying-in-state
wash the slate and cleanse cool reference

Seems strange I don't see her going gently
I saw her manically playing the Shrew
she cast two gentle husbands aside
ever the screaming cheating bride
but on stage and screen ever the radiant queen

We're told to celebrate A-list lives
but I contemplate my own losses
those parts of my life that passed away
watching old films is my afterlife.

Why isn't it like in the movies?
I thought that's how it would be
But there's no windswept kiss
Or romantic triste
Instead, I live my love vicariously

The films promised a one and only
Or at least a handsome lover
But when the last one left
I remained bereft
I can't seem to find another

I could have won best actress award
Oh, the nights, how I cried and cried
Stayed in bed for days
Whilst counting the ways
That my ****** Jane Austen had lied

Perhaps there is no Mr Darcy
Or even a Mr Gray
I'd be happy with a simple soul
But while my heart's on parole
I'm stuck in a Groundhog Day

No Sliding Doors romance for me
No Love Actually, no fun and laughter
My hope has gone
Of that special one
Or my happy ever after

The Sound of Music pervades the air,
As the Nowhere Boys and Uptown Girls,
Come home after A Hard Day's Night.
Isn't it Tiffany's turn to make breakfast?

In conversation about
the realities of War
a salient observation
surfaced again and
yet again - that current
creators of film or TV
images favour clean,
so fail the filth test
that for troops and those
who tend them once
bullets & shells have
wrought their harm
scar everywhere with
muck & misery - such
crisp white pinafores
and hair so carefully
coiffeured just never
figured - real warfare
harrows like The Victors
& D-Day scenes which
open Saving Private Ryan
as bloodily as any wound.

(c) C J Heyworth June 2014