where the bonfire began.
Where your golden syllables were sewn
onto the tapestry of a city.
I can imagine the swirl of your dress,
the feverish squawk of jazz
rebounding from the ceiling.
Few alive who’d remember.
Few witnesses who saw
you gnaw on his cheek, draw blood.
Sixty-one years later.
The hubbub of tourists,
a swell of shop windows.
They do not think of you, but I do.
I think of Ross, Myers, Huws,
the Weissborts and Minton,
and you two, the first lightning-white boom
that triggered a lust, a love,
a marriage.
What verses will form next?
I hope for platinum language,
dialogue free from bloated pauses.
If only a while, I’ll hold it somewhere
in the walls of my mind for life.
Written: March 2017.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Petty Cury is a pedestrianised shopping street in Cambridge, England. On 25th February 1956, the English poet Ted Hughes and the American writer Sylvia Plath met here at a party celebrating the launch of St. Botolph's Review, a student-made poetry (and some prose) pamphlet of sorts. They'd later marry and have two children. The names in the poem refer to David Ross, E. Lucas Myers, Daniel Huws, Daniel and George Weissbort, and Than Minton, all of whom had work included in the publication, alongside Ted himself.
All feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
