Nostalgia kills.
I have spent all week dreaming of the past,
Of friends, who when I look at photographs,
Or movie clips in black and white,
Remind me of the boy I used to be
Before advancing age, debts, and the deaths of loved ones,
Restricted the horizons I can see.
My God, that girl was lovelier than the smile
On the caring face of a Florentine Madonna
Painted as the Quattrocento dawned.
Yet she was fiercely modern, just look into her eyes
As she sings into a static microphone
Spotlit harshly on the studio floor.
But the cameras could not read her as I knew her,
She was my mate, we often sat together
In the snug bar of our pub, unnoticed by the heaving
throng of drinkers.
Unnoticed there, but cheered by crowds all venues that she toured
In Britain, mainland Europe, the USA,
A star and yet so little understood.
Back home in London, cooking Guinness Curry
In the tiny kitchen of my parent`s flat,
We played mind games, and talked in endless riddles
To spin Cats Cradles of Looking Glass ideas
That danced, like glitter, in the air between us.
Our youth now lives intensely in our memories,
No photograph, no clips from TV programmes
Can match the vivid free shows in our minds,
Dream pictures I now see while writing out this poem.
I turn the radio dial. Music has moved on as music must,
I now rarely know the names of bands and singers,
Except those that dominate the news headlines,
My taste is firmly fixed in the nineteen sixties.
Events pass by and soon could be forgotten.-
Too many birthdays.- Too many broken vows.
My friend still sings. Her songs are darker now,
But the wit that sparks her eyes is just the same.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 26th. - 30th. - April 24th. 2022.
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