I wrote this poem over the last two days, and showed it to an American
young man today - he liked it but asked what Fantales were! It never
struck me that they were not USA of origin because they were
(originally) all about Hollywood stars. (They have since broadened.)
Fantales are a chocolate coated lolly with caramel inside. The wrapper
details the life and career of at least one major film star - very
compressed into maybe thirty or forty words. Here goes nothing:
(title) My True Account
I've seen these hands on old men before—
swollen rivers, deep valleys and bony ranges,
dark brooding between knuckles. I know
the back of my hand like my own country.
In the Fifties, I read Milton and Rosenberg
on a wooden desk, with a chipped inkwell.
That desktop spelt a history of boys
before me, their hieroglyphs and spilt ink
characterising my space, my view.
Upstairs in the dorm, my bed-high locker
held what was me—all else cluttered in
grey flannel pockets: rosary beads, coins,
and Fantale wrappers, to be smoothed
and added to my collection—
Alan Ladd, June Allyson, James Stewart.
Milton and Rosenberg drew me in to
their intense reality. I built a chapel in my head
and read their words like litany: the sudden
uprising of larks on return, then
dawn. I was twelve, I saw him die.
'They also serve who only stand and waite.'
Serve? I am of the individual generation,
sitting on our merry-go-round horses, riding to
our faux rebellion, nervous to dismount.
Poem ends. Any feedback welcome.
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.bam.com.au/andrew
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