This poem and 'moving around' both really tug at the heartstrings. They seem
closest to MacSweeney in terms of context and a fearlessness at facing up to
the detail of everyday life. They draw you into a world, and ask the reader
to accept the consequences of being drawn in. The narrator is a character,
and we have to trust them at some level. Don't we? The poems don't permit
the luxury of the concept as an explanation.
best
Ian
>From: John Muckle <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: John Muckle <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Unforgiven
>Date: Tue, 10 Apr 2007 11:17:39 +0100
>
>The Unforgiven
>
>
>A narrow bed, a table, a sash window
>looking out on a fire escape
>
>where, a floor down, light laughter
>and the savour of Italian cooking
>
>drift up to taunt me in my
>solitude, my temporary room inherited
>
>from a German girl, so I’m told,
>but I know her only by a year old
>
>copy of Time Out in a white drawer
>and a few clipped photos on the walls:
>
>Audrey Hepburn, her small elfin
>head perched above a rhino’s head
>
>his small eye, his great horn;
>above the bed, Clint Eastwood
>
>totes a long-barrelled Colt,
>turns a haggard profile: The Unforgiven.
>
>They tell a sad story, I say
>to the Spanish woman who collects my rent.
>
>That one is you, she cocks an eye at Clint.
>You are Unforgiven.
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