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Formerly a lawyer, Alan lives
in Aberdeen, Scotland but performs regularly at poetry evenings in
Edinburgh.
If you enjoy the poetry, why not send a note to the author by email to hello@scribblingrivalry.com, who will forward your comments.
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Tickets for the Kings?
" *I can't give a comprehensive sales report."
The words shoot through. Wrong footed, I struggle then inspect: a round and rosie face, full lips that could suck out life,
no probs! Still stunned, I grope for my response. What did she say? The voice, that voice, so svelt, so not-from-here. Just this once, I'm suckered by the form. The content's lost. Did it ever matter?
Was this, indeed, the voice that fanned the flames that burned the topless towers. Could have been, easy! And all those ships afloat and all those men, those deaths and IIium adrift in time,
for centuries to mingle with the dust and Helene too aloof and self-absorbed to care. But, returning to the voice which flowed on sweetly, unconscious of my
dreaming, still, as far as I could tell performative even in intent. Meaning had never been entered in the race. "Where from, the accent, what parts?" I try.
"It's not from anywhere," I'm told then something else I miss again. So, willingly, I inquire no more. Some things are best left unexplained.
Footnote: *Words said by a very posh young lady at the box office of the Kings Theatre in Edinburgh on being asked as to the availability of tickets for the following day's performance.
© Alan S. Dower 2003. All Rights Reserved.
Today
Today, in this hotel lounge, so peaceful, I can hardly speak, can hardly say how much……… This quivering jaw of mine, these poorly held back tears, all the tension of a dozen years adrift with ghosts of you.
Oh, I've waited, waited, waited. Waited for those hard won morsels of your flesh, that all too easy smile, the one you hoard for me but keep for too long hid.
A quizzical, bemusing look comes on your face. Still I hold my breath knowing that the smallest sound will open flood gates, will draw the stopping finger from the dyke, burst storm clouds to release a torrent.
I bite my lip, preparing for my next attempt to scale the heights, to reach the summit, fulfil the mission I have set myself today. But, one more time,
I feel a catching in my throat, a welling in my eye and still I cannot risk to say "I love you."
© Alan S. Dower 2003. All Rights Reserved.
E-mail to RenaPhoned Bar Java Friday after seeing Blue Room at the King's. Then, finding you not on, looked for you at Pivo's. Couldn't see you. Had Sambuca in memory. You never said, you dirty dog, there were two kinds. The first was white. What's that when it's at home? It didn't do the job. I had to have the black, black like your hair pulled back Flamenco style. I knocked it back, your way. It hit the spot, sans blague, it did! I had to have another. Sipped it long, my way. My tears dripped in, topped it up but watered it. Fair trade, I'd say. It spun you out, the bit of you there in the glass. I drank you down, got pissed on you, went home chez Criper, East Claremont Street and slept so deep that two whole hours of sharp alarm (two whole hours, Rena) could not bring me to.
© Alan S. Dower 2003. All Rights Reserved.
RollingTimes, Life's slow shit. Hours, days, years pass. But, hey! The build-up's often worth the wait. Eventually, the spot is hit. And how! Oh! Tell me
'bout it! Read 'em and weep, you guys! All that jazz and more. I can't allow myself to stop the beat. (Don't stop, don't stop the music).
Where have I heard that? Who cares? I mean it. Wow! Don't want to stop. I'm on a roll here. Oh, and how! Let me have it and, if the long
day closes, then, only then, I'll take the hit. Then, and only then, I'll quit happily. It don't get any better, do it?
No, sir. Quit now before it quits on me.
© Alan S. Dower 2003. All Rights Reserved.
Last OrdersHalf an hour till chucking-out time, The Frigate, Sunday. You look at me imploringly.
We know it will be brief: Your train at six, my burd off-shift, the unholy hour of five. So one last drink or go? You pass the ball.
I order our last slugs of Highland Park. We knock them back, two oners, then depart.
© Alan S. Dower 2003. All Rights Reserved.
Nova ScotiaThe Vauxhall Nova 1.3 SR, I saw it in the street the other day. Some ned was driving, a mate beside up front, two burds in back, on its way up town.
Sad! I remember the places that we parked, snogged, cried, held hands soppily, etcetera; the waves we watched break on whatever shore, that seagull's screech, the swingeing swoop that ended on the hood, the things we said we'd do but never would.
Oh! My old love, why'd you go and sell it? May as well buy a terrapin and shell it!
© Alan S. Dower 2003. All Rights Reserved.
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