'The Face we choose to miss - Be it but for a Day -As absent as a Hundred Years When it has rode away' - Emily Dickinson, as it has always been - forever and a day, Edward Smithfield, Humour, I'll be seeing you In all the old familiar places, Leguminous Presumed, lettuce be romainetic, like peas and carrots, Lost in time and lost in space, Lurve, pea protein and two veg, Photons flying, Poetry, Rachmaninoff's 18th variation rhapsody on a theme of Paganini, Time after Time after Time
The World in Her Eyes
(Or: Joseema’s Orientation)
She knows a man who looks like you:
A greengrocer on Worsely Avenue.
No, she knows he’s not like you,
But quite similar — think cucumber and courgette.
Well, not so much similar, that’s incorrect;
There’s more of an air of you about him:
Lugubrious in person pod; leguminous presumed.
It’s less an air, so she thinks,
More a vague impression.
But then not really a vague impression either.
He wears a belt sometimes,
As do you.
There actually are more than one, she claims,
Who ring a bell which chimes your name,
If you would wish to nit-pick, to root among the greens,
And they are not all necessarily men, she says,
As if to rewrite the faux grocer’s agenda.
Twist his lemons.
A queue of five strangers
Shuffling at the bus stop.
An old, white-haired woman
Wearing a hat like a cake,
Feeding the pigeons.
A group of yammering children
Weaving their way home from school —
All lackadaisical of leg, snatching satchels.
Then out of nowhere:
A serious, stoic cyclist
Streaks down Deansgate
In the draining drizzle.
They all, in truth, bear absolutely
No resemblance whatsoever to you,
Now she comes to think of it;
For Joseema sees you everywhere
Because you fill her irises to the brim;
A thousand small mentally gifted gifs of you
Play out regular matinée performances,
Displaying their frame-by-frame wares to her
As she looks at cereal packets in Tesco,
Amid the crap, cackle and pop,
Whilst smiling surreptitiously to herself.
Then again, out of nowhere:
Your reflection bounces back
Off her restless retina;
Every single day, in some manner;
Because you burned the image
Of your face onto its surface
At the speed of flight
Long before she lost
The propinquity of your embrace;
So much sooner than the suspension
Of your lambent caresses.
An eidetic incarceration.
I’d sue if I were her.