Thursday, January 04, 2007
The Left Wing Poet
I met him at Hyde Park Corner,
leaning on a placard,
his black t-shirt ironed smooth,
each letter pristine, red
‘Not in my name’
is what the slogan said.
His beard was neatly trimmed.
The slight bulge above his belt
betrayed he’d recently slimmed.
He was deep in conversation
with a dark haired, dark eyed girl,
recounting his month on a kibbutz.
She, for her part, stifled a yawn,
fiddled with a stray curl,
watched the helicopters circle overhead.
‘It was socialism in the raw
and what is more, sexual
revolution in its purest form.’
He wafted a greeting in my direction,
without his eyes ever leaving
the swell of her breast,
without his losing the flow
Later, he gave a private reading,
as he’d always planned,
to a select group in the snug
of the Pindar of Wakefield,
wine glass in one hand,
slim volume in the other,
keffiyah arranged, artful
round his broad shoulders.
Happy New Year! Beware of false prophets! P.S. the poets on the poster are not my target!