Pocketful of Nostalgia
I told you that you abandoned me, all
‘O brother, where art thou’ fashion, but
when those icicle words
fell off my lips
tumbled down the steps
and landed in your ear
I saw, in that melting smile, your world shatter.
I abandoned you, didn’t I?
I abandoned Us. We
all
fall
down.
Sometimes I wonder if you’re the boy who will never grow up and, if so, why you haven’t come and shown me the way to Neverland – second to the right and straight on till morning – and sometimes I want to scream at you, ‘grow up, Grow Up, GROW UP!'
Don’t forget to hold my tiny hand
When we cross the street
So
you told me to write from my soul,
‘That’s where the flowers come from.
That’s how you give life to your poetry,’
but all I get is nostalgia:
that idealisation
that formulation
it’s so elegant
so unintelligent.
Now, I’ll manage better this time.
Did you know that post-modernism is a thing of the past? Nostalgia is the NEW genre. All the good ones are taken.
This morning, you poured me a hot cup of over-sugared coffee into a well-stained porcelain mug and I talked of elves and fairies. You told me to be Real, with the capital and all. Now it’s 9:16 PM, you’re gone and I’m drinking a lukewarm cup of over-sugared tea, and wasn’t realism awesome?
The meal happened to be a make-believe tea.
Grow up. Nostalgia can’t be a genre. Grow up.
[But I do believe in fairies!]
The last time I saw you, you were trying to shove the Dormouse into a teapot. That was 1865, and I haven’t been to a better tea party since.
I’m all filled up with words, words, words.
Tip me over and pour me out
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me.
It was labelled ORANGE MARMALADE
but to my disappointment it was empty.
After such a fall as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down-stairs.
We all fall down.
