On a grey day
in a dark Dublin sidestreet
he illuminated
I sat huddled with other mortals
beneath a makeshift canvas
that covered drinkers
from the new smoking laws
to which we were
conforming
Then I saw him
His suit cost more than my car
and he could wear it
He had poise and pizzazz
a star
from head to toe
though at first I didn't know
which one.
He had a minder, a huge grey shadow
eclipsed by the light
of his smaller, greater being.
Seeing him shine there
a blind man would have known
he didn't belong on that thoroughfare.
Yet that street
that whole town
belonged to him.
Elegant and thin as the cane
he wielded like a maestro,
his skin perfect ebony
beneath a white fedora
and spats
it takes someone special to get away
with that.
Close by, exiled from the bar
she had been propping up all day
by the same 'no-smoking' laws
we had all obeyed
she hung limp, drunk and bedraggled
down
on her luck -
a real Dublin 'how're-ye' -
you could see she didn't give a fuck
and it was probably a while
since she'd had one
She glanced at him carelessly
as she might have done a car-wreck
had it occurred as close to her as he was.
That she noticed him proved I was right
about the light in this man.
She rubber-necked
her double-take made slow and accentuated
by the skinful of porter that made her sag,
her weight as much on the wall as on her feet.
This bag-lady-to-be
drew herself up straight
and peered through disbelieving eyes
to see him peacock across the street.
The fag-end fell from her lip
and she swayed a little
stunned into life
by a sense of awe she didn't attempt to hide
and she called to him
"Ahhh get UP ! Ye bleedin' ride!"
Half way across that dingy little street
Kid Creole clipped his stride to a halt,
His head cocked slightly to one side
in contemplation.
He turned slow
and saw the wreckage that she was
Removing his fabulous fedora
he swept it in a low bow to her
and in the same movement
replaced it,
tapped it,
spun one eighty
and resumed his strut,
walking on water
having miracled a queen from a slut.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
-
A great story written with poise and pizzazz as you describe in the tale. I loved the last line 'having miracled a queen from a slut'.
A fine description of Kid Creole was one of the very few individuals (another was Cab Calloway i think) that could get away with spats!!!
Strong poetry as usual W!!!
. Rewarded 6
-
-
My Thanks to Lad...
Hello again A. and lovely to hear from you. Thanks for your kind words here and I'm glad you liked this one - it's one of my own favourites. I have to credit 'Lad' with the word 'miracled' in the last line - a quintessential 'Ladism' but so right for this line and gratefully accepted. Kid Creole really did have a presence way beyond his celebrity. I was glad to have witnessed this scene.
My Best to you as always. >W<
-
-
This is a brilliant poem. I really like it. It has such...sensuality for both the people and the city itself. You bring them alive. The coarseness of "you could see she didn't give a fuck / and it was probably a while / since she'd had one" but juxaposed against the elegance of the man with "poise and pizzazz". Love the word pizzazz. You bring together these two worlds on a street in Dublin with a touch of humour but sensitivity as well. Great to read your work again
. Rewarded 8
-
-
The light makes the celebrity and not vise-versa
Hi Rebecca. Lovely to see you round here again. This is one of my own 'pet' poems, it being simply a true tale I've told as pub entertainment many times. Its harsh language is not gratuitous, it is quintessential 'Dublin' and I'm glad you picked up on that. Kid Creole was never one of my favourite acts, far from it. But in the flesh and bizarrely out of context, he exuded a light which was quite unmistakeable even before it 'clicked' with me that he actually was a celebrity. I think the light makes the celebrity and not vise-versa. His grace with this down-and-out was way beyond 'playing to the gallery' - there simply wasn't one to play to. Glad you liked the poem and thanks for commenting. >W<
-
-
Wow, John. This piece was simply awesome. In the first few stanzas, as you describe the modern prince, I had distinct flashes of E. A. Robinson's poem, "Richard Corey." You should check it out, even if it is by an American. You'll see what I mean right-- a dandy, "imperially slim," and I think he had a cane, too.
But I love the class juxtaposition, and the prince proved himself a prince indeed by dipping a bow to the common old street floozy. You don't have HIS number by chance?
Big cheers for this one-- a grand story! You know how I feel about your story-poems. If this one doesn't get published or win a contest, knock me dead.
XOXO,
Lauren
. Rewarded 8
-
-
Hey Cutiepie! How extra -specially great to get this comment from you. Clearly you're on the mend . The hospital drugs have softened you (!) and you are too kind with your comments here, but I'll take that every day of the week. The 'Prince' in question here is one 'Kid Creole' from an 80's band called 'Kid Creole and the Coconuts'. Thier image was very chique and suave . Seems it was rather more than just image-building. He would be playing a gig in Dublin later that night and was just out taking a stroll when I chanced to witness this little vignette. Glad you liked it but even more glad you'r4e fit and well enough to read it. My very best,as always. xoxox W.
-
-
bleepin bloomers
you spin a good yarn here. i like the prince kisses the frog theme. and i always like hearing about someone who hasn't it all isn't above paying tribute to someone on the bottom. anyway do have the lasses telly, I'd like the give her a buzz
dave. Rewarded 4
-
-
Her number is ...
.... yeah Dave she's quite a babe. Unfortunately she's just a GOOGLE image and the real lady in question was WAY rougher than this one! The story is completely true by the way, and accurate as best I can remember 3 years or so back.
-
-
Delightful.
But to tell the truth, I've got more sympathy (as you intended for her) than the slackers, a poet among them, lazing under that awning! Kidding aside, John, this is a wonderful bit o' life, the street and her and the "illumined" star Kid Creole bedecked with pricey suit and shining fedora. Really nice handling of details here, morning's minion.
And that's not to mention the "how're-ye" gal hanging around and suddenly bedecked by the Kid's light and throwing off a fine, fine insult, the kind I like (which is to say, I like the old dame, and it's your writing that's done it, you magician!).
It all hangs together as a colorful scene should: the introductions of characters, the conflict, then the sweet resolution, or I should say the "one eighty" star turn, the unexpected grace of it. Fine indeed.
In the 12th stanza (the "The fag fell" stanza), I wonder if lines 3 and 4 are unneeded? perhaps overstating what's already present about her. Just a thought.
And the final line, great idea though it is, hit me as too cruel, especially ending the poem with "slut". Maybe:
Walked on water
and miracled a slut to a queen. ?? You'd lose the end-rhyme with "strut" but end the poem more tenderly.
Masterful writing, as your usual! Now, I've got to undizzy meself from reading red on grey!!
Lad. Rewarded 8
-
-
Cheers Lad
Hoped you'd like my little tale, which is as accurate an account of a real event as I can manage here. Kid Creole was playing the local theatre that night but I only twigged his ID AFTER the event. He really was the real deal - quite something to see.
'Get up ye ride ' is a compliment in Dublin by the way, a little coarse - but a compliment nonetheless. The Kid seemed to 'tumble' that pretty quick.
I adjusted the colour scheme which was meant to be arty but didn't work and I've gratefully accepted your excellent 'Ladism' of 'miracled' as an edit. Thank you for it and as always for your comprehensive and thoughtful review. Getupyeauldboot !
thatfeckinbird >W<
-
Adding your comment:
1 - 10 of 10
