SINGAPORE REPRISE
At the door stand shyly
worried
Fix your name-tag, fingers
hurried.
Nervous smile,
anticipating
The past incarnate, ghosts
in waiting.
Scan the faces, cruise the
tables
Peer at names on stick-on
labels
Wind back memory,
far-flung places
Strip the years from
world-worn faces.
Accept a hand and shake
it, eager,
But "No, I'm sorry, not my
era.
Sixty-ish? No, I much
younger!"
Keep on searching - feed
the hunger.
(The need to fit, the need
to find
Not just the photos to
remind;
But the life, the times,
the laughter
Feeding dreams for ever
after.
Fourteen, fifteen,
sixteen, twenty -
Singapore the land of
plenty.
Took a while to readjust,
But that was then and now
I must …)
"My God, it's you!" -
voice fever-pitched
And suddenly the night's
bewitched
For this is surely what
you came for
The kind of memory-loss to
aim for.
Then the flicker -
recognition;
Time flies backwards.
Now, ignition!
Fingers hide your dropping
jaw
And suddenly you find that
you're
Exuding tears for three
decades
Not lost or wasted, just
dismayed
That time has flitted on
so fast.
And yet it's here, your
favoured past.
As years fall off, don't
try to catch them -
Listen to the tales and
match them.
Circulate, swap stares
with strangers
Spin the cogwheels, wipe
off ages.
"It can't be, no, I don't
believe it!
All that time not changed
a bit!"
"Tell me, what became of
whatsit?"
"Not too loud - he's
sitting opposite."
And after all the tears
and squealing:
"Oh my God, you live in
Ealing!"
"Promise that you won't
lose touch -
Pop round and see us,
really must!"
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The band fires up (or
starts to smoulder),
Youthful idols now much
older,
Squinting back through
lost-chord mists
To pick out long-forgotten
riffs.
Antique guitars and
beat-up drum kit
Fingers stiff, rheumatic,
unfit.
Chuck Berry duck-walk far
too tiring -
Guys of fifty risk
expiring.
Granddads now in role
reversal -
"It's R&B - who needs
rehearsal!
Gilman Youth Club music
weaned us,
Rock 'n roll came
intravenous."
Groupies then stood tanned
in line
Keyhole dresses, empire
line;
Now it's Lycra, Next and
Marks
Older, wiser - shoes by
Clarks.
And dancers now who once
were teens
In long-abandoned hipster
jeans,
Have sagging bust-lines,
braces needed,
Varicose veins and hair
receded,
Pensions, paunches, some
bus passes,
HRT and "Where's my
glasses?"
Later still the night's a
jumble
Past re-living, memories
tumble.
Days and years and lives
forgotten
Back as kids in '60s
cotton.
Hand-made clothes at silly
prices
Chips by the pool and
durian ices,
Trishaw rides and nasi
goreng,
Tropical sun and monsoon
pouring.
Tables rock at shy
confessions -
Fumbling teenage poolside
sessions.
Then too soon the night is
ending,
Addresses swapped for
e-mail sending.
Goodbye handshakes,
kisses, tears -
"Don't wait another thirty
years!"
© Ian Royce 2001 |