Elly McDonald


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COVID-19 time-filler games – 20 formative LPs from the age of vinyl


Are we doing the 20 album covers thing?

Damn straight we are 😊

Day 1

My dad grew up with Fats Waller, Fats Domino, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Mills Brothers, Nat King Cole, Harry Belafonte. Then in the 60s he fell for the Supremes, The Temptations, The Four Tops. Then 60s soul deep immersion. In my family, we could sing every track on this LP. And we did, before I accidentally left it behind at an acting class, in 1979, and it was never seen again 💃🎶🎤

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Day 2

Yes, it’s the Beatles, white album. It’s just not very photogenic 💚

My mum had/has a close friend named Margie Dobson, and in the 60s we’d spend a couple of weeks every summer at Margie’s parents’ bungalow in beautiful Port Noarlunga. The summer The Beatles white album came out, Cathy and I spent endless hours acting out Rocky Raccoon, with dialogue, in the Dobson’s front yard. We were also performed Bungalow Bill at max volume. The neighbours must have missed themselves laughing. I was besotted with While My Guitar Gently Weeps.

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Day 3
Dad finally got to travel overseas, a 6 (8?) week business trip to North America at age 40. In Detroit he stopped to watch a man playing bongos at the foot of an elevator. He applauded. The man stopped and said, “You buy for me.” He meant the bongos set. Dad politely demurred. The man stood up. He was very big. “You BUY FOR ME.” Dad froze, then said: “You want bongos? Here’s bongos”. Then he rapped out da-dada-da-da DA-DA

Not sure if this was before or after seeing Ike and Tina live but I suspect after. Ike and Tina emboldened him. For sure, they enlivened many a night at our Adelaide home thereafter.

On our family Fiji holiday, just before Dad’s terminal diagnosis, I sang Proud Mary on a cruise ship. I taught it to Steve the cruise singer, Ike and Tina’s version. Dad tapped his foot along and nodded.


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Day 4

When I think Sticky Fingers, I think of my friend John Dickins. I remember John doing smutty school-boy faces as he explored the cover. I remember singing and dancing to Brown Sugar and Dead Flowers. Morbidly, Sister Morphine became a standard in my singing repertoire. Love ya John


Is it Day 5?

Cheating ‘cos this is a box set. I didn’t think I’d find an image of the actual set but I did.

In this case I think no explanation needed?

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Day 6

I was going to post this even before reading the long Comments strand on my FB friend Tana Douglas’s post about the movie Rocketman. Tana worked with Elton for four years and hated the movie. So did many of her colleagues who knew the man.

Movie aside, the LP that spawned the hit was a revelation. So melodic. Such a beautiful voice. So moving.

And what a great-looking band 😁


Day 7

My parents saw Johnny Cash with June Carter, Statler Brothers playing support, some time in the late 60s. I don’t know if Dad had been a fan before but a fire started that night.

In my very brief stint as a venue Stage Attendant I told a Johnny Cash tribute show performer I was more than capable of joining him on stage and singing every number. He looked aghast. I think he thought I meant it. I did.

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Feeling a little sluggish as I lounge in bed. Time for a mood lift – Frank.

Formative vinyl LPs day wherever we’re at

You Make Me Feel So Young. Another LP my dad gifted me 💖


Day 8

I have just read an email from my aunt in Paris, on her birthday.

The rawness, the passion – I love my aunt, and I love Janis, and I’d never connected the two before.

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Day 8 again

I’m deliberately shying away from posting the bleedin obvious – Slade, T Rex, Bowie, Sinatra – but I can’t ignore my mile-wide theatrical streak, or my love of low pop cultcha.

There was an LP with a long parody of Macbeth’s ‘Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow’ soliloquy, which I took seriously, but fortunately I can’t recall or locate that LP and my sister does not remember it at all.

I took two of the songs on Phantom seriously: the fuck you song ‘The Hell of it’, and ‘Old Souls’, which remains for me a beautiful ballad.

Also, the art director for Brian DePalma’s film was Sissy Spacek’s husband, Jack Fisk, who graciously gave me a day of his time in L.A., introduced me to guacamole, invited me on set to watch a big budget movie being filmed, even allowed me to watch the rushes with the senior crew.

I was 17. Jack Fisk remains my template of a desirable man. I believe he and Sissy are still together. God bless 💚


Day 9

Pushing through the market square,
So many mothers sighing
News had just come over,
We had five years left to cry in

News guy wept and told us,
Earth was really dying
Cried so much his face was wet,
Then I knew he was not lying

I heard telephones, opera house, favorite melodies
I saw boys, toys, electric irons and T.V.’s
My brain hurt like a warehouse, it had no room to spare
I had to cram so many things to store everything in there
And all the fat-skinny people, and all the tall-short people
And all the nobody people, and all the somebody people
I never thought I’d need so many people

A girl my age went off her head,
Hit some tiny children
If the black hadn’t a-pulled her off,
I think she would have killed them

A soldier with a broken arm,
Fixed his stare to the wheels of a Cadillac
A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest,
And a queer threw up at the sight of that

I think I saw you in an ice-cream parlor,
Drinking milk shakes cold and long
Smiling and waving and looking so fine,
Don’t think you knew you were in this song

And it was cold and it rained so I felt like an actor
And I thought of Ma and I wanted to get back there
Your face, your race, the way that you talk
I kiss you, you’re beautiful, I want you to walk

We’ve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Five years, what a surprise
We’ve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, that’s all we’ve got

We’ve got five years, what a surprise
Five years, stuck on my eyes
We’ve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, that’s all we’ve got

We’ve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Five years, what a surprise
We’ve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, that’s all we’ve got

We’ve got five years, what a surprise
Five years, stuck on my eyes
We’ve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, that’s all we’ve got

Five years
Five years
Five years
Five years

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: David Bowie

Five Years lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, BMG Rights Management

All The Young Dudes was written as part of this song suite too


Day 10

My grandfather was blessed with the best neighbours ever. A Swiss family – hell let’s name and cheer – the Prossers were Lutheran church-goers, choir singers, handy dad and mum who baked, kind, generous, steady people, daughters much the same age as Cathy and me. We loved them.

Anne and Elizabeth were ahead of us on things teen girl. They introduced us to T Rex, and to Slade.

Thanks to Anne and Elizabeth, when I’m sad… I slide 😎

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Day 11 I think

“Tell me, where do the children play?”

My sister’s friend Becky was obsessed with this one. We also owe Becky Joan Armatrading.

Cat Stevens has a tough kernel.



Day 13 – my birthday 🎂 (59 candles, count ’em)

For my 18th birthday my sister gave me two LPs, or maybe one officially and my parents officially gave me the other.

I had some new clothes that fit and we danced and danced. Our friend Hedda laughed and said she loved the way Cathy and I danced together.

Blondie, Parallel Lines. Elvis Costello & the Attractions, Armed Forces.

Day 14

Cathy was going out with Phil and I could listen to a song called Witchy Woman without cracking up

Not to mention Journey Of The Sorceror


Can it be Day 15?

Surely this one needs no explanation but: my sister was a Surf Beach Queen but I was kinda intrigued by the Sharpies thing.

It was usual for PLC girls c.Year 9 to go to formal Dancing Class, to learn to waltz and foxtrot, usually with Scotch College boys.

I danced the waltz and foxtrot in 5″ high platform shoes.

I wore a micro t-shirt (AND IT FIT) and had a crush on a boy whose surname was LeLievre. He was a beautiful honey-blond Ken Doll who wore a Sharpie cardigan with those horizontal stripes.

I practised writing my married name and realised we were incompatible: Ellylelielelielelieleliele…………..

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Day 16? (What day? What week? What life? NOT Supertramp day 😳)

Slade Alive is way more cool and I did see them live; but I’ll put this greatest hits collection. I wore out the needle.

At age 13 I sported a Dave Hill fringe, cut by my very own hands, immensely unflattering to my very round face. (Was it flattering on Dave? Discuss.)

I dreamt that one day Noddy Holder would be a washed-up rock star and I’d deliver milk bottles to his doorstep, then tentatively (yet decisively) venture inside to tut-tut at the mess and set his life in order.

Luckily for Noddy Holder, he’s done a fine job managing his own life, and found himself a hard-headed music-loving wife without resorting to pathos or bathos.


Day 17 – Easter Sunday

I roamed the Adelaide house singing this from woe to curtains down. My dad would mimic me, with tiny mincing dance moves and piping voice.

Me doing Ian Gillan was a scream. Not.

Happy Easter


Day 18

Gavin was a colleague of my dad’s who visited for dinner and tried to convince Cathy Jethro Tull were not appalling. When 12 y.o. Cathy out-argued him he purchased this LP and foist it on her (just, why?)

I had to listen to it a few hundred times to confirm in my mind Cathy’s opinion.

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Day 19. Nearly done, folks

Our friend Mary was a moderately conventional leggy blonde babysitter in the 60s, then studied art at Flinders Uni, turned boho, rocked up at our Melbourne home in some kind of I Dream Of Jeannie outfit, with a much younger, dissolute lover, and a copy of *this*.

She has taught me so much about living life in colour, as an adventure.

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Friends, I have a quandary.

For my final Formative Vinyl LP, Day 20, I was wracking my brain for something from my late teens when a memory was prompted yesterday by an FB Suggested Friend pop-up.

Trouble is, it was an Evil Memory.

I was troubled enough that I wrote it down, but I do not want to loose into into my current world. Although it’s back already.

So: I am going to do two alternative endings – a Dark Side vinyl memory and a Shine On memory.

This is the Shine One one:

Age 17. Los Angeles 1978, Beverley Hills. Raquel Welch smiles at me in a beauty salon. The son of my guesthouse owner has a blue and silver chevy. Oh, The Cars 💝


Day 20, alternative version (see previous post) – the Dark Side.

This week FB popped up a Suggested Friend, a Friend of a Friend, that made me look twice. The name and face were not familiar but I felt unease.

It took a few days for the penny to drop. This was the least comedic of my crushes, the one from when I was 17 cusp 18, from a brief few months when I used to take a train at night several nights a week to smoke dope in a dealer’s poolroom, listening to Lou Reed and Frank Zappa vinyl, just to be near this… boy? Young man? Troll?

He was a tall snot-coloured lump, putty-coloured or colorless eyes and hair. I was never fatter and never felt more despised.

“It hurts me to see you hanging around him,” my friend Malcolm told me. “You’re worth a thousand times more than he is.” (Malcolm died young, a casualty of alcohol and drugs.)

After the drug dealer made a cutting remark I quit, stone cold. Within weeks I was spinning discs at university radio 3MU and within months I was interviewing rock stars.

I still can’t hear Satellite of Love without a curling lip.



Mad Men I have known

The most flagrantly exhibitionist piece I will ever write

When the TV series Mad Men was at its peak popularity, people kept telling me I should watch it.

“You’d love it,” they’d say. “It’s so you.”

I would smile tightly and think, why would I watch a fictionalised account of ad agency culture in the ‘60s? I lived ad agencies in the ‘90s.

This is the third of a trio of kiss’n’tell blog posts about my sexcapades from my 30s, the decade I took up residence in London’s ad agency “village”.

Worry not. I won’t get (too) explicit. In fact I plan to keep this one short, mostly because sex in London ad agencies was kind of Groundhog Day. [Plan failed.]

I possibly should have known better. When I was 18 and newly-arrived in Sydney (from Melbourne, Australia, where I’d spent my teens), the creative director of a trendy ad agency asked me out to dinner. We ate at a Vietnamese restaurant on Oxford Street. It’s still there, apparently, now billing itself as a Chinese restaurant, still called Tin Hong.

I had two favourite dishes at Tin Hong: a duck dish, and the Vietnamese Baby Quail in Lemon Sauce. On this occasion I ordered the quail.

My date was coked up, sweating and hyper like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. I didn’t recognise that was what was going on – I was still too naïve for that. I just thought he was an agitated type.

Agitated-type dates make me nervous. Actually, all dates make me nervous. But this guy was freaking me out. At a certain point as I raised a baby quail dripping lemon sauce to my lips, using chopsticks, I lost focus momentarily and the quail dropped down my cleavage. It was lodged in my bra. I had to reach in and fish it out. I had lemon sauce seeping through my emerald green silk shirt and my date’s eyes were spinning in his head.

He offered to take my shirt home to have it dry-cleaned for me. He insisted. That would have involved removing said shirt. It would have involved seeing him again. It was a surreal episode and I should have taken note: advertising agency guys?  Steer clear.

Within a few short years I was on a date again with an ad agency partner, another oh so hip, international award-winning creative boutique. I thought we were doing job interviews. It wasn’t till a few dates in that he announced his interest in me was personal, not professional.

Well of course. Lust in ad agencies is by definition unprofessional. RFOL.

I had a few more dating encounters with ad agency personnel before I made the move to London. I don’t know why I kept encountering them. Karma. One told me I was shallow and materialistic when I said I didn’t fancy dating a man with a messy house. (Curiously, many years later an ad agency creative told me I was shallow and materialistic when I said I didn’t care for my then-sex partner’s house being like a display home, no trace on display of anything personal. My then sex-partner was COO – Chief Operating Officer – of global operations for a household name advertising agencies brand. He was so seldom home his home wasn’t home. And yeah, I was shallow and materialistic.)

How did I get to London and London’s Adland?

I took a plane. No, really. For my 31stbirthday, I booked a 12-week trip around Western Europe, Britain, Ireland and coastal USA, courtesy of a financial windfall (another story altogether). On the first flight leg out, from Sydney to Rome, the week of my birthday, I was seated next to THE most attractive, charming man I’d ever met. He was so charming and so attractive I was fantasising knee-tremblers in the toilets before we’d even reached Singapore. I was mentally choreographing the gymnastics required to join the Mile High Club.

I was certain my friends had got together and hired a gigolo as my birthday gift.

This man turned out to work in London advertising. He knew the London ad man whose Merc had famously been torched in recent race riots, Brixton or Birmingham, I don’t recall.

I wanted to see him again. I did see him again. The Basil Street Hotel, Knightsbridge, during the Chelsea Flower Show 1992. Possibly my favourite night, ever. (Guests in adjacent rooms complained.)

That night he admitted his girlfriend was temporarily in Barcelona, attending the Barcelona Olympics. She worked in London advertising, too. It was clear where my destiny lay – not with him, and I never met her, but in the hub of the Village. (I did meet him a few more times. By then I was in agency senior marketing roles. We met at conferences and seminars. I made a point of draping myself seductively over him, to demonstrate my sales technique, to him and his friends; and I kneeled by his knees and gazed seductively up, fingertips gently hovering above his thigh. That worked – his boss, observing from across a hotel conference foyer, subsequently interviewed me for jobs based on the technique I demonstrated then. He laughed that I was tough enough to cope with his boys.)

When I first entered London ad agencies, as an admin temp, I was immediately struck – in my first ascending ride in an agency lift – by how supernaturally good-looking ad folks were. Seriously. All advertising agency agency CEOs and chairmen were demi-gods. There was one whose eyes were emeralds. One with sapphire eyes.

Somehow – not interesting, not a story for now – I found myself working on an industrywide project to promote client spend with advertising and media agencies during the early ‘90s recession. I supported CEOs, chairmen, managing directors and marketing directors of advertising agencies and senior clients, divided into eight working groups (subcommittees) and one steering committee. I came to know everyone senior in London advertising 1993-1999. I had fun flirting. I fell in love with tailored coats, and sharp minds.

My agency colleagues told me the social life and sexual partying was nothing on ad agencies in the 1980s. I believed them. But there was still a lot of lunching and laughing. And lurching.

I met someone I really liked, early on. He really liked me too. For a few years we lunched together regularly. He told me we could lunch on weekends, not just week days. But this was someone who told me in our first ever conversation that meeting his wife was the best day of his life. So an affair was out of the question. (Do I regret that? Yes. Absolutely. But it was the right choice.)

I met someone else I really liked, who liked me too. We floated around in a romantic haze for some months. But he was married also, and he loved his wife and kids. So an affair was not on. (Do I regret that? Desperately. But still: the right choice.)

I put up with clients, colleagues and contacts making passes at me almost constantly. Sometimes I succumbed. Hey, it was lonely.

By and large, the ad guys were not nice. There was a notorious group of senior agency and client men who hunted as a pack. I wore rings on my left hand ring finger to deflect them.

There was an ad agency chairman whose job interview technique with women was to buy them dinner and/or take them dancing – he really did do that for hiring purposes, though in my case, no. In my case it was definitely sex. I must say he was fun. I liked his private men’s club.

We met seated next to each other at an industry function dinner, alongside another agency chairman, this one a man who’d been married four times. He collected prestige cars, as well. He said replacing cars was cheaper than replacing women. He was not alone among his peers in scoring four marriages and counting. (The record for number of times married by an ad agency chairman I met was I think five. Five marriages, his current marriage being with a director at his agency.)

There was another man acclaimed as an alpha womaniser. He was single. Just what I needed. We had a liaison that spanned a few years. I didn’t like him much, and I didn’t like myself for being with him. He’d been married once. It broke up on the honeymoon. She left him for a “minor pop star”. I can only imagine – based on grounded guesses – why a bride might jump from the frying pan to the fire.

He was married again in the last years I knew him, but this time the wife lived in New York. She worked in advertising. She divorced him within 18 months.

In retrospect, I was perhaps unfair to that man. I stayed overnights at his home. He visited me at my home. He took me out evenings to fancy restaurants. He thought I looked sexy in the decidedly un-cute uniform I was required to wear in my last job in London. He offered to father my child when I thought I must have a child or die.

Best of all, when we found ourselves both in Beijing at the same time, he invited me to move from my middle-range tourist group travel hotel to his suite in his hotel, then the newest and most glamorous hotel in Beijing.

There was a lounge room overlooking the city with floor to ceiling glass windows. The view with the city lights at night was amazing. [Trigger warning: stop reading now if sensitive.] We tried sex against a couch back and the couch rolled over. Crouching tiger, hidden dragon.

Possibly second favourite funny stuff night of my life.

(There’s competition, from, of all things, a pop star. No really I AM NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT THAT)


Me at about when I met the dancing, dining, men’s club lover – 1997. With couch.


The antiquarian, the Campari, the banker: my life as an X-rated Auntie Mame

If your life were a literary genre, what genre would it be?

Variously, my answer to that might be melodrama, gothic, or screwball comedy. I’d settle on picaresque. (Picaresque, adjective – “relating to an episodic style of fiction dealing with the adventures of a rough and dishonest but appealing hero.”)

In fact I am a sub-genre, summed up in four words: Becky Sharp. Auntie Mame.

If you’ve not already made the acquaintance of Ms Sharp or Ms Dennis I recommend you immediately seek out Thackeray, Vanity Fair: A Book Without A Hero (1847), and Patrick Dennis, Auntie Mame: An Irreverent Escapade (1955). No, screen adaptations will not substitute, though credit to Rosalind Russell.

I found Mame when I was about 10, in my Dad’s old books, at his childhood home. It only now occurs to me how like Auntie Mame his Auntie Maude was, and how like Patrick Dennis my dad. I found Becky at maybe age 11, on my mother’s bookshelf, a gift from her father.

I blame them all.

My Mame-ishness goes way back. Now that I’ve got the balling rolling, so to speak, it’s hard to know where to start.  I don’t usually represent myself as sexual catnip, let alone as “sexual napalm” (John Mayer, Jessica Simpson – I’m not even Jessica Rabbit), but I have been a kind of sexual aerosol can for a certain type of much older man for much longer than is seemly. Which is why the early chapters of Becky Sharp’s career, in the home of the aptly-named Sir Pitt Crawley, make me roar with laughter.

My Orientalist fetish, shared with Mame in her younger years, likewise goes way back.

So I’ll start in my very early 20s, when my wardrobe comprised not much beyond four loose silk Chinese pants, two embroidered Chinese cheongsam-style fitted tops, a padded Chinese jacket, and four spaghetti-strap camisoles in Chinese silk.  I’d trot about Sydney, Australia, in some combination of the above, with flat black slipper shoes and my dead straight hair cut with a harsh fringe (bangs).

One day, I was stopped in Sydney’s CBD by an elderly, tall, somewhat portly Chinese man. He asked why I wore a red Chinese jacket. I explained I like red, and Chinese silk, and the jacket was warm. He understood. We had a conversation. He gave me his business card and suggested I call him. I took the business card and mentally decided not. After all, I lived in the red-light district Kings Cross. If I were a call-girl, I’d operate differently.

If the important-looking gentleman had not already disclosed that he owned a major company based in Macau, the business card did that job for him. I don’t recall whether it was a textiles company or casinos. Maybe textiles, given his interest in my silk.

Either way, even at that young age I had an inkling he might be very, very rich. It’s only now, now I’m old, that I wonder whether I really would have ended up trafficked in the White Slave Trade had I phoned him later. (Politically utterly incorrect. But that’s how I thought then.) I was risk averse in some ways then, fool-hardy in many others.

Fast forward 15 years or so, to what I fondly call my Becky Sharp years. (Anyone waiting for the X-rated stuff, sorry, not sorry for the long preamble.) Now I am in London. I still wear silk brocade. I am working as marketing director for an advertising agency located in posh Knightsbridge. I am engaging in sexual misadventures all over Adland – see linked blog post, Mad Men I Have Known (wait for me to write it). I am ostracized by my colleagues, who believe me to be bonking our CEO. I am not. I am merely besotted with him.

Our agency is handling sponsorships for Euro ’98, the pan-European soccer tournament. Our agency is almost wholly men, suddenly revealed as football fanatics. The men at our agency watch each match England plays, on a TV in our office, desks wet with beer; the air rings with huzza’s.

I am excluded.

Outside, in Knightsbridge and Belgravia, streets are deserted. Everyone is either at home watching the match, or watching in pubs, or elsewhere altogether visiting their stately piles.

Alone, I walk the streets of Lowndes Square, priciest real estate in London. Alone, except for one tall, somewhat portly, rich-looking old man.

I have no recall at all of how the conversation was initiated. It probably went something like this:

[Dialogues lines are interchangeable]

“Why are you out on the street alone? Are you not watching the football?”

“Why don’t we walk together to the pub and watch it there?”

“My goodness that pub is CROWDED.”

Then Him:

“Why don’t we watch it at my place, instead? I live right here.”

There was a bit in between let’s-watch-at-the-pub and let’s-watch-at-my-place – the bit where the tall man somehow got to disclose that he was a jet-set Eurotrash polo-playing friend-to-the-famous Hungarian art collector merchant banker millionaire. He might have given me his business card.

His home was indeed right there. Perhaps I should say his homes, plural.  Turned out he owned three adjacent properties in Lowndes Square: one as his private residence, one to house his collection of antiquarian artworks, one to house his wife’s collection of mid-C20th European Modernist originals, and also a private office (is that four?)

His wife was visiting her family in central Europe. (You will note I am attempting to disguise details to preserve this man’s anonymity in case his children read this. I am not trying quite as hard as I might, but I am trying.)

As it happens my undergraduate degree is Fine Arts (Hons), Sydney University. I am susceptible to art.  Never, outside a museum, had I seen art such as this man owned. I swear I swooned.

The first art object I saw in the first room, the antiquarian room, was a C14th Persian silk brocade textile. As you might guess, that got my heart thumping. Then when he showed me his C7th Anglo-Saxon wooden god statuette – an amazing rarity, wood perishes – I was a goner.

His study wall was covered with antiquarian Russian icons, illegal to export from Russia. “At heart I’m a Magyar peasant,” he murmured. He’d fled Hungary when Russian tanks rolled in, 1956.

Threading our way through corridors to the den with TV, I identified original Sonia Delaunay paintings and I think Chagall. I’m not sure if I lost consciousness then or when the Campari was downed.

Next I knew (I believe that’s the literary formula), I was fluttering my eyelashes as I came to, and the banker was rifling through an antique cabinet’s drawers to find me a small something in lieu of money to give me as a gift. He settled on some truly gruesome C17th German embossed silverware coasters. I know that’s what they were as I saw some in the Kremlin museum. Didn’t care for them there, either.

The coasters went into a bag to be donated to Blackheath op shop.

For a few weeks I’d receive calls from the banker fretting about how hard it was for him to visit me in Blackheath. Then he had the brainwave of visiting me at my Knightsbridge workplace. Coward that I am, I hid in my enclosed private office.

“Shall I get rid of him?” my secretary asked. (Yes, I had a secretary in those days.) I nodded meekly.

I’m not proud of any of this. If I were more Becky I’d have ridden it for all it was worth. In the end, I’m more Mame, and Mame at heart was a romantic.

I still had my platonic crush on my CEO, and we were both of us punished for that.


Who I was, 1998

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The millionaire, the chiffon dress, the chauffeur, the lobster

This blog site started with posts about my dating mishaps, an inexhaustible well of horror and humour.

Somehow, in six – six? – years I never posted my favourite party piece: the strange incident at Firecrest Drive.

If I leave it any longer, readers might think it a delusion of dementia.

Here’s how it happened:

When I first moved to London from Australia, I lived in a posh location in a slum flat. The heating didn’t work. My ceiling caved in when the flat above me used their shower. It was dark and dirty and dank and… enough with the alliteration.

I was cold and I was lonely. I didn’t fancy random hook-ups in Leicester Square. I did not want to stalk the man who had rejected me. I was determined to start A New Life.

So, I answered ads in the newspaper ‘Personals’ column. [Readers aged under 30: This was classified ads for dating. I know. Horror.] The first person I met was highly eligible: intelligent, handsome, single, an economic adviser for the EU. He had just one flaw. He asked me to accompany him jogging. I was never going to be that girl.

So then I joined an expensive dating agency. The photos I provided were a mere four years stale but I wasn’t that girl either. My bad.

After the usual misfires – the real estate developer, the aggro insulting entitled stalker, the playing-the-field salesman – I was phoned by the agency and advised they’d given my number to a somewhat unusual client. He seemed too good to be true. They asked if I could please report back after our date, to advise on how it went.

“Too good to be true” means he was (allegedly) 41, filthy rich, had an aristocratic French name, was CEO of his own successful international business, (allegedly) a business consultancy with employees throughout Europe and America.

The perfect man asked me to meet him on the steps at Claridge’s, the famous Mayfair hotel and restaurant. Meeting on the steps gave him the opportunity to demonstrate that the doormen knew him by name. We went through to the restaurant, where the waiters greeted him by name.

Dinner went well. I am blessed with some colourful characters in my family, and the lobster main course gave me an opportunity to tell tales on my ancient mariner/drunken sailor/sea-dog/semi-famous uncle. I am able to monologue and size up my audience simultaneously. This is what I observed:

The perfect man was relatively short – not a problem. He may have worn shoes with a built-up heel. He was certainly wearing a corset under his tailored black suit. He had a George Hamilton tan [Readers aged under 30: He was orange] and I’d lay money he’d had a face-lift, maybe a few other tweaks. His skin texture was waxen. He had white hair in a kind of a quiff… good god WHAT WAS I THINKING? Why did I not RUN?

Anyway. The perfect stuffed penguin dropped clanging great hints that he might hire me for his company if all went well. He invited me to dinner a few days hence in his penthouse apartment in prestigious Firecrest Drive, by the West Hampstead entrance to Hampstead Heath.

He sent a chauffeur driving a black Rolls Royce to collect me on the night.

I was impressed with the gated apartment tower. Impressed with the private lift. Impressed with the penthouse. It did seem a bit empty – I remember two chairs and the mounted head of a Thai Buddha, under museum lighting – but that’s how the cognoscenti roll. Elitist minimalism. All class. All cost.

The penguin had prepared the meal himself. Lobster again, as lobster had been a success at Claridge’s. Champagne cocktail. There’s the problem: I am a cheap drunk.

He started telling me about his business. The lines between “business consultancy”, “personal effectiveness programs”, “self-transformation courses” and ”cult fraud” began to blur. I had not so long since extricated myself from three years immersion in an international organisation that wore each of those labels. I began to suspect the penguin mistook me for an innocent abroad he could recruit to his greater aggrandisement.

“Yes,” I said, and he must have missed the snaky tone. ”I am familiar with est. I am familiar with Werner Erhard.”

WERNER!” exclaimed the bloke with the suspiciously aristocratic family name, with a warmth suggesting dear Werner was his best mate. As he may have been. “I KNOW Werner well!”

I turned my head stiffly, like a Thai Buddha come to life. “Werner is a snake,” I hissed. Impossible to miss the serpentine accent.

Things plummeted from there.  Before long he was leading my intoxicated, nasty self towards the private lift. He deposited me inside. The lift went down.

When the lift doors opened, I was in a Scandinavian light wood enclosed foyer. One golden timber door to my right. One golden door to my left. Which was the exit?

I turned left.

The door opened into a narrow courtyard garden. Sadly, it immediately closed behind me. Thanks to a security lock I was now shut within a tiled path with a tall wall one side, the apartments’ wall to the other, green oriental foliage at its base, and locked doors both ends.

I had a think about this, which was challenging, as I was drunk.

All I could think was: Star Wars.

Carrie Fisher. Princess Leia. The garbage chute. What if… what if I pressed my back against the external wall, pushed my feet against the building wall, inched my back up to the external wall’s top, then did a high jump flip to freedom?

I can do this.

Never mind that I am dressed as Cinderella in heels, with a long flowing faux chiffon skirt and a fine knit top. I can edge my shoulders up a wall and over the top.

And so I did.

It took some effort, and the faux chiffon skirt was never the same, but eventually I popped up over the crest of the wall and fell on the bonnet of the waiting Rolls Royce.

I did a tuck’n’roll off the Rolls, picked myself up, dusted myself off, and there was the chauffeur, standing silently, holding the backseat door open for me.

I would like to think I sang drunkenly on the drive home. For sure, we did not talk.


Next, I suppose I’ll feel obliged to write about The Antiquarian, The Campari and the Hungarian Banker.

Elly in Wigmore Street W1

Me then (1993). This dress was silk.

1 Comment

A few favourite poems, alphabetical by poet’s family name

Cento Between the Ending and the End
by Cameron Awkward-Rich

Sometimes you don’t die
when you’re supposed to
& now I have a choice
repair a world or build
a new one inside my body
a white door opens
into a place queerly brimming
gold light so velvet-gold
it is like the world
hasn’t happened
when I call out
all my friends are there
everyone we love
is still alive gathered
at the lakeside
like constellations
my honeyed kin
honeyed light
beneath the sky
a garden blue stalks
white buds the moon’s
marble glow the fire
distant & flickering
the body whole bright-
winged brimming
with the hours
of the day beautiful
nameless planet. Oh
friends, my friends—
bloom how you must, wild
until we are free.

Copyright © 2018 by Cameron Awkward-Rich. Originally published in in Poem-a-Day on August 30, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.

by Kai Conradi

In a dream my dad fell

from the top of a steep white mountain

down into a blue crevasse
like the space between two waves
where the light shines through just enough
to tell you
you will miss this life dearly.

The falling took years.

I could hear him moving through air and then finally nothing.

In another dream my dad was an angel

his see-through body dangling in the air

floating above me face shimmery like tinfoil

and I cried and cried when he told me

I can’t come back to earth now not ever.

When my dad told me

You will always be my daughter

maybe it was like that.

Will I be allowed to come back to earth

and be your son?

Source: Poetry (January 2019)

Emily Dickinson

I’m Nobody. Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell. they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog _
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!

The Embrace
by Mark Doty

You weren’t well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.

I didn’t for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You’d been out—at work maybe?—
having a good day, almost energetic.

We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we’d lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative

by your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?

So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of —warm brown tea—we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.

Bless you. You came back, so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.

From Sweet Machine, published by HarperCollins. Copyright © 1998 by Mark Doty. 

Autobiography of Eve
by Ansel Elkins

Wearing nothing but snakeskin
boots, I blazed a footpath, the first
radical road out of that old kingdom
toward a new unknown.
When I came to those great flaming gates
of burning gold,
I stood alone in terror at the threshold
between Paradise and Earth.
There I heard a mysterious echo:
My own voice
singing to me from across the forbidden
side. I shook awake–
at once alive in a blaze of green fire.

Let it be known: I did not fall from grace.

I leapt
to freedom.

Copyright © 2015 by Ansel Elkins.

The Colonel
by Carolyn Forché

WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried
a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went
out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the
cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over
the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English.
Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to
scoop the kneecaps from a man’s legs or cut his hands to lace. On
the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had
dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of
bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief
commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot
said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed
himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries
home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like
dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one
of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water
glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As
for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them-
selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last
of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some
of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the
ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.

May 1978

All lines from “The Colonel” from The Country Between Us by Carolyn Forché, Copyright (c) 1981 by Carolyn Forché. Originally appeared in Women’s International Resource Exchange. (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1981)

by Sarah Gambito

You won’t
kill me
because I
will not
oblige you
by dying.

I hold all
my hands
the cherry

Clusters of

like this,

like this,

we live the
all at once

and even now.

Wouldn’t we tear
to get to
each other?

The public

the books
of its leaves,

the leaves
of its books—

denotes privilege,
gorgeous belief

that we’ll meet
again and


Source: Poetry (July/August 2019)

by Amy Gerstler

Here on my lap, in a small plastic bag,
my share of your ashes. Let me not squander
them. Your family blindsided me with this gift.
We want to honor your bond they said at the end
of your service, which took place, as you’d
arranged, in a restaurant at the harbor,
an old two-story boathouse made of dark
wood. Some of us sat on the balcony, on black
leather bar stools, staring at rows of docked boats.
Both your husbands showed up and got along.
And of course your impossibly handsome son.
After lunch, a slideshow and testimonials,
your family left to toss their share of you
onto the ocean, along with some flowers.

You were the girlfriend I practiced kissing
with in sixth grade during zero-sleep
sleepovers. You were the pretty one.
In middle school I lived on diet Coke and
your sexual reconnaissance reports. In this
telling of our story your father never hits
you or calls you a whore. Always gentle
with me, he taught me to ride a bike after
everyone said I was too klutzy to learn.
In this version we’re not afraid of our bodies.
In this fiction, birth control is easy to obtain,
and never fails. You still dive under a stall
divider in a restroom at the beach to free me
after I get too drunk to unlock the door. You still
reveal the esoteric mysteries of tampons. You
still learn Farsi and French from boyfriends
as your life ignites. In high school I still guide you
safely out of the stadium when you start yelling
that the football looks amazing as it shatters
into a million shimmering pieces, as you
loudly admit that you just dropped acid.

We lived to be sixty. Then poof, you vanished.
I can’t snort you, or dump you out over my head,
coating myself in your dust like some hapless cartoon
character who’s just blown herself up, yet remains
unscathed, as is the way in cartoons. In this version,
I remain in place for a while. Did you have a good
journey? I’m still lagging behind, barking up all
the wrong trees, whipping out my scimitar far
in advance of what the occasion demands. As I
drive home from your memorial, you fizz in
my head like a distant radio station. What
can I do to bridge this chasm between us?
In this fiction, I roll down the window, drive
uncharacteristically fast. I tear your baggie
open with my teeth and release you at 85
miles an hour, music cranked up full blast.

Copyright © 2019 by Amy Gerstler. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 21, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

Failing and Flying
by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

Copyright © 2005 Jack Gilbert. From Refusing Heaven, 2005, Alfred A. Knopf. 

by Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again;
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. The desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a little and listen:
music of hair,
music of pain,
music of looms weaving our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Copyright © 1980 by Galway Kinnell. From Mortal Acts, Mortal Words (Mariner Books, 1980), Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

I Ask My Mother to Sing
by Li-Young Lee

She begins, and my grandmother joins her.
Mother and daughter sing like young girls.
If my father were alive, he would play
his accordion and sway like a boat.

I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,
nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch
the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers
running away in the grass.

But I love to hear it sung;
how the waterlilies fill with rain until
they overturn, spilling water into water,
then rock back, and fill with more.

Both women have begun to cry.
But neither stops her song.

From Rose. Copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee. The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of BOA Editions, Ltd., http://www.boaeditions.org.

From Blossoms
by Li-Young Lee

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

Li-Young Lee, “From Blossoms” from Rose. Copyright © 1986 by Li-Young Lee. The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of BOA Editions, Ltd., boaeditions.org.

The Hour and What Is Dead
by Li-Young Lee

Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
through bare rooms over my head,
opening and closing doors.
What could he be looking for in an empty house?
What could he possibly need there in heaven?
Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?
His love for me feels like spilled water
running back to its vessel.

At this hour, what is dead is restless
and what is living is burning.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

My father keeps a light on by our bed
and readies for our journey.
He mends ten holes in the knees
of five pairs of boy’s pants.
His love for me is like sewing:
various colors and too much thread,
the stitching uneven. But the needle pierces
clean through with each stroke of his hand.

At this hour, what is dead is worried
and what is living is fugitive.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

God, that old furnace, keeps talking
with his mouth of teeth,
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
His love for me feels like fire,
feels like doves, feels like river-water.

At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
and helpless. While the Lord lives.

Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
I’ve had enough of his love
that feels like burning and flight and running away.

by Sally Wen Mao

The harvesting of pearls, the very process, is a continuous systematic violation of flesh: insert the mantle tissue of a foreign creature into the oyster shell and wait for its insides to react. This is called nucleation. Panicked, the oyster produces nacre. Trapped in the nacre, the invasive agent—the parasite or mantle tissue—is subsumed by the pearl.

To domesticate, then, is to force-feed. Mikimoto, in his dreams, wanted a string of pearls to glow around the neck of every woman in the world. Like the bioluminescent waters of his youth, a deep-sea dive, the pearls became warm upon touch, upon being worn.

Women wear the trauma of other creatures around their necks, in an attempt to put a pall on their own. Adorn the self to be adored. What if we fail? What if we are failures at love? A man once called me “adorable” on a date at a museum. It was hailing outside, and we were wandering through the Death and Transcendence wing. I looked into a woman’s tomb, its mother-of-pearl inlays. A limp body looked back, into the gap around my neck. I had no 
amulet, I had no protection.

Source: Poetry (April 2020)

by Sally Wen Mao

A man celebrates erstwhile conquests,
his book locked in a silo, still in print.

I scribble, make Sharpie lines, deface
its text like it defaces me. Outside, grain

fields whisper. Marble lions are silent
yet silver-tongued, with excellent teeth.

In this life I have worshipped so many lies.
Then I workshop them, make them better.

An East India Company, an opium trade,
a war, a treaty, a concession, an occupation,

a man parting the veil covering a woman’s
face, his nails prying her lips open. I love

the fragility of a porcelain bowl. How easy
it is, to shatter chinoiserie, like the Han

dynasty urn Ai Weiwei dropped in 1995.
If only recovering the silenced history

is as simple as smashing its container: book,
bowl, celadon spoon. Such objects cross

borders the way our bodies never could.
Instead, we’re left with history, its blonde

dust. That bowl is unbreakable. All its ghosts
still shudder through us like small breaths.

The tome of hegemony lives on, circulates
in our libraries, in our bloodstreams. One day,

a girl like me may come across it on a shelf,
pick it up, read about all the ways her body

is a thing. And I won’t be there to protect
her, to cross the text out and say: go ahead—
rewrite this.

Sally Wen Mao, “Occidentalism” from Oculus. Copyright © 2019 by Sally Wen Mao. Graywolf Press, http://www.graywolfpress.org.

by Sally Wen Mao

In the autumn I moved to New York,

I recognized her face all over the subway

stations—pearls around her throat, she poses

for her immigration papers. In 1924, the only

Americans required to carry identity cards

were ethnically Chinese—the first photo IDs,

red targets on the head of every man, woman,

child, infant, movie star. Like pallbearers,

they lined up to get their pictures taken: full-face

view, direct camera gaze, no smiles, ears showing,

in silver gelatin. A rogue’s gallery of Chinese

exclusion. The subway poster doesn’t name

her—though it does mention her ethnicity,

and the name of the New-York Historical

Society exhibition: Exclusion/Inclusion.

Soon, when I felt alone in this city, her face

would peer at me from behind seats, turnstiles,

heads, and headphones, and I swear she wore

a smile only I could see. Sometimes my face

aligned with hers, and we would rush past

the bewildered lives before us—hers, gone

the year my mother was born, and mine,

a belt of ghosts trailing after my scent.

In the same aboveground train, in the same

city where slain umbrellas travel across

the Hudson River, we live and live.

I’ve left my landline so ghosts can’t dial me

at midnight with the hunger of hunters

anymore. I’m so hungry I gnaw at light.

It tunnels from the shadows, an exhausting

hope. I know this hunger tormented her too.

It haunted her through her years in L.A., Paris,

and New York, the parties she went to, people

she met—Paul Robeson, Zora Neale Hurston,

Langston Hughes, Gertrude Stein. It haunts

her expression still, on the 6 train, Grand

Central station, an echo chamber behind

her eyes. But dear universe: if I can recognize

her face under this tunnel of endless shadows

against the luminance of all that is extinct

and oncoming, then I am not a stranger here.

Sally Wen Mao, “Resurrection” from Oculus.  Copyright © 2019 by Sally Wen Mao.  Graywolf Press, http://www.graywolfpress.org.


by W.S. Merlin

with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is


Notebook, 1981
by Eileen Myles

I was so willing to pull a page out of my notebook, a day, several bright days and live them as if I was only alive, thirsty, timeless, young enough, to do this one more time, to dare to have nothing so much to lose and to feel that potential dying of the self in the light as the only thing I thought that was spiritual, possible and because I had no other way to call that mind, I called it poetry, but it was flesh and time and bread and friends frightened and free enough to want to have another day that way, tear another page.

Excerpted from Evolution. Copyright © 2018 by Eileen Myles. Grove Press, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc. 

“Have Made Earth as the Mirror of Heaven”
by Alice Notley

my name is Alice Elizabeth, so am I
Allie Sheedy of the movie Short Circuits thus angry
or Elizabeth McGovern self-controlled?
This question is posited
on a television screen where I can’t quite identify
the actress shown—which is she?

I am Allie and I will continue to rant.

My voice rises in real life often—
because I am ‘passionate’ … that’s
a convenient word.

I’m still in the forest, darkening
wishing I were ‘nicer.’

Hardwood says, You should stand up soon
I’ll help you
I say, I have cramps
I say, I’m using my period, to get pissed off and to Know.

I dreamed, last night, about an immense Dead Seal
below the surface of the water in a harbor

pull the curtain down.
For months you would not break the spell
for eternities you have not done so, citing economic
exigencies; the whole thing is a mess.
I might rather be dead
than doing what it takes to keep the seal under water

E is for seal. For spell. For suppression.

To take part in you is to die
is why one dies
Have I said this before?

I am Alp the Dizzy.

The dead seal isn’t a person, it’s poetry the seal
the hallmark
of selfhood, dead grotesquely large and richly hardening.

“Hardwood it was someone like you
you drowned the seal”

“No I’m making both you and it ‘hard.’ ”

And I’m still in the forest.

And I’m still in the forest

Money’s more the real live poetry
abstract symbolic imaginary
trade your life for it and trade it for your life
so you’ll have something ‘to do’

Sink the whale
and sleep all day in the real world, up and functioning
more fully imagined and dreamed, in society’s
than in your own, imagination?

I’m standing
I’m standing up Hard
I keep being Hardwood myself, dark and hard.

Initiating a new ‘broken symmetry’ (spinning to the
Left, like a newborn neutrino)
so that we can have a new consciousness …
am I doing that? Yes I think so.

The forest contains a French restaurant
every meter or so …
difficult to fast in this dream vision.
We’re a very unpopular group today
We’ve shot off another great bomb
and we’ve shot down a terrorist,
an Arab, young, before
we even found out what he “knew.”

Tell me something beautiful, bitter
because we are somehow bitter, forever,
a taste included in origin, in love, in you.
So I don’t have to be cloyed.

… soul’s waters are reticent
sly swamps.
It had nothing in it,
that swamp; because I didn’t know how to look for
the parts of its obvious whole—death is
minute, flavorful parts—which are said to spin
as I’m said to walk, moving while else
mostly unconscious of that.

In the new consciousness

Alice Notley, “Have Made Earth as the Mirror of Heaven” from Disobedience. Copyright © 2001 by Alice Notley. Penguin Group (USA), Inc.

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

‘Wild Geese’, from Dream Work (1986) by Mary Oliver.

by Naomi Shihab Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

From Words Under the Words: Selected Poems. Copyright © 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye.

Red Brocade
by Naomi Shihab Nye

The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is,
where he’s come from,
where he’s headed.
That way, he’ll have strength
enough to answer.
Or, by then you’ll be
such good friends
you don’t care.

Let’s go back to that.
Rice? Pine nuts?
Here, take the red brocade pillow.
My child will serve water
to your horse.

No, I was not busy when you came!
I was not preparing to be busy.
That’s the armor everyone put on
to pretend they had a purpose
in the world.

I refuse to be claimed.
Your plate is waiting.
We will snip fresh mint
into your tea.

Copyright © by Naomi Shihab Nye.

i swear to god i will solve the rack man case just give me two weeks
by Harry Reid

give me something to wail on
i want instant justice like fly-spray

this train carriage is a court-room
& i’m the judge, handing down

25 to life for the man wearing btk glasses
& getting off at south kensington

at home my kitchen’s a crime scene
i’m the sheriff of the group chat like

cooking dinner i’m mad at 70’s america
do the fucking dishes guys
& take the bins out it’s wednesday

cooking dinner i’m mad at 70s america
like what the fuck were you doing

letting rodney alcala on the dating game
right in the middle of his murder spree

& how come cheryl was the only one
who thought he was a total creep?

i wash up like forensically
leave a fork in the sink like a calling card

fall asleep listening
for footsteps outside my window

watching a documentary
on the hillside strangers

think about paving the driveway with gravel
so i can hear when anyone approaches

wake up & put tiny numbered markers
all throughout the house

march my housemate around the living room
showing him where he missed with the vacuum

he hates it but he lets me
keep these little rituals

like taping off my bedroom
when i need some time alone

or microscopically examining
all the hair in the shower

so i know no-one has broken in
& used all my shampoo

it’s only because i can’t walk
through the park anymore

without my phone in one hand
& my keys in the other

so i’ll keep gary ridgway’s 48 life sentences
in my pocket for good luck

light a candle for every one
of dudley kyzer’s 10,000 years

go home & thank god
i don’t live in california

from six gay bushrangers

What Kind of Times Are These
by Adrienne Rich

There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.

I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled
this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.

I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light—
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it’s necessary
to talk about trees.

Adrienne Rich, “What Kind of Times are These” from Collected Poems: 1950-2012. Copyright © 2016 by The Adrienne Rich Literary Trust. Copyright © 1995 Adrienne Rich.
Source: Dark Fields of the Republic: Poems 1991-1995 (W. W. Norton and Company Inc., 1995)

Last on Earth
by Mary Ruefle

It is said that many have been cured of madness by drinking
of the spring in the orchard of this convent, but I
doubt it, for it is a very pleasant place and a surfeit
of pleasantries often leads directly to madness.
I do not have much experience of madness (once
a sister ran naked down the hall) but I have tasted
the water and it is clear and fresh, there is nothing
unpleasant about it. The Abbess said of a certain man
he is a drink of water—meaning he was a bore—
but I want to meet that man, he would be as welcome
in my life as Jesus in the orchard here, though the fat
old Abbess might shoo him away. I would be so glad
to have him drink, to serve him with a round of little glasses
on a painted tray, like the ‘cocktail parties’
in the secular world, and I the hostess, turning her cheek
to be kissed in the fray. I would wear white clothes and
my headdress, and he might carry a scythe and cut
the morning glories, or simply sit and sun his nose.
But they have taken my Lord away, lodged Him in the earth
somewhere, call Him leaves, vines, breeze, bird.
It cannot be true. Looking for Him in these things
condemns us to a lifetime of imbecile activity.
He has a face, arms, legs, a navel. He is a man,
for He is everything I am not. How can it be
otherwise? Before I leave the spring, I lean
over it and weep. I spit upon the flowers. I stumble
up the hill. We are somewhere below the Tserna Gota—
meaning the Black Mountain—and when I reach the top
I count the villages—there are two—where we
are the last on earth to think of Him as having a head.
Here, too, is the source of the spring, and crows
with lethargic dispositions circle and circle the spot.

Mary Ruefle, “Last on Earth” from Post Meridian. Copyright © 2000 by Mary Ruefle. 
Source: Post Meridian (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2000)

The Wife of Mission Rock
by Mary Ruefle

Nothing curves at sea,
and the men there die abruptly,
in imitation of the fact, except
when the ship rises higher than necessary
and then they must drop suddenly
but for a long time,
so that their deaths appear natural
in the end, and the women sweeping the coutyards
pause, thinking the dust
to be the cause of a specific dryness
in the mouth. They leave half of a
pastry to harden on a plate.
They leave all of the lemons and figs
in bowls. They leave fuschia
splattered on the stone steps leading
down to the bay. They carry their brooms
with them, keep sweeping the air,
cleaning it back to the sea.
They sweep the sand from the shore,
feet standing in neat little rows of foam.
Each at the edge of something when
the foghorns remind them:
they will not clearly remember it,
they will not altogether forget it.
They will wait for something to emerge,
like a man at sea carving his children
from soap. One woman will start the rumor
that the sea is deeper than necessary:
Tell her, when has anyone ever come back
for one day’s effort on earth?

Mary Ruefle, “The Wife of Mission Rock” from Life Without Speaking, published by University of Alabama Press. Copyright © 1982 by Mary Ruefle. 

The Letter
by Mary Ruefle

Beloved, men in thick green coats came crunching
through the snow, the insignia on their shoulders
of uncertain origin, a country I could not be sure of,
a salute so terrifying I heard myself lying to avoid
arrest, and was arrested along with Jocko, whose tear
had snapped off, a tiny icicle he put in his mouth.
We were taken to the ice prison, a palace encrusted
with hoarfrost, its dome lit from within, Jocko admired
the wiring, he kicked the walls to test the strength
of his new boots. A television stood in a block of ice,
its blue image still moving like a liquid center.
You asked for my innermost thoughts. I wonder will I
ever see a grape again? When I think of the vineyard
where we met in October—when you dropped a cluster
custom insisted you be kissed by a stranger—how after
the harvest we plunged into a stream so icy our palms
turned pink. It seemed our future was sealed. Everyone
said so. It is quiet here. Not closing our ranks
weakens us hugely. The snowflakes fall in a featureless
bath. I am the stranger who kissed you. On sunny days
each tree is a glittering chandelier. The power of
mindless beauty! Jocko told a joke and has been dead
since May. A bullethole in his forehead the officers
call a third eye. For a month I milked a barnful of
cows. It is a lot like cleansing a chandelier. Wipe
and polish, wipe and polish, round and round you go.
I have lost my spectacles. Is the book I was reading
still open by the side of our bed? Treat it as a bookmark
saving my place in our story.

(here the letter breaks off)

Mary Ruefle, “The Letter” from Post Meridian. Copyright © 2000 by Mary Ruefle.
Source: Post Meridian (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2000)

Blood Soup
by Mary Ruefle

The last time I saw father alive he was using
a black umbrella, closed, to beat off some pigeons
hanging outside the marble portals of a museum.
We were visitors, walking very slowly, so father
could stoop and examine everything. We had not been
in the museum, but were resting on its steps.
We saw it all—the fountains, the statues, the parks
and the post office. Cities are made of such things.
Once we encountered a wedding coming out of the cathedral
and were caught in a shower of rice; as the bride
flicked her veiled head father licked his little finger
and in this way saved a grain. On the next block
he announced he was going to heaven. But first let’s
go back to the hotel and rest, he said: I want my mint.
Those were practically his last words. And what did I want
more than anything in the world? Probably the ancient Polish
recipe for blood soup, which was finally told to me
in an empty deli in a deserted mill town in western Massachusetts
by the owner’s mother, who was alone one day when I burst
in and demanded a bowl. But, she said, lacing her fingers
around a jar of morello cherries, it requires one cup of
new blood drawn from the goose whose neck you’ve just wrung
to put in the pot, and where in these days can I find
anything as fresh as that? I had lost track of my life
before, but nothing prepared me for the onslaught of
wayfarer’s bliss when she continued to list, one
by one, the impossible ingredients I needed to live.
We sat at the greasy table far into the night, while
snow fell on the locked doors of the church next door,
dedicated to St. Stanislas, which was rumored to be
beautiful inside, and contain the remains of his beloved head.

Mary Ruefle, “Blood Soup” from Among the Musk OX People: Poems. Copyright © 2002 by Mary Ruefle. (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2002)

little city
by Sara Saleh

little city, on your scorched days Rania and I pool our

khamsmiyehs, buy Bonjus from baqqal abu Fadi, sell them

for triple the price, “dollar law samaht”, this country has us

believing we are so clever, so entrepreneurial, them

neighborhood kids should be grateful, “khalto, look at

us, don’t we make you


little city, on your anxious nights we gather in

balconies, lighthouse beacons with little-to-no

light, wreathed in smoke, we wait, we

sit, we speak, we speak over each

other, “ya 3layeh inshaAllah”, no one

actually wants to hear the answers,

I can’t afford to trust the morning,

I am still learning to believe it when it


little city, we want to sing, want to giggle silly over

boys and simple things, but you have different

plans, young men on tanks cuss loudly, young

men on tanks whistle at us, eyes open

empty, this dark, this shatter,

we tell them we have God, but

I don’t think they believe


little city, we climb to the top of the steeple

stairs, quiet and quieter, past jasmine

bushes, past bullet holes, confetti

of ‘86, no one bothers with

plaster, is it any wonder we don’t have

mothers and fathers, how long will you

hate yourself into something we can


little city, trying to forget

little city, how did you survive,

what did they call you…

before Syria, before Israel, before France, before


before, before…

little city, what becomes of history

if there remain no artists to write of it?

your pages are long, your patience


From bil 3arabi: 6 poems

by Sara Saleh

Fairouz …

The last one of us has left home…

Fairouz sings, “Oh wind, if you please, take me home …”

What does it mean to lose a person, to lose a country?

Whenever I write about mama and baba, I use ellipses,

I am not fond of endings, and we are a people

of kan zaman and kan ya ma kan…

“Upon the rumble of the bus that was carrying us from the village

of Hamlaya to the village of Tannourine, I remembered you,

and I remember your eyes”

Friday lunch we drape boney fish and

spiced potatoes on the table, fighting over

who is to blame for this mess, Amreeka, amo

says or we brought it on ourselves or some other or …

We stay seated for hours, with our oversized

plates and our oversized grief …

“The people have asked me about you, my darling

They’ve written letters and the wind took them

It’s not easy for me to sing, my darling”

We both come from a wartime where

there is only one hospital, and many shrines

to watch over our dead, their bodies inside out,

which is to say, we only know how to love inside out …

So many times I sent word when you were an island,

unsure if it reached you, my darling, and what if

we are not meant to survive everything?

Fairouz sings, and we are reminded,

every love letter is also an elegy …

“Until When, God?”

“Our land is being reborn”

The man on the TV says, burn the mosques,

burn the textbooks, burn our tender,

this city turns our curses to prayers,

our disciples to the wretched …

“My voice, keep flying,

whirlwind inside the conscience of people,

tell them what’s happening,

so that maybe their conscience wakes up.”

Sing to them, we are a free people …

And sing. and sing. And sing. And …

From bil 3arabi: 6 poems

Advice to a Prophet
by Richard Wilbur

When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city,
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us
In God’s name to have self-pity,
Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range,
The long numbers that rocket the mind;
Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,
Unable to fear what is too strange.
Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race.
How should we dream of this place without us?—
The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us,
A stone look on the stone’s face?
Speak of the world’s own change. Though we cannot conceive
Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost
How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost,
How the view alters. We could believe,
If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip
Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy,
The lark avoid the reaches of our eye,
The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip
On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn
As Xanthus once, its gliding trout
Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without
The dolphin’s arc, the dove’s return,
These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken?
Ask us, prophet, how we shall call
Our natures forth when that live tongue is all
Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken
In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean
Horse of our courage, in which beheld
The singing locust of the soul unshelled,
And all we mean or wish to mean.
Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose
Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding
Whether there shall be lofty or long standing
When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.

Richard Wilbur, “Advice to a Prophet” from Collected Poems 1943-2004. Copyright © 2004 by Richard Wilbur. FB post by the Poetry Foundation 27 January 2019

Gone is Gone
by Mark Wunderlich

for Lucie Brock-Broido

I was there at the edge of Never,
of Once Been, bearing the night’s hide

stretched across the night sky,
awake with myself disappointing myself,

armed, legged & torsoed in the bed,
my head occupied by enemy forces,

mind not lost entire, but wandering
off the marked path ill-advisedly. This March

Lucie upped and died, and the funny show
of her smoky-throated world began to fade.

I didn’t know how much of me was made
by her, but now I know that this spooky art

in which we staple a thing
to our best sketch of a thing was done

under her direction, and here I am
at 4 AM, scratching a green pen over a notebook

bound in red leather in October.
It’s too warm for a fire. She’d hate that.

And the cats appear here only as apparitions
I glimpse sleeping in a chair, then

Wohin bist du entschwunden? I wise up,
know their likenesses are only inked

on my shoulder’s skin, their chipped ash poured
in twin cinerary jars downstairs. Gone

is gone, said the goose to the shrunken boy
in the mean-spirited Swedish children’s book

I love. I shouldn’t be writing this
at this age or any other. She mothered

a part of me that needed that, lit
a spirit-lantern to spin shapes inside

my obituary head, even though—
I’m nearly certain now—she’s dead.

Copyright © 2019 by Mark Wunderlich. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 23, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

Say Grace

by Emily Jungmin Yoon

In my country our shamans were women
and our gods multiple until white people brought
an ecstasy of rosaries and our cities today
glow with crosses like graveyards. As a child
in Sunday school I was told I’d go to hell
if I didn’t believe in God. Our teacher was a woman
whose daughters wanted to be nuns and I asked
What about babies and what about Buddha, and she said
They’re in hell too and so I memorized prayers
and recited them in front of women
I did not believe in. Deliver us from evil.
O sweet Virgin Mary, amen. O sweet. O sweet.
In this country, which calls itself Christian,
what is sweeter than hearing Have mercy
on us. From those who serve different gods. O
clement, O loving, O God, O God, amidst ruins,
amidst waters, fleeing, fleeing. Deliver us from evil.
O sweet, O sweet. In this country,
point at the moon, at the stars, point at the way the lake lies,
with a hand full of feathers,
and they will look at the feathers. And kill you for it.
If a word for religion they don’t believe in is magic
so be it, let us have magic. Let us have
our own mothers and scarves, our spirits,
our shamans and our sacred books. Let us keep
our stars to ourselves and we shall pray
to no one. Let us eat
what makes us holy.

Source: Poetry (November 2017)

An Ordinary Misfortune [“She is girl. She is gravel.”]
by Emily Jungmin Yoon

She is girl. She is gravel. She is grabbed. She is grabbed like handfuls of gravel. Gravel grated by water. Her village is full of gravel fields. It is 1950. She is girl. She is grabbed. She is not my grandmother, though my grandmother is girl. My grandmother’s father closes the gates. Against American soldiers, though they jump over stone walls. To a girl who is not my grandmother. The girl is gravel grabbed. Her language is gravel because it means nothing. Hands full of girl. Fields full of gravel. Korea is gravel and graves. Girl is girl and she will never be a grandmother. She will be girl, girl is gravel and history will skip her like stone over water. Oh girl, oh glory. Girl.

Emily Jungmin Yoon, “An Ordinary Misfortune [”She is girl. She is gravel.”]” from A Cruelty Special to Our Species. Copyright © 2018 by Emily Jungmin Yoon. The Ecco Press (HarperCollins Publishers).

What Carries Us
by Emily Jungmin Yoon

First, there was the horse.

Imagine creatures as majestic,
standing. All their lives they stand, withholding.

Imagine being tamed. Learning to be still,
to be speed. Imagine birds as large

as horses. We would be flying, grabbing
a majestic creature by its collar.

In cylinders of metal, we are four-legged
beast-lives of liminal spaces.

One time I was so tired of flying I wondered
if I will spend all my life packing then unpacking.

A complaint of privilege. We are such spending
creatures. And when I say we are beasts,

is that a metaphor? Metaphor, according to Papastergiadis,
is also transportation, between absence and presence,

“articulating action.” Its “very process,”
in times of extremity, is “akin to prophecy.”

I like the idea of transportation
as articulation, that the end of metaphor is a kind

of arrival, like getting off the train at an unknown stop.

So when I say we are beasts, perhaps what I mean
to do is remember that predators

have forward-facing eyes, and we do
grab others by the collar, and we do fly

in metal, in preparation for the kill.

What I want to do is slow down time.

Imagine love as a horse.

Think about us—a distance
apart only a flying thing could connect us—

standing and pacing, tamed and watching,

then finally with each other, laughing
as if to collapse, unbridled as wild horses.

In this era of brevity in this era of metal in this
era of abbreviation, yes, I’m trying to make you

think of me longer. Yes, this whole time,

the bird, the train, the whole thing
about metaphor, I said to say this,

that this is what carries us, the slow
consideration of what each other is, can be.

And first, there was the horse.

Source: Poetry (April 2020)

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

Elizabeth Bishop, “One Art” from The Complete Poems 1926-1979. Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, http://us.macmillan.com/fsg. All rights reserved.

Caution: Users are warned that this work is protected under copyright laws and downloading is strictly prohibited. The right to reproduce or transfer the work via any medium must be secured with Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

Source: The Complete Poems 1926-1979 (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1983)