author
agnes meadows
The Event: aromapoetry
The Poet: Agnes Meadows
The Poem: Still
When I'm older,
Even older than today
And people tease me for my lack of crimplene suits and iron hair,
Waiting for that centennial 'gram to legitimise my life,
I'll still want to know
Everything!
I'll still smoke too many cigarettes,
Have all-night arguments where nobody gives an inch,
And the last word is the by-word for singularity of conversation.
I'll still wear black leather,
Show my Gothic cleavage
Bodiced so tight you could see my heart's blood-flow,
The Dark One silvering my mouth with his graciousness,
Proof positive that old vampires never die
Because they have a stake in eternity.
I'll still believe that beige should only ever be worn by camels,
That pink is for virgins,
That anything remotely pastel should be burned in Hell-fire,
Along with ALL cook books (yes burn, Delia, burn)
That life really IS too short to stuff a mushroom,
Especially when there's Salsa to kick
In red shoes high as steeples,
And I'm feeling keen as a mad dog biting.
I'll still flirt outrageously with pretty young men on buses,
Invite them home sometimes
For red wine and breakfast,
Show them my etchings,
Watch them dance naked in moonlight
Then demonstrate the right moves
Which, like riding a bicycle, a woman never forgets.
I'll still get drunk,
Fall out of telephone boxes, forget my name at parties because of Glenlivet's highland excess.
And I'll still sing rude songs
In the street at 3.00 a.m.,
With a rousing chorus that would have everything to do with body parts and midnight fantasies,
But nothing whatsoever to do with rugby, football, or any other game
Which only 'real men' can appreciate.
I'll still get turned on by the feel of silk on my skin,
Leopard spotted fake fur coats,
Chocolate's slippery satin in places where truffles weren't marketed for spreading,
Mediterranean sun touching me,
Privately,
Like the lost lover who alone could bring me joy,
His kiss a faraway fickle wave-rush covering my mist-frosted shore,
My heart's phoenix still not resurrected,
A serpent's egg cracking in old passion's flame
(The thought of his face still leaving me heart-scalded;
(And if I lived to be a million it would never be finished).
I'll still travel in the desert,
See pyramids embroidered on lilac dim horizons,
Watch the dusk settle like a tired song over the sand dunes of Saqqara,
Come back from the Taklamakan like a fiery ghost,
Loose my shirt at Kashgar's Sunday market,
With the Uigar women,
Covered in fur and flowers,
Selling nomad trinkets,
Watching their men trade horses,
Shedding crescent moon smiles below Samarkand's blue mottled Registan,
And I'll still want the road to be endless.
Yea, when I'm older,
Even older than today,
And people who do not know me think I should be knitting or baking cakes,
Well, I'll still be laughing with Satan,
Covering my tracks with the Light of Heaven.
I'll still want to know
Everything!
