I only started to write in my late twenties, and due to this I don’t have any Juvenilia to speak off. My juvenile poems were written on the cusp of middle age, and are far from the doe-eyed idealism of some younger poets. As a writer I was born a curmudgeon. The silent sigh of joint pain buried in every line.In a roundabout way what I’m trying to say is: I don’t think of adolescence much, so I have barely written about it (why I chose to write about the topic is anyone’s guess). In a brazen ploy to lower expectations, I have the one poem I unearthed from a bottomless draw (don’t we all), and reading it again after all these years, I’m not ashamed to admit I recognize myself. It goes as follows:The Lonely Models All those girls from the other school you fingered and fucked (their Mums too). Where they lived seemed an otherworldly place, in the part of the town I wasn’t allowed to go. I would watch you mime the moves in high pitched squeals recite your name, until the time came when we would see my Dad waiting diligently at the bottom of the hill, signalling tea was ready. He always invited you. You never did talk while we ate perfectly happy to watch the telly and laugh at the jokes Dad made, often you would stay the night and we would play boardgames whilst he washed your clothes. In the morning you would abscond to do your rounds as I went to school. I could only imagine what you were doing playing patty cake in the other estate with all the lonely models. I pictured my face on your face. I could never understand the reasons you gave for coming back, they were needy and nagged they wanted more than you could give if it was me I would’ve given more than I had stayed when they asked dig-down and never return. I’ve come back to help Dad move, you’re where I left you in the cul-de-sac, and seeing you now nothing’s changed, you still pretend to desire the wrong things. I recognize the fragility in your wave as I drive my Father away.Jamie Field. Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
