Watching
Eileen at a poet's wake —
remembering
Alan Brunton
So still she sits —
contained as a Buddha,
vase, caress,
listening
as her mother did
at Mass —
her crammed coloured kete
teeteringly poised
almost spilling to the floor
forgotten things-to-do
books to read, crayons, pencils —
but she’s too neat to knock it
is attentive only
to his words friends read
his life continuous.
Does she realise
his romantic broil
his Übermensch on the swagger
his vermilion eye & mind & lip
his mask his raunchy rhetoric
his plethora of register
need her
as an actor needs
a stage, this audience.
Jan
Kemp
Auckland,
26 August 2002
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