Gloved

Every Saturday night, she palely sits
in a dark corner, her kohl eyes
watch the dancers, a mysterious
smile on her lips.

Every Saturday night, a different outfit,
always elegant and black,
always glamour gloved, elbow length
velvet or satin, lace trimmed,
sheer with flowers up the arms
rooted to her fingers with heavy rings.

Every Saturday night, she goes home
alone, undresses slowly, carefully
unpeels the gloves
from her scars.


Previously published on Camel Saloon.

Meanwhile I've just posted another poem on my Crafty Green Poet blog, you can read it here. 

Photographing Reality

(i.m. Eve Arnold)

Your untaught hands picked up a camera
and never put it down, finding
instinct for the picture
that carries the burden of history
so lightly it seems no burden at all.

Icons of stage and screen; children and women
whose lives are never seen,
all gently caught; held
in your gaze, your lens capturing
the essence of their lives and times.

Deceptively simple this art of yours,
framing faces in a view-finder
to create a pleasing image
that seems by accident to encapsulate
history, yet somehow magically transcends it.


I wrote this poem several years ago and it managed to find its way to Eve Arnold herself who sent me a lovely postcard to say how much she enjoyed reading my poem.

Eve Arnold was an American photojournalist who worked for the famous Magnum Photographic Agency. You can see a slideshow of some of her photos here.