-
Get Published on Female First
Part One (Thursday Evening)
The elements are here: music, cigarette smoke and alcohol;
the population is transitory, the conversation desultory;
the mirrors on the wall give reflections of the bar,
transposing the customers' faces on the Wine List of the week.
People sit at the bar, others in alcoves;
this is a thoroughfare, a place to rest before moving on.
This is a meeting place: men in suits, others in jeans,
women dressed for the day on their way home;
one does not necessarily feel lonely if alone here;
the atmosphere is friendly.
This is a place to bring your Mistress,
even your wife:
there is room for both.
This is a person's place.
Pick ups seldom happen.
Even poets like me are left alone
to doodle.
Part Two (Thursday Night)
The night does strange things to this place.
It isolates it, not coldly;
the lights from the street become surreal, alien.
Humanity meets here.
The unshaven man off the street covets his night's Sherry;
friends meet friends, strangers seek comfort.
Humanity meets here; this is a retreat.
The temperature is warm, too warm perhaps;
a thermostat can only control so much.
Unwritten reams on the manuscript of unfinished sentences
lie suspended in a glass of wine.
Wine befuddles the brain, but releases the mind;
the music is a lubricant, the wine a medium.
The stream of history is written in the flow of wine;
personal histories have ended in it.
Right now, mine is suspended in it.
This place is a theatre, actors and actresses
strutting the stage of life: each in their personal drama.
Part Three (Saturday Afternoon)
Aladdin found the wrong cave. Had he discovered this,
he would have found emerald notes, golden music:
the wealth of experience suspended on a five-bar scale.
The weather outside is irrelevant.
The environment inside is self-contained,
hermetically sealed from the news headlines.
Nothing remains constant. Each Saturday is different:
a new creation weaved from the strands
of new talent mixed with the existing: a magic carpet ride.
This is excitement. The energy level might alter; the excitement remains.
Adults re-discover childhood memories here:
a place of memories enshrined in musical paraphrase.
The key? The glass one has filled at the bar.
The lock one opens? The shape of the flute's sustained note.
Part Four (Saturday Night)
This kingdom is not unfortunately eternal,
as one is politely (but firmly) escorted out the door at eight.
One wonders: was it the wine or music that freed the inhibitions?
At the time, it didn't matter.
On recollection, it doesn't seem to matter.
The gate will open again.
Les Bush (1981)
Copyright
Tagged in les bush