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Nightscapes

Late night summons madmen, madams, bold streetwalkers, picking pennies from the gutters as the merchants close their shutters and the homeless crouch in doorways in their rags, against the cold. Black or white, no compromise, no colours clothe the empty streets, as Bobbies tread their lonely beats, the watchmen rub their crusted eyes and settle into vigilance, no accident, just circumstance. Midnight passes. Leila in her bursting bodice lingers, guesses who I am and flaunts her body, all the same to her, a customer who'll pay for twenty minutes' satisfaction. Dressed in taffeta and lace she'll never even see my face, night's sweet anonymity, the very definition of her name. Later, as the moonbeams shift, and cloudlines disappear and drift, come images in stark relief of twisted metals magnified that catch the eye, suspend belief. Abandoned building, hollow-eyed and squinting in a death mask grip, skeletal, once filled with pride, now empty, and for ever tongue-tied, cadavered, and condemned to drip. Still later, the street-lamps spot the cats a'creeping worldly-wise, and rats along the quayside waiting, ready for the avalanche of waste into the yawning dumpsters. I have seen the children sneaking out before the dawn comes crawling, dirty little ragamuffins forced into leftover clothes, weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed, playing with a rotting carcass or a broken bicycle. Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters, merchants come to raise their shutters, regard the fading moon, and mutter, 'yet another day.' Begone, O Bride of Midnight! favour us with not another glance, put your spells away, you'll not lead us in our daily dance. Behold a wrinkled substitute, a crone who likes to think that she's a queen; with as much grace as she can muster, she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room, feathered and be-furbelowed and plays with her decolletage, she's mutton dressed as lamb. The smell of stale tobacco and a whiff of old perfume, no longer with her entourage she dances out of rhythm to the tango, rusty and unconstituted, wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb. At twenty past I'm home at last, the brass plate spells my name; come inside! familiar and gratifying, slippers by my bed still lying, dressing gown and cap are crying, here abide! The sheets are turned and ready. I leave the night and take a final bow, grateful for the here and now.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2012




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Date: 2/18/2016 9:07:00 PM
This is a heady rendering of a day (or night, actually) in the life theme, recalling for me in some distant way of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich." Nightscapes, indeed. They came to life, all too drearily as they are: mundane and moribund. Captured nicely with a splendid twist and touch of irony (if not more) deeply at the end.
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Keith Bickerstaffe
Date: 2/18/2016 9:13:00 PM
A most intelligent review my friend... I am glad you were able to locate this and offer such learned remarks. Many thanks. Keith
Date: 11/5/2013 6:08:00 PM
This poem put me right in the heart of London, during the times of Jack The Ripper. That was probably not your intention for the theme of this poem. But, that is what came to mind while I was reading this. I am glad that I live out in the country and not in the city, where this kind of activity takes place. An excellent write, Keith! I enjoyed this one, as well!
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Date: 7/6/2013 9:08:00 PM
I forgot to rate, so I came back to do so.. a 7.. really a 10 if I could go that high.
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Date: 7/6/2013 9:01:00 PM
I am practically speechless. T.S. Elliot would be bowing to you and calling you a fellow master of the craft. You have brought to life the City with all it's debauchery; indeed the nightlife with some of the best imagery I've seen. Please tell me that you are a well-published writer.. if not, what are you waiting for? Enjoyed this immensely. Thank you so much for the recommendation.
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Date: 6/24/2012 6:51:00 PM
oh one more thing. Often I see Soup gives its big international awards to super long poems like this one, so you would be well advised to enter this in one of those contests! It could do very well.
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Date: 6/24/2012 6:49:00 PM
So I would say to you, even though this is superb writing it is not the kind that I would ever fave. Do you know the one I recently saw of yours? Just a short while ago? For me, that one was just more entertaining for me. Do you get what I am saying? I think it's all in what a person is looking for. When I see something that has all the elements: description, imagery AND the OOMPH that I adore, I will be sure to let you know (in fact I think I've seen it already a few times in you)
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Date: 6/24/2012 6:46:00 PM
Lizzy and Ilene here have recognized the skills you possess from the remarks they have made to you here, Keith. I think this is one awesome example of descriptive writing and i loved how you ended it "grateful for the here and now." It shows how all of us feel about our own home sweet home after seeing all the stuff of the city! I am not good at reviews, but I want to tell you, I am someone who prefers short poems that quickly come to a very clever climax and resolution. (oops, new box!!)
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Date: 6/12/2012 6:17:00 PM
The big city never had such descriptions as I find here. It dances with sleaze and raunchy glitz to define a life hard to imagine. Your descriptions are that of an artist who knows his subject well and isn't afraid to flaunt the indiscretions that haunt the night. You know this is a masterpiece and I do too. Why aren't more reading?
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Date: 5/9/2012 7:27:00 AM
I enjoyed reading your amazing poetry this morning Keith. Hope you have a great day. Love, Carol
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Date: 5/9/2012 4:18:00 AM
this poem is so unlike most of the poems i read on this site that i'm almost speechless. it is wonderful and brilliant and in a very different category from what i expect to read here. you belong in the big leagues. i look forward to reading more of your writing.
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Keith Bickerstaffe
Date: 5/9/2012 11:44:00 AM
Thanks so much! you are too kind... Best wishes, Keith

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