Friday, November 09, 2007

Solar Flares Burn for You

Postcard of Frieda tacked to the wall
sat down is Diego, her hand on his shoulder

a commemoration of their wedding day
her hair entwined with bright desert flowers

on a Hessian mat the grand lady stands proud
I picked up the postcard in the ICA shop

spinning the stand, sat down was a face
smiling, white beard, sweet lulling voice

he asked me kindly if I knew who she was?
I answered yes and we spoke of Rivera

monumental murals, their blue walkway house
he said that he had a painting of hers

the one on the stand, Frieda in her bed
ex voto, deep ochre, skulls perched on far corners

I looked in his eyes, tranquillity shade
his soft wrinkled face held a history I knew

a masterful drummer, paralysed in the past
he wrote the tracks of a socialism lost

the death of the shipyards, political songs
music of beauty to match Frieda’s colours

I wanted to crouch by his chair, stroke his hair
place a kiss on his cheek, hold his delicate hands

and ask him to sing is it worth it, one line
but the moment had passed - he knew that I knew

who he was.

Adelle Stripe

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