Hilary Sideris: The Keith Poems

Hilary Sideris: The Keith Poems

THIRTEEN  

 

The best thing that happened
to me (after they dumped me

from Boys’ Choir when my
voice broke) was being a scout,

learning to tie those knots—
the bowline, the sheepshank.

I read all Baden-Powell’s manuals:
how to pluck a fowl, gut a squirrel,

ignite a fire with dry twigs
& a magnifier. It gave a boy

a chance to swagger, badges
on his sash, knife in his belt.
 
I got promoted to squad leader
& I say this in earnest: I kept

my men together & on task.
Years later in our Saint Petersburg

suite, I watched the hundredth
anniversary on tv. The Stones

owe plenty to the Scouts. I stood
& gave the three-fingered salute:

“Beaver Patrol Leader Richards,
Seventh Dartford, Sir!”  

 

SIDCUP ART SCHOOL

 

Flash sons of bitches
in bow ties, that’s what they

tried to turn us into: go forth
& advertise. At Sidcup I was

“Ricky.” No uniforms, no war
to get killed in, we smoked,

grew our hair long, studied
lithography, the light spectrum—

all thrown away on illustrating
Gilbey’s gin.  I learned Cocaine

in the boys’ john. Wizz Jones
dropped by, looking like Jesus,

played South Carolina style,
his finger picking stolen

from the Reverend Gary
Davis in Harlem.

 

FLASH

 

Jack is Satisfaction
in reverse, but if I had

to choose only one riff
to play again, I’d pick

It’s allllll right now…

I love that hallelujah,  
like a chant in Arabic,

almost Gregorian, but   
steady-as-you-get-it rock.

The lyric came at dawn,  
the unrelenting Redlands

rain, a pair of spattered
Wellies at the cellar door,

Mick woken by the trudge
& shovel of Jack Dyer,

my Sussex gardener,
starting his day’s work.

 

 

BERT

 

Bert was a printer, a father
with a skill. They bought a tandem,

he & Mum, before the war.
I see them riding through air raids

with me in the baby seat, puking
from too much sun. Bert never

minded Jesus Christ, or said there
was no God. He saw a bloke in

a black frock & crossed the road,
that’s all. Sometimes we kicked  

a football on the heath or worked
our garden plot. He knew the land,  

“We’ve got to get these spuds in quick.”
I don’t say we were close but

don’t blame him. Bert was
a fucking working man.  

 

 

ERNIES

 

In my fake leather notebook
I recognize the smudged names

of our gods: Chuck, Muddy, Diddley,
Reed. Five fuckups in a Chelsea

flat of dirty plates, we counted
Ernies everywhere we turned.  

In every café, Ernies perused
menus. “Oh Christ,” we’d say,

“another fuckin’ Ernie,” only one
thing on his mind—earning

another shilling. Someday
they’d know us not as riffraff,

but blood brothers, lucky sons,
born at the midnight hour,

backdoor men, mojos
working, but not on them.    

 

 

 

 

— by Hilary Sideris

 

Copyright ©2012, by Hilary Sideris. All Rights Reserved.

 

Hilary Sideris’s poems have recently appeared in Arts & Letters, Bayou, Confrontation, Grey Sparrow, PMS, Poet Lore, Quiddity, Southern Poetry Review, and Tar River Poetry. Her third chapbook, Gold & Other Fish, is available from Finishing Line Press. She lives in Brooklyn and works for The City University of New York.

 

 

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