I’m in free fall,
Recoiling back through the years,
Reversing back down city-streets and moorland-valleys,
Retreating from various hypotheses and bifurcations,
Shunning burning-pits and blissful-heights alike
Until I land lightly on my feet.
I’m a cool twenty again,
Young, green and full of hope.
Annaba: my first job.
Skulking behind grey filing-cabinets
Yearning for her black hair, olive skin
And flashing almond-eyes.
We exchange averted glances,
But it’s just not on, old sport
Off limits, out-of-bounds
Strictly verboten.
Have to leave an hour early today,
J’ai Cour d’Arabe she explains,
Newly liberated from the hated French,
She’s being Arabised.
That’s cool, I think,
Chukran, baby.
Comments on: "Chukran, Baby" (2)
I don’t know how I missed this poem. I love this for all that it makes me see and feel, and because it is succinct; amazing that it takes me so directly to people and places and feelings. ~ Lily
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I like this poem. I am sure you told me the story over a beer in Cascais one evening, many moons ago – before the war.
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