Three poems

 

In Praise of Easy Days

 

We loved ourselves

when we were young.

You seemed urbane

and so well hung.

 

You liked the little

scarves I wore

and when we danced

across the floor

 

you held me tight.

I watched your eyes

for you were hot

and worldly-wise:

 

you knew some tricks

which I did not

but I was quick

and learned a lot.

 

 

 

Aimez vous Chekhov?

 

Leaving a film of The Duel,

we link arms and talk about

the Russian author, what

he meant to us years ago.

 

Back then, we lay by a river

and you put the question:

“Who’s your favourite writer?”

Silly question, I thought,

 

and answered quietly,

sensing a lot was at stake.

“So many favourites,” I said.

“But I love my Chekhov’s Tales.”

 

At once I knew I’d scored.

You opened your blue eyes wide,

surprised and very impressed.

I smiled, pleased and smug.

 

You spoke of Hemingway and Scott.

What you didn’t say,

and I only learned, tonight,

was how many hours at school

 

you spent alone in the library

while other boys were away.

Deep in a leather chair you read

the complete works of A.P. Chekhov.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Glutton

on reading Szymborska

 

Her book’s as good as a box of chocolates

and arrives in the mail as neatly wrapped,

causing squeaks of surprise and glee.

Save them for later, I tell myself

then lift the lid and look inside—

are their centres the sort I like?

I might try one, or maybe two.

Soon every poem draws me in

and piques my appetite for more.

I savour line after subtle line,

its texture on my tongue, the tang.

By ten o’clock I’ve devoured the lot.

And better, even, than chocolate,

they’ll still be there for another day.

 

 

Suzanne Edgar