Poetry: Louis Kasatkin

By Louis Kasatkin

Louis is editorial administrator at www.DestinyPoets.co.uk and founder of Destiny Poets and in his spare time is a civic, community, political activist, blogger and general nuisance to the status quo!
 Louis Kasatkin

LOSS

Eyes gaze
at the Meissen
cup and saucer,
white like the
exquisite Flemish
lace covering the
polished teak table
where fingers drum
on a yellowing
book cover;
inside on pages
sepia words crumble
like dried bones,
and the eyes
that once sought
after them
for meaning,
now gaze
immobile,
detached,
at someone's fingers
drumming on a
yellowing book cover

drumming their
own retreat
from philosophy
that long ago
faded
and longer ago
was forgotten,
left
discarded
on the polished
teak table
covered by
exquisite Flemish lace,
white
like the Meissen
saucer and cup.

THE WRITER IN EXILE

Dexter Stevenson
lime green ascot
and redundant cigarette holder,
never shook Hemingway's hand;
never came to write the
great American novel,
never realised the fecund
potential of his literary dreams,
instead he was anthologised
in limited circulation magazines
from Baffin Island to Crete;
After the War,
a solitary screenplay was
optioned but never produced,
he had known the people
who had known the people
on the lot at R.K.O.;
They had Joseph Cotten
or was it Van Heflin,
test for the part
of George Meredith,
dissolute foreign correspondent
contemplating suicide,
John Huston was interested in
directing but went and made,
"Treasure of the Sierra Madre" instead;
Dexter Stevenson's prolonged sojourn
at the Hotel Nacional caused
much embarrassment in later years
for the proprietor and guest alike;
the raison d'etre for the hospitality
had since passed away into legend,
no-one now remembers Stevenson's
deserted clifftop assignation with
that victim of the pill-bottle,
her winsome " pooh pooh pah dooh "
something he didn't get away from;
Here deep in the labyrinth,
D.S. finally got away
from himself.

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