God, it's twelve years since I started this blog. What on earth was I thinking?

A way of explaining myself to me by dressing up as a penguin.

Or, perhaps, a way of explaining myself to her.

Call it an obsession if you must but I scarce had designs of that nature, despite what her husband might have thought. Oh, how I long for your smile; merely your smile.

Ten years on and I can still feel your smile. How your face would radiate the glow of friendship; nothing more. A delicate drizzle on a balmy summer's eve. 'Sometimes I feel like a motherless child . . .' There was nothing more.

I thought this to be a long, philosophical treatise on the whichness of the why but instead it turns out to be a plaintive cry to a woman (or women) who has (have) long since gone.

So, instead, I give you a poem. 'Ulrike' is but a name; it is not her real name. The circumstances are real and perhaps mirror an evening 'in the pub' but who is to tell. She invited me round for an evening's quiet solitude; it was nothing more, A gesture of friendship; no more was on offer even if I had managed to summon the courage to act.

I seldom write poetry; prose has always been more to my liking. I don't like the rigour that poetry forces upon you. The telling of tales couched in the despair, which I often feel, I find suits me better. I find a certain solace in pouring my heart out in words that no-one but me will ever understand.

I scarce know why this minor piece of trivia should be recalled some thirty years later or why it should promote a poem. I only wanted to help. If that involved tipping copious quantities of Cognac down her throat; then so be it.

Perhaps, that is the key. Not lust or passion but simple friendship. Between a man and a woman is such a thing possible?

For Ulrike

In a fumbling ecstasy of panic and dread, I sit;

A cross-legged, chequered harlequin on the wooden floor.

There is but only a bed for homely comfort and yet,

Wrapped in your shrouds of stark, eburnean probity,

You sit there and, out of fear, I cannot.

I drink the dregs, the bitter lees of the grape, leftover wine;

A vinegared sponge to test and torment the faithful.

Sour, faintly green it dances around my tongue and yet,

Little of Terpsichoré remains in this moonlight

And in my mind, I long for Carolina. 

Your tousled, mousy hair frames your delicate, button nose,

Those long, ivory legs, your toes’ gentle inward curl,

They sing to me in voiceless contraltos, beckoning yet;

A mute Circe tempts once more noble, brave Ulysses

And perhaps I too should now be leaving. 

For it is past-midnight late and I am no longer fun;

It is past the time for laughter, Plato, Socrates.

Coffee would be welcome but I fear I must decline yet;

Alone abed, Argus lies dozing, awaiting me;

You still wear propriety as a caul.

I’d happily trade Xeno for nights of unbridled passion,

Pay any price to lie in your arms, damning the dog.

It would take but a single move, white knight to queen three, check

But I lack the courage for boldness, to gamble all

And any excuse is better than none.

None better, the final, only resort;

Unremitting, terminal aloofness.

It doesn't rhyme but at least it scans; seven, nine with a full stop!