Kingsley Place (Personal History, Of No Conceivable Interest....) Poem by Frank Bana

Shining in the Sixties on the far side of a hill
London haze by day, stars in waiting for the dawn
Kitchen windows gazing on a garden well enclosed
Bedroom looking down upon a white carpeted lawn
My Soviet speakers shaking, rumbling in stereo
Tchaikovsky, Leonard Cohen, hadn't heard Dylan at all.
Sinatra down the hall, Benny Goodman on the patio.
My brother banged his little fists on the dividing wall.

Being asked to be a boy was tough, in some ways, I would say
Thick glasses, hair and nose in the ancient Jewish style
Writing tiny poems to the girl down by the junction
Where I lingered like an actor on a stage a mile away.
Every line composed by the haunted lights of London
I walked on down to Soho in my short pants after class
And lingered in the basements of second-hand LP stores
Imagining who I'd meet, who could sweep me to the stars.

Then off went Mum and Dad to the country, or to France
I invited my few friends around for cooking and to dance.
Then Heaven broke its barriers. David came first, of course
Turned right on the one-way, smashed up his sister's car
And then my schoolmate Mark, stoned on something fine
He was working in a chemist's shop during his spare time.

And after all the partying, only one was left:
A Danish girl named Lise. I made breakfast for us.
Black coffee, steak and eggs. It's lucky that I did.
We needed all the strength of it, on the white carpet rug.
She was my youthful teacher, already brave and free
To peaceful strains, Sibelius, long second Symphony.

The first among the many times, but I was bound to miss her
Light in her hair, deep in her soul, and our inaugural kiss
And I grew up, in stranded heart of wild metropolis
That weekend that my parents left, supposing no mischief
No party, passion, stimulants, no such ecstatic face
Or glowing, burning bright red eyes, at 30 Kingsley Place.