Postcard from Basildon
(For Music Lovers Everywhere)
A Central European girl,
Of all the things to do,
Wasted her Sunday afternoon,
Humming down outdated tunes,
On worn out street corners,
Awed, and brand new.
The place was empty,
Of the pictures in her head,
The made up faces,
Who they saw, what they said.
Felled by the axe of history,
Pubs, clubs, houses, and lives,
Saved in the souvenir of a song, forever,
As time and place contrive.
That’s why they wrote those songs, I told her,
That’s why they always do,
To lasso in, the heart of imagination,
To brand it, and,
Make it’s illusion true.
There are no postcards from this place,
A pinpoint on a map,
Made familiar, by a face.
Just a town to come from,
To grow up in, and,
Then to leave.
Where wondrous, simple, and brutal things,
Are born perennial,
Timeless to retrieve.
Dermot McGarthy's Other Poems
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Postcard from Basildon by Dermot McGarthy )
- आं बावबाय, Ronjoy Brahma
- COPLA 112 RESOLUTION: This Bad Guy World, T (no first name) Wignesan
- Birch and Bracken, jim hogg
- History Echoed As A Verse, Ruma Chaudhuri
- Aku dan Februari, Afit Riawan
- Kisah Bunga, Afit Riawan
- You And You, V P Mahur
- आयै अ' आंनि, Ronjoy Brahma
- White Wings, Afit Riawan
- सोदोब, Ronjoy Brahma
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