Melbourne, Australia, 1960
He did have a voice like honey.
His songs were lilting and new –
here in Australia, we’d never heard
the quick, light dance of Calypso,
until he hit the Hit Parade.
We loved that voice, that sound;
we loved his songs, that’s true.
But that was not the only reason
my Aunty Ev (who I lived with then,
when I was a uni student) bought tickets.
We weren’t groupies. It was a more
innocent time. (I think it was
before there were groupies.)
We didn’t aspire to rip his pants off.
We just liked how he looked, in them.
Shy teenager, middle-aged wife,
the two of us out on the town –
age irrelevant, girls together –
we shared that perfect evening
in the stalls, up close to the stage.
Brown, tall, muscular but lean,
smiling like a burst of Jamaican sun
(that cold August night in Melbourne)
he wore slim black pants and a white shirt
open in a V to show his chest. We gasped
as the curtain went up and there he was.
He flung his arms up wide in greeting,
and began. Every song was a caress,
or else it was shared laughter. Clichés
came true: we were in the palm of his hand.
I don’t mean only us, my aunt and me.
It was the whole audience! (I didn’t think,
then, to check, but I’d guess mostly women.)
At interval, wide-eyed, we caught our breath;
agreed we’d never seen a handsomer man.
Yes it was also the voice, yes it was also
the way he sang. The lyrical, husky voice,
the emotional songs. He made us laugh,
he made us cry. He made us yearn –
and fall, as if forever, in love with love.
With him too, yes, but more than that.
Also with all the people and places
he sang to us of. Could the night
get any better? Yes! After the interval
he came on wearing a red shirt. Pow!
NaPoWriMo 29025, Day Twenty-Five:
Today we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts an experience of your own in hearing live music, and tells how it moves you.
Sharing with Poets and Storytellers United, for Friday Writings #181: Music for the Muse.
