AS SHE GOES by David Erdos - Poem 17 from THE PEOPLES PRISON
Poem 17 from THE PEOPLES PRISON
And after (Harold) Budd, Babs, a
different human beauty,
One made of strength and survival and
of course
The feted breasts of her youth. But
before that,
Her birth in a poor part of London,
ravaged by war
And the absence of a Dad she adored,
her lost truth.
From the blitz came the glitz of post
war showbusiness,
Tawdry perhaps but entrancing to this
bright city bird
Who flew through dim rooms, sparking
said dark
With her laughter; a never sorry near
Dolly, generous
With a handful and a pleasing curve
none could spurn.
Her talent carried her, as a singer
and actress, from Soho
To Stratford and back again to the
Strand. By way
Of Pinewood and Cheam, Camber Sands,
Eastbourne,
Morecambe, a Gracie Fields for the
Sixties who died
Fighting a war she’d not planned. And
yet she lived
That former London life at full
thrust, as a friend
To the Krays, spliced to Ronnie.
Where others like Joan
Collins travelled, Barbara remained
localised. She made
Sid James fall in love, freeing him
from excesses,
Then let him down gently when his
tired heart failed him
Just as the contract of love
finalised. From her bargain
Glamour, to age, Windsor remained
herself for the public.
Making near Shakespearian soap in
Eastenders, she turned
Her wilderness years to starred
court. In which a national
Treasure is found and all or any
faults are forgiven.
Especially in the face of Alzheimer’s
as it starts
Eating the sense time has bought. For
the Covidian Age
Has been an Ice Age, too. We’re all
frozen. Not just in this
Cold December or this year as a
whole, but in loss.
So many have died in the realm of so
called Light
Entertainment, that it would seem a
new darkness
And the challenge within becomes
Boss. That may well be
A trite little rhyme but this is a
difficult season. To contain
The truth in it and reflect on this
dear Dame’s end is a test
As to what we now do and who there is
left still to follow.
For someone my age, Babs was
childhood. But tonight, I am
Growing alone. So, what’s best? The
nostalgia she stokes
Along with those short lost others?
Or, the need to begin again
And find others to epitomise life and
love? Quite possibly
Death laughs at us or reluctantly
writes the scripts we part
Honour. As rich colours cloud, the
mist masks us. And yet
It mirrored us once from above. Take
care Barbara Deaks.
Your husband and friends won’t forget
you. As you go,
You take with you a country so very
different to this. It is
A blessing perhaps that you did not
in the end recognise it,
For despite that pain, your past
pleasure has finally earned
Your starred kiss. What will I
receive on my day? I silently
Ask my Mother. I turn to look up at
her photo, but she
Doesn’t reply. Now, she knows. What
waits now for me,
But then mothers should know their
sons’ secrets.
And so I write now for women and for
the seeds
Of birth that fate sows’.
David Erdos, December 11th 2020
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