AFTERNOON MOVIE

You go in knowing it's already started;

there's a close-up of a girl staring across

a stretch of water, profile, tear on her cheek -

this time you don't look for the camera's

reflection - then the static shot, full face

looking sad as she drives along a road,

not even the upward, arcing shot of tree tops

to lessen the intensity, and you wonder what's

happened to her, a father dying, a crushed child,

and you know that soon the scene will end,

she'll get out, technicians will take the camera

off the bonnet, unit director smile and pinch

her arse as the chief grip laughingly drives the

car away, she'll light a cigarette, yawn, tell

a stunt man jokingly to piss off; all the time

that first shot of her is flooding your mind,

and you want to be with her, just with her,

looking across the water.

LONDON TURKISH

Could be a playpen pushed against the window,

inside, a yashmak'd matriarch rolling gozlemes

to a floating thinness, hands flicking the folded

pancakes onto a cloth; her full Mediterranean

breasts, the clutter of diners, wall prints of

a foam-battered lighthouse, Dali watches,

my thanks as tea is bought, outside, buses,

Romanies, Edwardian Broadway, Hindus,

Victorian terraces, distance, continents,

look up from the cold tea, a fist squeezing

dough, dribbling water over flour, she doesn't

see beyond her movements, the glass pane,

she has yet to speak a word.

Copyright © Ken Champion, 2009