2017.27 - Meet Me In Marigolds

The post-it note has a smiley face
And it’s a race between emotions -
Notionally: pleasure, beckoned by
The sight of your handwriting,
The way you fail to dot your every i
“There’s nothing else it could be!”
My smile stretches, sly and sweet.

Next: anticipation, a wave of adrenalin
Spiking through the morning fugue
With images of rising to the challenge,
Followed swiftly by the warm reward.

And then: contention bells in my head
Dread lurching to the fore:
For all the sweetness of imagination
There’s more, broadening the view of
Victory to see us… where?

Are we in a field of fleshy flowers,
A barely-veiled metaphor dotting us
With pollen?
Hardly.
You’re not hardy or hearty,
Usually eschewing outdoor pursuits,
Pressing your suit in more… suitable locations

Okay. Maybe we meet wreathed in blossoms,
Top-heavy under some local post,
In-joke harking back to spy movies
And classified ads and brown paper-wrapped
Nasty habits in seaside retreats…?
Better.
But still not there yet.
Betting on landmarks seems foolhardy
In a city thronging with history.

This is a brutal test of my affections.

Next I consider: who am I missing?
Is this the name of one of your many associates?
Am I to approach a list of barely-retained
Strangers to say “hey, is my… um… there today?”
Stumbling and mumbling over names and titles
Bright with embarrassment and everything
We’ve never said?
You’re off your head, babe,
Hey, maybe we should call it a day?
This pressure’s getting heavy.

And then it hits me and I
Dip my head, grin, slip to the sink,
Rummage in its undercarriage and
Come up golden.

Snap.

This is going to be one dirty weekend.


Six-and-a-half years ago, a poet named Tim Clare upped the ante on his annual poem-writing challenge, and set the stage to write 101 poems in a day. He asked for suggestions, and I ventured the title of this piece. He did it proud! I’m now the kind of person who runs poetry workshops, it turns out, and, when I’m faced with people who’ve done my standard prompt for a poem (“Lemons”, if you’re interested), I tell them: “Pick a book off the shelf and open it at a random page. That or you could try ’Meet Me in Marigolds’.” They never take me up on that, sadly. I thought it was time I put my stanzas where my stylus is. Or something. Anyway, this is what happens when I’m being fussy about other people’s prompts - random story poems.