Paul Stephenson reading Adulthood
Adulthood as The Talented Mr. Ripley
You wonder if this is how Tom Ripley felt,
wearing a borrowed Princeton jacket
and landing up in Italy, pretending to be
somebody while hanging out with socialites.
How he really felt, befriending Marge
while obsessing over Dickie, dressing up
in another man’s clothes – alone in a palazzo
by night, dancing in front of the mirror.
What it’s like inside? Being the only one
who will ever know what happened
in the winding streets of Mongibello.
Deep down, you feel like Tom – adrift
in open sea, looking down to find an oar
in your hands, and blood. Scuttling the boat.
Day Trip with an Attitude
Nonchalance and I take a train to Nantes.
Nothing to see – a blanket of fog till Le Mans.
We arrive. Nonchalance doesn’t care for coffee
or a croissant. Empty-stomached Nonchalance.
I buy a city map, ask what it fancies doing first,
suggest a walk down the river, across to the island,
for a ride on the giant mechanical elephant.
Nonchalance sighs, drags its heels en province.
What about the Jules Vernes Museum, I enquire,
You know, him of ‘Around the World in Eighty Days?’
Ner, winces Nonchalance, as if he’s seen it all,
You go, I’ll just wait outside and sit on the fence.
Hey, we could climb the ramparts of the château
then rinse our tonsils in the local plonk?
Nonchalance shrugs its shoulders – soberly,
says, I’m teetotal. Can’t stand royal history.
The cathedral took 457 years to finish! I insist.
It was hit by Allied bombing, the roof ravaged by fire.
Nonchalance isn’t listening but sat in a trance,
headphones in, volume up, nodding, ensconced.
Career
1/
Early to the classroom.
Ten thousand press-ups
next to the desk
before morning register.
2/
Lightning off the block.
A greyhound chasing
the rabbit round the floodlit
tracks at Walthamstow.
3/
Not KFC.
An emporium with atrium,
all the pheasants hanging
in Harrod’s food hall.
4/
A game of hopscotch.
The pastel chalk numbers
washed away
in a series of showers.
5/
A heavy goods vehicle
carrying flammable liquid,
all gleaming silver hub caps
and faulty
brakes
that swerves
and jackknifes,
smashing through the barriers,
tumbling,
rolling over,
down into
the ravine.