Poem: Soldier On

Soldier On

Constantly searching for the soul, the heart of it,

Are we alone?

We agree on the impossibility of it,

After a year and a half of being starved of intelligent conversations on my front doorstep,

Eight months of thieves, liars, beggars, addicts who lined the gutter of the hallways,

My greatest fear was to become jaded,

To lose that love, that joy,

 A reminder as to who I am and why I like people,

I don’t cling, but thank the universe for a like-minded soul,

I can’t feel anything,

But I know that that’s okay,

I know I am the purest light of who I am,

As I listen, with my heart,

And it’s a glow, an ember of gratitude,

Sitting in his carved wooden chair,

I am aware of the tinge of pain in my leg and back,

But I retune,

Understanding and knowing,

Side by side,

It’s not as bad as his pain and we are here, now,

So thank goodness for that,

He’s the kind of neighbour I’ve dreamt off,

Kind, funny,

He apologises for the mess,

But it’s not messy,

Things just have their place,

And he has no one to help him,

I understand the battle of pride,

Wanting to be independent for as long as humanly possible,

He’s up there in years but the twinkle hasn’t gone out of his hazel eyes yet,

As he tells me about his mother, his lover, his travels, his tales,

Compliments my style and tells me he had a button down shirt like mine,

Linguistic puns and jokes thrown in between a cigarette or two,

We share beats as grammar police in the horrors of the crimes committed in the English language,

I savour this moment,

The same way I did when I drank espresso,

I could listen forever,

If I knew forever was real, and not that now is all I have to give,

So I give my whole heart,

And take it with me when I leave,

Alexa nags more than his dearly departed missus ever did,

Royal Air Force, then Berlin,

In the 80s when the wall was still a stronghold,

But it didn’t stop the music,

Or sneaking over to explore,

I think of how my flight home was on the 50^th anniversary of the wall being torn down,

Bridges being built,

He loves Berlin and planned to go back,

But his spine had other ideas,

Then COVID had other ideas,

In the end it’s not a Volpos shot that breaks his body,

Black ice and age,

Fate is cruel,

Cylinders of the brain still firing,

But now his body will not stand to attention for long,

Spitfire beauties, lilies, and a stunning Victoria Francés print line the walls along with black and white photographs of his heroes,

Bowie, Bjork, Edie, Warhol,

He’s met them all too, 

Iggy, and Lou,

Went to Blondie’s first UK show,

From Cali to Greenwich Village to shake off a writer’s block,

A journalist through and through,

He thanks me for checking when the fire alarm went off,

It doesn't surprise me I'm the only one who knocked on,

I leave him after an hour that has passed too quickly,

I thank him,

Wish him healing,

Not pity,

But what a perfect way to spend a Saturday,

Sharing a love of the humanity captured in the auricular experience that is vinyl,

A process lost in the clinical, clean precision of a compact disc,

Learning about Northern Soul,

The Twisted Wheel,

Watching scuffle,

He used to dance ‘til dawn,

Then go for a swim,

At fifteen, free to live,

A bygone time of yesterplaces,

Wishing more people would dance,

Maybe then the drugs wouldn’t be able to ruin things,

More things to love about my city,

More things to break my heart,

He’ll carry on for as long as his body holds on,

And I’m glad I found a quiet corner of sanity,

Just across from my front door.

I chose this picture to accompany this poem because despite my neighbour's body being fragmented under the surface he still maintains the etiquette, dignity and stature of the gentleman and soldier he's always been and always will be, and just like how this sculpture is hidden away (in an almost secret garden with the Whitworth Gallery grounds)  the best of humanity is usually hidden behind a door that you continually walk past.