Poem
Isobel Dixon
(I Want) Something to Show for It
(I Want) Something to Show for It
(I Want) Something to Show for It
I’m not the kind who treasureslove notes in the sand, laid bare
for the lobstered swimsuit mob
to stare at, for the tide to lick
away. I want a token,
solid, in my hand. Something
with staying power, not easily lost
or broken. Do you understand?
You murmur, puzzled by my greed,
“What is it that you want a thing
to show for, anyway?” You may
well ask. It’s just a zero,
universal emptiness. It
brings forth nothing except need,
and the truth is, souvenirs
won’t do the trick: no poseur
snaps, no neat, insipid
diaries, no sickly rock,
unusual pebbles, musty shells. I want
the shining cliffs, the posh hotel,
the whole shebang. The waiters
running across emerald lawns,
their heavy silver platters
raised in skilful hands. I want
the tacky postcard carousels,
the smugly clinking tills, the dumpy
women sweating at their counters
every summer, summer-long,
as well. I want their oily husbands
grinning now from ear to ear –
I am the sea come to swallow the pier.
© 2002, Isobel Dixon
From: New Writing 11
Publisher: Picador,
From: New Writing 11
Publisher: Picador,
Poems
Poems of Isobel Dixon
Close
(I Want) Something to Show for It
I’m not the kind who treasureslove notes in the sand, laid bare
for the lobstered swimsuit mob
to stare at, for the tide to lick
away. I want a token,
solid, in my hand. Something
with staying power, not easily lost
or broken. Do you understand?
You murmur, puzzled by my greed,
“What is it that you want a thing
to show for, anyway?” You may
well ask. It’s just a zero,
universal emptiness. It
brings forth nothing except need,
and the truth is, souvenirs
won’t do the trick: no poseur
snaps, no neat, insipid
diaries, no sickly rock,
unusual pebbles, musty shells. I want
the shining cliffs, the posh hotel,
the whole shebang. The waiters
running across emerald lawns,
their heavy silver platters
raised in skilful hands. I want
the tacky postcard carousels,
the smugly clinking tills, the dumpy
women sweating at their counters
every summer, summer-long,
as well. I want their oily husbands
grinning now from ear to ear –
I am the sea come to swallow the pier.
From: New Writing 11
(I Want) Something to Show for It
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère