Film Festival

No-one could do appalled like you:
thirteen hours on a bus to hear some
bimbo narrate the Holocaust?
You slurped through screenings and speeches,
(Je ne parle pas Français became your mantra)
and kept tabs on Clare's scarves and shawls,
niggled by how a home-counties mumsy
could suddenly become une critique chic.

I frolicked with salamis and testicles of garlic
and covering up my ignorance of cheese
mimicked a sommelier, replete
with elongated vowels and rolled rhotics.
You cottoned on, dismissed me with a grave
smile. We'd never be the next New Wave.

Brian Edwards

If you have any comments on this poem, Brian Edwards would be pleased to hear them.