October 1, 1960

Time-warp and the wedding dress
The godless smile was blurred deliberately,
I’m damned if I know why. But since that day,
And all that I’ve gained uxoriously,
I’ve earned some learning from this long delay.

The photo hints at churchly ritual,
At stoles and rings and mournful minstrelsy,
At rules avoiding matters sensual,
At problems solved by domesticity.

Back then I fixed my mind on other things,
Time past, time present, why not time to come?
The speech I later made, how now it stings,
The schism we just missed, the senses numb.

For how would marriage add to our estate?
My parents’ knot was one untied lament.
Would argument supplant our chaste debate?
Or quick words be a damned impediment?

The suit I wore, its cheapness, lack of style
My hair sleek cut, ears rashered at the side,
The paunch, the grin still weakly juvenile,
An intellect that hardly qualified.

These doubts, these faults were altar gifts I bore
From my side of the wedding sacrament;
Beware the groom confusing less with more,
Who treats the oath as an experiment.

That’s how I was, both callow and inept,
Clearly unfit for such an adult move
A lad deserving nowt but a lad’s respect
A shallow shadow of that ogre, love.

And that was then, and many since have died.
They’re there, above, their gifts I apprehend:
Thoughts, faces, wishes for me, all elide,
Those clothes! Ah yes! That world they do extend.

The dress, in white of course, it cost a mint
Ours – rather, hers – for just one nuptial day,
The fabric a celestial element,
The style a fig for any hint of disarray.

The lower skirt’s outspreading bell of light
Added a bodice sewn for modesty;
Maybe. But also something less polite:
A radiance of sexuality.

The dress, a symbol, as befits a bride,
To compensate for that drab Burton suit,
A day outshining what the night implied,
Dawn honoured by a womanly salute.

The rented dress went back; another bride
No doubt wore well its glaring purity.
And we were poor and comfort was denied
And winters brought their insecurity.

That dress and its unwonted luxury
Symbolically remains a shift in time.
A touch of grace, framed in austerity,
Before the climb that ended with this rhyme.

May 21: Faithful (and kind) readers of Tone Deaf will know I write verse, not poetry. To use the latter rather than the former would invite accusations of hubris. I've been at verse for half a dozen years and I had faint hopes this one might qualify for promotion. But in the stark light of day rather than the comfortable recesses of my noggin, I see this is not the case. There are one or two clusters ("mournful minstrelsy", "how now it stings", "celestial element") but the narrative - as I see it - is broken-backed. Reluctantly I realise I shall die an amateur and that's a word I particularly dislike.