On hearing that Ronnie...
To recall a friend
is never an adieu
he has merely stepped across the landing
the light still beams the door's ajar
you can hear him pacing humming swinging the windows
to let the street in the warmth
the wind ruffled
through his half-opened shirt
Across the spare digs halfway to the Schloss
austere in the shaded light slanting on drab curtains
the bare table rough-hewn the dishevelled books
the gaping porcelain jug and still wet basin
the whiff of fresh-bitten soap the close shave
and the stiff white collar excusing the day-old striped shirt
A gentle tap the door opens to a glass of port
cut bread
and even if you will not
cheese
'Beware! Beware you don't become an Hasbeen! '
he made no bones of his luck from stipends through Reading
the wideopen eyes commisserating through the flailing sheaf
fallen on his ample brow
the hand ever brushing aside
that wilful unconcern in your life
in your little worries your mishaps
And you knew you had mattered in his life
To recall a friend
is to give body to form
to words that bind muscle to bone
those mutual moments
You may come back a quarter of a century later
And he is still there a trifle stumped by your aged face
the mutual moments flow without break
You had driven through four sleepless nights
your eyes peeled beyond weariness
your mind bristling and in the red
'Take care! Take care', he said, 'lest you burn both ends! '
Other worlds other duties
keep you from bringing up his face
keep you from keeping mementoes:
'Never excuse, never apologise! '
yes you might have penned a word
when the stolid face swung back
you didn't for that would've been abrupt
too flippant unceremonious requiring tact
So you turn up a l'improviste
the mutual moments flow over coffee at the Konditorei
the same cream curtains
the same goldbraided periodlike chairs
over neatly folded ceremoniallike lace
the irreal flood of filtered light
outside
no more the tug and grating pull of trams to dull your words
Again the same attentive stare the same empathic vigil
for your fresh worries for your private imbroglios
while he foregoes a meal at the mensa
Only you hadn't known nor suspected
the stealthy pain gnawing away at the bones
nor did he let it be shown
Only the stoic face and the pained look
for your own blasé pain
Dedicated to Ronald Hindmarsh-Midwood (May 24,1930 - January 17,1992) *
(*Ronnie taught English at Heidelberg University when I first met him during the summer semester in 1957.)
(© T.Wignesan, July 4,1992 - Published as a « preface » to Ronald Hindmarsh's commemorative writings: « Mr. Hindmarsh is not writing a book.' 1993; from the collection: back to background material,1993]
poem by T. Wignesan
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