David Selzer | Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction » skirt

‘EAST END GIRL, DANCING THE LAMBETH WALK’: BILL BRANDT

David Selzer — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 09:38:30 +0000

'East End Girl, Dancing The Lambeth Walk' Photo by Bill Brandt

He’s set it up, of course. Or, rather, framed it.

There’d be no feigning this young woman’s delight

in being ‘free and easy’ and doing

‘as you darn well pleasy’. She’s got her best blouse on,

with shoulder puffs, her sister’s shoes, which fit her now,

black ankle socks and shoulder length, unpermed hair

freshly washed – and waved, probably with Kirby grips.

Doin’ the walk, she lifts the hem of her skirt,

revealing her slip – and smiles coquettishly.

Beside her is a line, a queue almost of

female acolytes. (The only boy looks away).

They’re pre-pubescent, excited, nervous at what they see:

grown up clothes, shapely legs, unimaginable bust,

a sensuousness that, unwilled, will be theirs.

Down the street of terraced houses, symmetrical

as barracks, a woman strides, her back turned

on this miracle: a girl who knows

she will never grow old – ‘Any ev’ning,

any day…Doin’ the Lambeth Walk.’ Oi!

FIRST DATE

David Selzer — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 16:50:28 +0000

Walking behind you – your chignon, your tanned forearms, your calves, your white, pleated skirt swaying, just the suggestion of that bottom – into a sunlit pub on Wenlock Edge for gin and orange and a pint; watching Macbeth through inexorable drizzle in a Shropshire market town – ‘It will be rain tonight’. ‘Let it come down’; drying off in another pub, hearing someone recite Housman loudly: ‘When smoke stood up from Ludlow…;’ driving home, your sleeping head on my shoulder, your future already in my hands – nearly two generations ago.

‘EAST END GIRL, DANCING THE LAMBETH WALK’: BILL BRANDT

admin — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 18:45:38 +0000

He’s set it up, of course. Or, rather, framed it.
There’d be no feigning this young woman’s delight
in being ‘free and easy’ and doing
‘as you darn well pleasy’. She’s got her best blouse on,
with shoulder puffs, her sister’s shoes, which fit her now,
black ankle socks and shoulder length, unpermed hair
freshly washed – and waved, probably with Kirby grips.
Doin’ the walk, she lifts the hem of her skirt,
revealing her slip – and smiles coquettishly.

Beside her is a line, a queue almost of
female acolytes. (The only boy looks away).
They’re pre-pubescent, excited, nervous at what they see:
grown up clothes, shapely legs, unimaginable bust,
a sensuousness that, unwilled, will be theirs.

Down the street of terraced houses, symmetrical
as barracks, a woman strides, her back turned
on this miracle: a girl who knows
she will never grow old – ‘Any ev’ning,
any day…Doin’ the Lambeth Walk.’ Oi!