I loved your stories of the old times -
the endless journeys of the band bus,
Judy with her black-eyed girl,
the first action at each hotel
the drawer taken from the chest,
you laid in it; the band singer filling in
between the famous stars; knowing
the bridges between the famous verses
which singers seem to love so much
as if they're nearer private lives
of songwriters who have lives;
the visits to Stan Laurel, modest,
bright-eyed, pining for his Oliver..
the glittering night-time life
of wartime, almost-still-1930s
of the Hollywood refugees;
told by the not-quite-famous who
performed in front of the famous;
the time when thanks to you
I spoke to Gloria Swanson on the phone..
I hear the footsteps of the high-heeled life;
I smell the perfumes now no longer made.
I thank you for all these and more.
And if some of them
were not quite true,
then thank you for the care
with which you told them;
true dreams - dreamed truth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem