The Meeting Place

This was inspired by the poetry competition run earlier in the year by Fosseway Writers. It was one of the pieces submitted to the Newark Art Group to see if they could create some pictures to go with the words. I was very fortunate to have my poem selected by the incredibly talented Pat Murray who said that the poem really chimed a chord with her. She met her husband at the ‘Left Lion’ in the Market Square in Nottingham; I deliberately inserted the lion reference at the start of the poem as the stone lions are well-known rendezvous points. Pat’s also a big fan of the 1960 film Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, starring Albert Finney and filmed in Nottingham, so re-worked images from that into the vibrant acrylics and ink picture shown here (which, of course, I ended up buying).

The poem mainly references a very specific location in Newark Market Place, just outside the LetsXcape Together café next to the Town Hall. I was on my way to a Fosseway Writers’ session inside when I noticed a few people hanging around waiting for someone; checking phones, leaning on antique ironworks. Bingo, the idea had taken root. Hope you enjoy it!

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The Meeting Place

There is an enduring tradition in every town:
Meet me by the clock, the lion, the statue.
In daylight merely landmarks but at dusk
They hold the promise of flirtations and what-might-be.

A bank of stone steps and a wrought iron bannister;
The pool of streetlight spilling into an adjacent archway;
This is where they meet, singles clustering together,
To loiter self-consciously, or brag and laugh,
Or shuffle awkwardly off to first dates
At cheap restaurants or the flicks.

The steps and railings have held court to
Rendezvous through every generation
Of anxious suitors and stressed suitresses
Waiting for their anticipated pairing
With faux nonchalance, nervy bravado,
Jangling coins and bitten lips.

Dial the days back and the lighting
Comes in dim puddles of silver,
Now fiery sodium-orange
Evolving into warm eco-white.
The sign above the shop shifts too:
Outfitters to hardware, book shop to café.

Old cobbles underfoot begat paving slabs, that cracked,
Mal-patched with tarmac and replaced by cobbles-nouveau.
Faces once lit by flaring sulphurous matches,
Plastic Bic lighters and red-tipped cigarettes;
Now illuminated by an LED twilight
Of smart phone social connectivity.

If you pass close by you could also savour
The scents of stale sweat, oil and soap
Blending with lavender and Mint Imperials;
Beer and Brut, Babycham and Tramp;
The tang of cheap cider and pre-drink ejecta;
Vape clouds of sweet exotic fruits.

The steps, the ironwork, the archway
Are constants, an unbroken background to,
And integral part of, the human need to meet.
They’re playing host tonight, but these days
There’s far less waiting: Where Are You? texts 
Have replaced the forlorn stood-up silhouettes.

NK Rowe