The salmon swam the sacred well

Made wise by falling hazel shell

That one may know (the first to bite)

The truth of human appetite.

THE
FISH
WHO KNEW

Words of Phil Deeks

Keepsakes

Blown and buffeted, snow was falling hard. It swirled about my fringe and settled on my scarf: my one concession to winter. Its flurries scampered and bounded, each one as impish as the last, naughty siblings determined to spoil an enjoyable day. They succeeded. I was cold, and I needed warmth, but it was Christmas. My usual haunts were packed, and I had no other choice.

Looking back, there was less leather than I expected and fewer riding crops, but it was a day that reddened my cheeks. After all, I was twenty and a musician; I didn't buy clothes from an outfitter. Browsing the racks did nothing to change my mind, but its fan heater was welcome. The second I heard its seductive purr, I headed for the stairs.

There are some things in life we can't replace: threadbare bears, childhood books, scribbled notes, and ticket stubs. For me, it's a jacket, the one I found upon a mannequin of curious deportment at the top of those stairs. Three-buttoned, chestnut cord, and cut in a way that undid my resistance, I couldn't resist it.

I still can't. I've worn it for thirteen years, tossed it over numberless barstools and bedsteads, flung it upon my shoulders through thick and thin (size adjusted accordingly), and it retains its charm. True, it's a little worse for that wear: the left-hand lapel is a pincushion of youthful folly, one pocket home to irremovable gum discarded moments before that unexpected kiss, an elbow witness to free refills and easy chairs as the Manchester rain coloured the world outside the lines of my notebook. That is why it's irreplaceable: it's a record of my life, a collection of memories more vital than any Facebook or Instagram post.

It's something real – a life lived instead of posed. No matter how it may fade, it will always hold those moments. It's both keepsake and living item, a corrugated comrade that preserves my past and allows me to meet the future in shabby style. I can't ask for more than that.

Poetic metre is like a corset: restrictive and unnecessary, but it shapes the pleasures it contains.

Bordeaux

Here she comes, that girl you know,
The one who loves to tease.
Like a young Brigitte Bardot
Caught by the autumn breeze.
With the best of Art Nouveau,
Her curves designed to please.
Here she comes, that girl you know,
The one who loves to tease.

Here she comes, that girl you know,
The one I can’t refuse.
Like the vines around Bordeaux
Each night she will infuse:
Subtle hints matured to show
The thoughts that words confuse.
Here she comes, that girl you know,
The one I can’t refuse.

Here she comes, that girl you know,
The one without a care.
Like a mask of falling snow,
My sense she will impair.
Lost within that fleeting glow,
We’ll talk of Baudelaire.
Here she comes, that girl you know,
The one without a care.

What’s true isn’t always believable. What’s believable isn’t always true.

Jay Gatsby

I have been distracted of late: hours pass; conversations drift like smoke from denuded cigarettes; I have not been myself.

True, my mind is prone to wander. Employers despair at my lack of concentration, lovers at my lack of constancy. I do not mean to disappoint, but I often do. That is the curious thing. Instead of roaming where they please, my thoughts have fixed on one item in particular: a Jay Gatsby.

Downton Abbey was to blame. Its mix of well-cut scenes, clothes and accents had me hooked. Each subdued vignette, sidelong glance and stolen kiss confirmed I was born too late. I should be reclining in the library, a guest to bring scandal to a noble house. In this, I am with Monet: one cannot beat a duchess or a maid. Still, I would need the right clothes. The kind that would entice the daughter of an earl to run off with a tradesman: my eyes fixed on Branson.

Made of Hebridean cloth, the thread of time offset, it had a rootless quality — the sort of cap that suits a weekend in the country or a drunken night in town. Its eight panels, hand-stitched, would please a viscount or a vagrant, a scally or a Sloane. It could, to steal a phrase, do both. If I hoped to inveigle a lady away from her morals and into my flat, it was just the thing I would need.

To which end, after losing my sole to the high street, a Cuban heel undone by the demands of scarce supply, I found a hatter online: my impatient cap arrives next week. Granted, it may not equal Aphrodite’s band, but it will look well. That is what counts. I may even put my new-found concentration to good use – not that the world could cope with such a thing.

One man will read thousands of words and write thousands more to understand what another knows without thought.

Hint of Silk

That hint of silk against her thigh
Did not distract nor catch my eye.
Between her lips of parted rose,
She placed a smile and did compose
Herself upon the cushioned floor —
A gentle heart I could adore.

Each breath she took was music played
Unto my heart though still we stayed.
As if to move would somehow break
The spell that cast our dreams awake,
And yet, compelled, I raised my hand
To brush aside a golden strand.

As midnight threw its shadow far,
Past antique wood and door ajar,
Past the hearth where incense burned,
She sat in wait for pages turned.
”Saint Agnes Eve”, the words to slip
In tender tone from trembling lip.

A man who dreams of nothing but wealth or fame lacks the imagination to merit either.

First Guitar

The guitar landed with a thud as it missed the wall by inches. “Serves you bloody well right!” I snarled, too far gone in a haze of slamming doors and cigarette smoke to care.

The evening passed, followed by the next, but the guitar didn’t move. It remained where it landed: heaped in a heap of denim and plaid. Had it been easier to reach, it would’ve been kindling. As it was, it became the target of a barrage of curses – salvos wrought with such skill I’ve yet to surpass their eloquence – as my temper continued to overheat.

To keep it from boiling, I sought distraction in the holidays: school had finished, and the number of opportunities to misbehave had never been as numerous. The weather, after a wrong turn mid-Atlantic, was sublime. Amy, my favourite bookseller, had a smile she saved just for me. I was free and determined to make every second count.

So it went. The scalded lobster of July melted into a bronzed and honeyed August, each stolen kiss in the reference section was sweeter than the last, and the shortening days added to the intensity of each fleeting pleasure. It was a dragonfly existence.

And yet, despite my fun, music continued to nag. The buzz of riffs and licks, crackling radios and iPods dragged me back to my guitar and its nest of laundry. As I lay naked, the remnants of my summer revels tangled in my hair, I rolled a cigarette and the question of my Yamaha back and forth.

Stuff it, I thought. Who needs broken strings and blisters? I’d quit, and that’d be that. Only it wasn’t. It was my fault – I knew my dog days of indulgence wouldn’t go unpunished. In truth, it was part of the fun. I’d baited them; now they’d bait me. Such is the wont of families. What I needed was a trick, a way to hit back when talk of an office job intensified. I fixed my eyes on my guitar. Stuff it, I thought. Who needs bickering and biros? I’d learn to play, and that’d be that.

And it was. For a time at least.