Hogg And Hanlon And Me

Poem By Richard George

Three mature students
in decrepit Barbour jackets;
Judes obscure, each with an
implausible route to Oxford.
Hogg was twenty tragic stone,
Oscar Wilde meets Falstaff:
he taxied us in a Simca
he could fit inside with difficulty
and offered Sloanes 'A lift, my dear? '
I laugh his laugh to this day.

Hanlon was Anglo-Irish,
spare as a civil servant,
out of his gentle element
at his college of trendy horridans.
He read all Freud in fourteen days
and collected Sixties music long
before it came back into fashion,
positioning stylus on shellac
with laboratory precision.
I loved to listen.

All was potential, those three years:
Hogg would be huge on television,
Charles strike gold on Harley Street
and I - of course - would write.
Somehow, though, I think we knew
nothing would ever come of us.

A decade gone, and still I smile:
'Hogg would find that funny... God!
Hanlon would like this record'.
But did I like them more
than they liked me? What is it stops me
phoning, writing, E-mailing - and if
I ran and caught them
would they turn, insouciant, and ask
'Did you deserve us? '

Comments about Hogg And Hanlon And Me

There are fallen stars everywhere Richard! It's not the distance you travel; it's what you have with you. It sounds like you all had/have the right stuff. Plus, I have to echo Michael's comment. Not that I would disagree with him - he's too damn clever! This is dazzling stuff. The human situation beautifully and tragically recalled/portrayed. Thanks. Another one of the Likely Lads.
This one really hurt. Brilliant.

5,0 out of 5
2 total ratings

Other poems of GEORGE

Eclipse: A Haiku Sequence

at first, sunlight changing; then
dusky, or faded,

A Walking Sadness

The Euston Road. April. Night.
Of all these London numberless
I love one:
my old shoes pound her name,

Halcyon And After

It was May or June, I met you:

Business, something or other.

Sylvia Plath's Cats

Their breath was clean, or harsh and sour
according to her moods:
and when they sensed a coming storm
they crept into corners.

Marie Celeste

Now I may never see you again
I can think of no one else:
I wait on platforms, hair in the wind
But trains all leave the past

7/7: Before And After

The dark young man
with the curls of the Maghreb
is in an altercation
with the ghost