Dirk Bogarde’s Right Eyebrow
Have you ever wondered
what it’s like doing press-ups
just above somebody’s eye?
I’ll tell you.
Always on view, I had to look my best,
a perfect bow, rising
and falling at another’s pleasure.
Before the close-ups I was plucked
harder than a harp.
Then stroked, a sleek crescent arching
over his soft, brown iris.
After that I was ready to stare out
the cameras lift and launch
our quizzical expression on to film.
He raised me in mean moods and romantic moments,
sank me in acquiescence.
I had to be there, in situ, for Silver Screen,
Technicolour and Cinemascope; up, down,
trampolining for our public.
There I was buffed and brushed, flexing
on countless cinema posters
made the blood thrash
in a trillion women and not a few men.
That action didn’t come naturally,
One smooth take representing
hours of optical iron pumping.
Nobody ever asked me if I needed a rest
or suffered from repetitive strain.
My glossy fibres spanned and adorned that orb,
that cornea, those rods and cones;
my delicate musculature took the weight
of that titanic talent and made it what it was.
There were times I would have liked
to have given way, gone into a nervous decline,
ascended, descended at my own pace,
causing a facial tic when he least expected it.
But I was an impeccable performer, a great trouper
never crinkled, frizzled or over long.
Thespian to my roots.
what it’s like doing press-ups
just above somebody’s eye?
I’ll tell you.
Always on view, I had to look my best,
a perfect bow, rising
and falling at another’s pleasure.
Before the close-ups I was plucked
harder than a harp.
Then stroked, a sleek crescent arching
over his soft, brown iris.
After that I was ready to stare out
the cameras lift and launch
our quizzical expression on to film.
He raised me in mean moods and romantic moments,
sank me in acquiescence.
I had to be there, in situ, for Silver Screen,
Technicolour and Cinemascope; up, down,
trampolining for our public.
There I was buffed and brushed, flexing
on countless cinema posters
made the blood thrash
in a trillion women and not a few men.
That action didn’t come naturally,
One smooth take representing
hours of optical iron pumping.
Nobody ever asked me if I needed a rest
or suffered from repetitive strain.
My glossy fibres spanned and adorned that orb,
that cornea, those rods and cones;
my delicate musculature took the weight
of that titanic talent and made it what it was.
There were times I would have liked
to have given way, gone into a nervous decline,
ascended, descended at my own pace,
causing a facial tic when he least expected it.
But I was an impeccable performer, a great trouper
never crinkled, frizzled or over long.
Thespian to my roots.
Lyn White
(Maidstone, Kent)
(Maidstone, Kent)
Page(s) 16
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