The last few moments of this years Oxford Literary Festival fooled me. A few pieces of the past were still strewn about town as I walked through but alas the amazing event has just left town.
Thankfully an exhibition in the Vaults cafe celebrates the buzz of the festival that has recently ended.
I browse a few books of poetry at the nearby book store to catch a sense of the creativity that has hung in the air this week.
Bicycles make a clean get away for the early birds who bagged a great selection of signed books. A late visitor asks for directions to the Bodleian library and can’t decide if she wants the old or new one. She is searching a classic and I imagine the journey.
I looked closer for a favourite classic in the library and was quizzed as to which version I wanted. The film adaptation or the original. This is the story of finding my favourite classic turned into a block buster
Mr Darcy’s Bootleg
When the hero of my book stares
out from the pages of a classic I know
he wants to find a close friend.
He shares his story of life in London’s East End.
I rewind his you tube and download
Mr Darcy’s debonair code and get direction
from our connection which was strong until he gained
fame and left town leaving
the original version in the lurch.
Right now he’s wrapped
in film and can only be seen
on a flat screen.
So I do a google search.
The girl in front of me in the queue for tickets
to our hero’s latest flick sounds
thick; she wonders if he will hear us scream?
There are hundreds of us, we came
on the same bus and our faces in the cinema stalls appear
small; he doesn’t see
us at all but it is still tough to leave the silver screen.
Cinema makes us believe
he’s here; even though he’s stood
We are made to leave by a busy usher
with no time to hunt a souvenir.
More power to my bootleg jeans
where the hidden camera reigns supreme.
I have him on my iphone and finally Mr Darcy and I are alone.
I sit with strong coffee and find my own words that feel ephemeral to me.
Hide the Cookie
The librarian moved
the novel I was reading
and a space shifted
on the bookshelf; the moment felt
empty like an old cookie jar that was replaced
by a plastic box and it was the first time I knew
that change was nothing personal.
Find out more ephemeral images here or below