Thursday, December 07, 2017

Elegy for Christine Keeler

         Christine Keeler (1942-2017)

Rest in peace, Christine Keeler,
far from the razor and potato peeler,

far from the drugged drug dealer
far from the groper and feeler.

You deserve a Shelley or Keats,
not  a yours truly who bleats

like some sore shallow throat 
who only gets one’s  goat.

Always a bridesmaid, always confetti,
always a male Christina Rossetti,

I dearly wish I had known you
and in the crisis could have phoned you.

I wish that I had been your friend,
and had been there at the end

to tell you what I wanted to say:
“Christine, have a great day!”


Rest in peace, Christine Keeler,
far from the weasel wheeler-dealer,

far from males who cheat,
far from gigolos in heat,

a poor, pretty party girl
caught up in the  social swirl

of London’s libertine  nightlife—
the bane of the pimp Profumo’s  wife,

an uncut diamond in the rough,
no lipstick, no powder puff,

no glutinous make-up
to get dry and cake-up,

no stiletto heels to kick up,
no husband after whom to pick up.

Your complexion was as clear
as a baby’s pampered rear,

as white a heavenly cloud 
as the drab London sky allowed.

  Keeler striding chair, c. 1963