I fell in love

with celluloid before I could spell it

and perhaps even before I knew

how much a grip it would hold

on my soul.

 

A cold night in Birmingham,

my cousin and I out with an aunt

decked out against the billowing

droplet air, glacial toes riding

against warm pins and needles

and her stockings catching fire

breath as they rode

up and down

over her knees

and the static sparking life

on the nylon covered seats.

 

The first in a long line of cinematic experiences,

the final word now bandied around

to mean extortion, to mean extras,

to mean add-ons and to keep the till

banging with tempered ghoulish heart;

back then though

it just meant that,

the experience of being in love,

with the story, the music,

the rush of excitement

of the hero decked out

in panoramic finery,

of the woman I wanted to save

beautiful in long red hair, or

even stitched together, smoking a fag,

leather trousers and tousled hair,

the good girl gone bad.

 

Others may talk of the whirr of the camera

over their heads, the dust cloud of

white sun explosion that made

the film reel

and the picture of glorious science fiction,

of spy stories, of the second feature,

the possible cartoon, the stale sticky floor

all come alive, but not me,

I cannot explain, I do not want to try

but like watching Olivia Newton John

sing to me, like watching her crook her finger,

beckoning to the seven year old

to join her on screen,

I knew I was hooked for life.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015