Les Tendresses pour Yonge Street ( Tokens of Affection for Yonge Street )
Posted: March 10, 2013 Filed under: Alexander Best, English Comments Off on Les Tendresses pour Yonge Street ( Tokens of Affection for Yonge Street )
ZP_Corner of Yonge and Dundas, Toronto, 1972, looking south_The buildings on the right side were all demolished to make way for construction of The Eaton Centre which opened in 1977.
Alexander Best
LES TENDRESSES POUR YONGE STREET #1
( TOKENS OF AFFECTION FOR YONGE STREET…..)
.
Playoffs had begun; things were looking up for The Leafs…
Ten young guys, walking south to Carlton Street. Jock-ish
In their jerseys, ballcaps, space-age sneakers.
Cases of beer: treasure borne on shoulders and heads.
.
The creature of them halted in front of a shop-window: leopard-bikinis and
Lacey things. Big noise from the boys, sports-monkey-like.
.
Two teenage girls appeared on the sidewalk, slowing down, unsure.
(Awkward experiment: elegant hair, in the style of Marie-Antoinette, combined
with denim ensembles, ‘racing stripes’ down the sides of their pant-legs.)
.
The guys turned from window-display toward the girls, emitting a lusty
Oh Yeah!
One of the girls (shy one) couldn’t help but grin, showing
Microchip-circuitry of railroad-tracks; her mouth was a mess. The boys
Paused — taking in this ruination of her face — glanced among themselves,
Then voiced an even huge-r Oh Yeeaahhh of instinctual approval.
.
Girl’s friend rummaged for an itzy-bitzy disposable camera, held it out, simply
Aimed it at the mass of boys, and clicked.
Females, a-giggle, clumped north in their trendy ‘big-foot’ shoes. The
Manimal continued its way down the street.
. . .
LES TENDRESSES POUR YONGE STREET #2
“Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.” / “I am a human being, I consider nothing that is human alien to me.”
(Publius Terentius Afer a.k.a. Terence – Roman playwright, 195–159 BCE)
.
I waited for the streetcar, in Monday’s midnight mist.
Cabbie pulled up, East-African guy, insisted I get in.
No money, I told him. Shift was over, he said. “You and I, we go in the
Same direction,” he assured me. Small as a boy, he was confident like a man.
.
Inside the car, passing the famous hockey-arena…
“Do you know this is a ‘gay area’ where you are standing on the corner?”
“Oh, really?” my mild response.
.
Left hand on the steering-wheel, he extended his right and placed the tips of his
Slim fingers on the vulnerable spot where my neck joins my breastbone.
“Let me see you” — his tone was oddly reverential.
.
I unbuttoned my shirt. He ran his hand over my chest and stomach.
“Ah,” he said gravely, “I am touching you, beautiful forest!”
The car skirted a grove of highrise apartment blocks, swinging onto the bridge that
Leads to a more sky-wide part of the city.
.
He patted my zipper: “Show me this one.”
He held my sex; it changed size. Chain of lights moved north, another south, on the
Riverside-highway below us. He considered me, in the palm of his hand:
“Alabaster plus two jewels,” he said. “ — but not so hard!” he added, joy flashing in his
Eyes. Our road lay arrow-straight, and luck – the traffic was serene.
.
I began to touch him, at the navel-gap in his shirt.
“No. This cannot. I am married.” — he spoke in a hush.
“Maybe I’m married, too,” I said. “You are wearing no ring,” he observed.
“True.” And I touched him again.
.
“Please do not,” he said firmly. Then, with a radiant smile showing teeth of
Stained ivory: “You will make us an accident…We must not have such a
Tragic romance!”
He refreshed me with these words. The car smelled of fake pine; radio-voice
Rhapsodized about a computer.
.
He caressed my thigh with his free hand. I told him my name; he, his; the
Bible came into it. When I was let out, he tapped a
Farewell-flourish on the car-horn.
.
A poet wrote: “It is only the sacred things that are worth touching.”
Thank you, stranger of the City, for revealing my body as sacred again.
In touching it you touched my soul.
ZP_Xaviera Hollander, the so-called Happy Hooker_She lived in Toronto during the mid-1970s and her liberated, guilt-free approach to sex was exactly what Toronto the Good needed_The Yonge Street Strip, mainly between Gerrard and Dundas, was the most honest zone in the city – a place of risqué fun and sleaze. Some of those qualities of random adventure and weird spontaneity still existed on the Yonge Street of the late 1990s – and the poet hopes he has captured a little of that in these three poems…
LES TENDRESSES POUR YONGE STREET #3
.
It was along by the Zanzibar Tavern…
Delivery van struck a man. Soft-hard sound, and he
Flipped through the air as if juggled.
.
Magnificent. People spun ’round.
He wasn’t out-cold; dusted himself off, embarrassed.
He began to walk; straightaway teetered, fell
Crumpled against a newspaper box.
Blood on his neck; humanity gawked.
.
An efficient person called the hospital on his pocket-phone.
The van-driver was sorry, impatient.
.
An old man and woman — he reedy, she petite — approached the
Injured one: “What is your name, dear?” said the woman, bending.
“What is my name? — What is my name?!?”
“Don’t, now…you’ve had a shock,” she said.
.
The man’s accent was distinctive; words in the shape of fear.
He’d’ve hailed from a dozen lands — to be precise.
.
The woman gestured for her mate to lean down with his good ear:
“He can stay with us…The children are gone — they needn’t know.”
Her husband’s eyebrows went up; held themselves aloft; settled down.
“Yes…I don’t see why not.”
.
The nameless fellow was arranged into the ambulance by two delicate,
Burly attendants. The couple was helped in next; one guy taking the
Old lady’s patent-leather handbag, the other the
Old gentleman’s cane.
.
(1999 – 2000)
ZP_Yonge Street, Toronto, in the 21st century_Looking south from the corner of Yonge and Gerrard
Zócalo Poets 