Colmar
is a matrix of criss-cross canals, capitale des vins d'Alsace
and where, at 13, on the school French exchange,
I met Elodie Mullan.
All summer, would insist on croissants, slurp expresso
and defame Scotland with a fraudulent harshness;
for I knew nothing of our propinquity to the Rhine
or Vosges mountains, only that Elodie lived a stone’s throw
away and with craned neck out the attic window
I could see her boudoir; where there must have been
frequent nakedness.
Our moments were few: sat side-by-side on a boat tour,
locked hands walking through a rusting vineyard
and were dancing partners for three songs;
linked together like salted pretzels.
A photograph of us, in partial embrace, reveals Elodie,
alluring as Julie Delpy, me, wholly disparate, in a Scotland
strip with peroxide-blonde hair. The sky, like the shirt,
ultramarine, whilst I blushed rouge from little-boy syndrome.
I used to dream of returning a celebrity, with histrionic
displays of extravagance. It would have been horrendous:
white-limo, champagne, skunk, one-liners –
like something from a hip-hop video.
Nowadays, I’d explain how a poem is like a bomb,
a bomb like a poem, when assembled correctly
both explode rather than arrive, become
instantly important; as she did and could again.
*Michael Pedersen is a 26 year old writer of Scottish stock. He has published two successful chapbooks (Part-Truths and The Basic Algebra of Buttering Bread) and has a full length collection forthcoming later this year. Allied to this he script edits for a forthcoming motion picture; has written a short play that will appear under National Theatre of Scotland and co-captains Neu! Reekie! collaborative arts night. Here is his website: www.michaelpedersen.co.uk
