A Poem on the Freshers’ Fair

 
My good friend, Philhellene and Poet Richard Devereux, sent me a message and a new Poem.
 

His message:
 
Friday, a week ago, I drove up to the Downs about 10:00 am to go for a walk. Behind a high metal fence were several large marquees and a crowd of students queuing to enter the site. It was Freshers' Fair - to welcome the first-year students who have just arrived in Bristol.
 
I thought I would see if I could get in as I thought it would be interesting to talk the Greeks and the Poets. The attached poem tells what happened next.
 
I noticed the Skopians, a pleasant young man and woman, had a banner, white letters on red: MAKEDONIA. To gain their confidence, I told them how moved I had been as a boy by the Skopje earthquake, how I had visited Lake Doiran and looked over the border but our car hire insurance prevented us from going there. Then I lectured them on the terms of the Prespa Agreement. Their only defence was we have been calling it Makedonia since we were small children.
 
His Poem:
 
 
On Blagging My Way Into Freshers’ Fair, Aged 72
 
 
Stall Holders Only the sign says.
I lower my eyes and carry on walking
briskly past the girl manning the barrier –
“Greek Club”, I boom. I’m in.
 
In long marquees, Clubs and Societies
have set up stalls on trestle tables.
Just turned ten – Freshers’ Fair is now open
 
and I am
as if a boy playing ball on some forbidden lawn.
 
In the International tent,
about fifty clubs in national colours
offer nibbles of native foods,
flyers for coming events,
photos, posters, keyrings,
and most of all, connections.
 
No show from the Hellenic Society
but it could be kicking off when they do;
their neighbours – the Makedonia Society –
fly a flag without the ‘North’.
I lecture them on the Prespa Agreement;
they shrug and offer a pepper dip.
 
In the Performance marquee, no sign
of the Poetry Society. The Pantomime Club
suggest I try the Hobbies tent “behind you”.
 
Near the Scouts, Chess and the 20 Minute Club –
the Poetry Society stall. Unmanned, of course.
A metaphor of absence
 
that I complete with my presence
in this forbidden place.
There is nowhere poets cannot go.