Elegy for Tracey

I

A dream in which the women were like Venus
made me think of art and you. You’re a
bot­ti­celli-baby; if I dipped a sheet of paper
into your mind, it would come out marbled
in oils and water­col­our and with bits
of moul­ded clay on the edges. Equally,
you sculpt with words, and each statue
smiles iron­ic­ally at its creator.

II

Head­line, in 2 inch banner.
And under­neath, the name, modest,
simple, but with a quietly triumphant
“I told you I’d make it”
hidden within for those who know.
When it hap­pens, don’t let it
go to your head. And be careful,
Too Trust­ing Trace: don’t let anyone
take you for a ride.

III

When I think journalist,
the word is smartly dressed in jargon,
shod in ste­reo­type. Somehow,
you don’t fit the hard-hitting,
heart­less frame, but you’ll charm them silly
and then shock them
by having brains just when
they thought they were safe.
Try not to hand in your drafts
covered too often in intric­ate blue-pen
mas­ter­pieces of shape. It’s the words
they’re look­ing for, and the insight
in some of your doodles
can be harrowing.
They’re look­ing for sur­face style.