GOODBYE, GLENDA

It was the exquisite if unusual shape of her nose
That gave both sense and scope to her beauty.

This face, born in Birkenhead, ever strident, who got to be
Hampstead and Highgate’s MP. Ferocious from the first,

Her stare and voice stunned and startled, her glare
As soul searching as her delivery.  Not to mention

Her Je Ne Sais Quoi, as she could be handsome, ugly,
And pretty. Glenda in her bob and fringe, smiling sweetly,

Or corpsing with Morecambe and Wise melted most.
But look at her Elizabeth R, or hear her growls and groans

From back benches in which free from glamour,
She could whip up wild water after ceaselessly rocking boats.

As with Clare Short, she became one of Labour’s strong
Women; after Barbara Castle and Jennie Lee, Glenda sought

Some deeper truth that she could no longer find
In her acting. Let’s not forget that the Marat-Sade made her.

She was no dolly. From no casting couch was she bought.
She had her own allure, more in line with Dench, Smith

And Atkins; far more refined, almost studied, and free from
The glaze others fought. Such as Dame Diana Rigg, or those

Who frequently fell by the wayside, the dollied doves
Of the ‘60s; Glenda was more raven-like. For she grew

Somewhat coarser with age. It was as if beauty’s embodiment
Bothered. In closing in on the issues, did her hardening

Hurt her fans’ view? She would not have noticed, or cared.
In her return to TV and film in her eighties, she played King Lear;

Crow-like, craven, one part hag, nine parts true.
She had freed herself from the fame which is the alleged

Curse of all actors. Immerse yourself in the honey,
And even the busiest bee becomes wasp, as he, she,

Or they bare the sting of falsity thrust upon them.
Glenda Jackson just jacked that. She felt the mask mark,

Ripped it off, to reveal the bare bones hidden behind
Human beauty. She, independent after her early marriages

Rocked not only the boat, but the stage, film-set
And House of Commons. From privilege, purpose,

Such as it is, with or without public flock. And now,
She is another one gone, after so many losses.

A few remain in their eighties and nineties,
Nevertheless clinging on to a world we don’t know

As their replacements seem shallow. Apparently,
The arctic ice is retreating and at a tempo,

Which makes heavy weather (and metal)
From Mother Nature’s folksong. They will escape,

These spent stars who fought and argued for standards,
In Glenda’s republican cause, rights for women

And the socialist stance fired her. That special need
To believe that each on Earth was made equal.

She gave up fripperies to clutch at the fundamental.
She, a burned beauty,  moved from rose to thorn,

Smile to slur. And so we wave you off, as you exchange
Your English end now for Eden.  Which was never

On earth. In star gardens, beauty blooms through new roses.
These sky-flowers are gathered as the lost plot evolutions.

And perhaps revolution. Meantime, stars labour within
And for a new language. The light begins speaking.

And with this and they, God confers.

                                                                         David Erdos 15/6/23 

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