The Stars Look Down





I see them in my dreams

The best of them, the brightest.

They illuminated my childhood,

Informed my plastic years;

Gave me freely of their stories;

I took of them; I made them mine.

Later, I loved their memory.


Mitchum, he didn’t say much

But you had to listen.

Mature, Heston: was it me, or

Did they sweat all the time, even

Off the set? I forgave them.

The women I loved to hate:

Stanwick, Davis, Crawford;

The ones I adored:

Bergman, Loren, Taylor;

The ones I was pretty ambiguous about:

Hepburn the mannish, Hepburn the boyish;

Respect: Richard Todd,

Admiration: James Mason,

Emulation (yeah, me and a bazillion others):

James Dean!


Starry Night...

Vincent, poor darling, painted the

Stars in the sky, for lack of

The real thing.

His were pale swirls—

Intimations, I like to think, of

Coming Attractions!

If only he’d known;

I wish he had.

If I could send him a film

From the lolly shop in the foyer

Across the mortal veil,

I would make it a David Lean.


Yes.




Copyright ©  Peter Twohig. All rights reserved.