A couple of years ago I bagged up all of my neckties, most that I had worn whilst teaching [a strange sartorial proclivity for me, but a colourful one for a period], and posted a picture before I threw them away.
But I didn’t. They are still in the bag in the conservatory.
The following is a post of the ones I allegedly ‘saved’ [which I did, but not on their own, in the end] and a poem written about one from my collection Nearing the Border. Originally posted December, 2014:
Four ties that have today survived a cull of all the others.
These are special: one is a silk facsimile of a Vanilla Fudge at the Fillmore poster – quite expensive to buy as I recall; one a family gift for a Trekkie; one that prompted the following many years ago,
I down the last beer
think of Tom singing
‘Frank’s Wild Years’
get some kinda insight
into how a gruff voice so fine
can spin tales like that
especially when the cerulean fish
gets tied around the neck
just hangs about
waiting for a blue smooth jacket
one helluva sartorial splendour
in a drunk’s eyes
it’s swimming now
in a knot
time to get more liquid
a river sea ocean of
gonna look real cool in the