Saturday Night At The Movies

Saturday Night At The Movies short poem

for John McBride Neill

There was the Savoy and Lyceum,
the Majestic and Colosseum,
the Regal and the Roxy,
the Tonic and the Troxy,
the Princess and the Pallidrome,
the Alhambra and Hippodrome.
Great picture palaces,
art deco and glass,
velvet and brass,
where the poor of Belfast
could feel like stars
for a night.

And the Strand,
sailing up the Holywood Road
like a great ocean liner,
where my grandmother
took a flask of tea and sandwiches
to Gone With The Wind,
and my father watched
Flash Gordon and Roy Rodgers,
and rode an imaginary
Trigger the two miles home.

Now the Lido is a chapel,
the Metro sells fried chicken
the Apollo, a Chinese supermarket,
and the Alpha, a loyalist drinking den.

But the Strand,
where my father
saw Flash kiss Dale,
and my grandmother
saw Rhett kiss Scarlet,
where I kissed a girl badly
in the back row, five minutes
before the film ended,

the Strand
still stands.

This poem is part of the Poetry Book Black Eyed Peace

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of david atkinson

david atkinson

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
Irish poet, who spent his early years in Belfast and now lives in Coleraine with his wife and 2 children. His first collection "Thomas" was published by Lapwing in 2005, and his second collection "Black Eyed Peace" has just been published. It is available as either a free eBook or in traditional printed format. His work has been widely published in magazines, anthologies, and on-line. His work has also been broadcast and published by the BBC and a number of his poems have achieved competition success. He has been involved with the Ballymoney Writers for over 15 years and has edited and published 3 collections of their work.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

1 Comment on "Saturday Night At The Movies"

Notify of
Sort by:   newest | oldest
Bill Peeler

Good stuff.


Next Night

Next Night short poem

I hate the self-immolation of orange sex. Weather was leaving blue strings on the skin. Redemption was incomplete by sharing the legs Lips will not knead the ears. Like wakng in darkness for a passage to grief. Black moon will

A Somber Night

A Somber Night short poem

A volcanic kiss was becoming ungreen. The shark was coming. All night it was raining. The sap was rising and love-farm was deluged. A blue moon walks on the dry eyes. Why the tears had gone to exile? A mole

Stormy Night

Stormy Night short poem

The dark clouds are rolling in quickly, wild wind blows fast and fiercely Many leaves and twigs start twirling around and circling Feeling like Edgar Allen Poe, In the distance I can hear some echo’s Of many dog’s barking in

Splitting The Night

Splitting The Night short poem

Pillage started, when there were anti-answers. The trapped light- wanted to be released, from brutalism. When you were nearly drowned, in the multitude of questions, joining the palms, you collect the moments of solitude. You drop a key in the

The Night Sky

The Night Sky short poem

As the sun dives into the beguiling sky And the darkness is about to smear the vault of heaven. The mind, then wanders the lonesome places. The moment , when the mollified region is filled with despondency. The night, then