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  • Writing Magazine

    The siren’s call

    Dec 03, 2020 4 minutes

    IF I WERE LORELEI

    No, Mr Prufrock, I won’t sing for you
    unless you hire me professionally, and my fees are high.
    Believe me, you couldn’t afford me.
    You’re lucky.

    Only if I decide I want you, will I
    the cool northern Carmen decide to sing to you.
    Then watch out.

    (I’ve played that role on stage, of course, but critics weren’t convinced.
    Not enough fire, they said.)

    I don’t need fire.
    I’m the ice queen, I’m the bitch goddess; rather
    I light the fires in you.

    Slim, tall, straight-backed with straight black hair, I could be a Goth,
    picture me in a black dress and make-up, but I prefer
    to be sheathed in scarlet for jazz

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