Mary Black at 24 …

… singing Loving Hannah.


I have to say that I think she looked better, physically, at 31:

A “new” video of The Boys of Summer

This “Edited Official Video” appears to be practically the only version of this classic (1984) music video still available on the ‘net. I have referred to this video – and the girl running with the man on the beach, who it turns out was British supermodel Claire Atkinson – a few times on this blog.

I don’t know why it has the dual screen effect.

This version appears to have slightly different content than others I have seen (right towards the end.)


Here is Claire Atkinson modelling:


Senegalese girl with skin so dark it looks blue


Khoudia Diop, Senegalese model.



I have written previously at this blog about the bluish tinge some very dark-skinned Africans have, and speculated that its origin might be in the Tyndall effect. Steve Sailer, the right-wing pundit, has also touched on this interesting phenomenon.

More shots of the striking looking model below:





My wife’s hips

I span my wife’s hips with my hands
when she returns from our garden;
like a farmer contemplating his soil;
its width, depth and richness; surely
when man and wife were thrown
out of Eden, God hid a little of the land
of Paradise in Eve’s heart and body.


(Julian O’Dea)

She flitted by

She flitted by at night with a flash

of white limbs in the dark under her

black coat; her image burned into

my brain to return again and again

to stir me when I was feeling down.


In my heart I have walked that street

time and again, trying to recall her

perfectly to mind; but each time she

fades a little more in failing memory

like an ailing spirit in an old, old story.


(Julian O’Dea)

On A Winter’s Afternoon

On A Winter’s Afternoon

Close to sleep on a winter’s afternoon,
but hearing the liquid sounds of garden
birds singing to my ageing memories;
and remembering the soft watery light
on your dark hair and eyes like pools at
night, and how we have kept the seasons
sweet together; and enjoying a reverie
of dream honeybees gathering pollen
for whatever tomorrows may yet come.

(Julian O’Dea)


Now published here at Friday’s Poems.

The day must come

The day must come when even
the beauty of that young woman
will seem to me no more than
the plumage on some rare bird in
a forsaken forest on an island
which, riotous with life and
shining like a crystal in the sea,
I had long ago to leave behind.

(Julian O’Dea)