Ian the Black Sheep
The second of four Fleming
brothers with a hero father
an über-wealthy grandfather
an overbearing mother
oh, Ian the black sheep
moody, withdrawn, long
hair slicked back exuding
the promise of something
dashing or daring, risks
in his piercing blue eyes
great laugh all the girls
flocked to him, his friends
lost out to him at Eton
his future spy network
fatherless boys whose dads
had died in World War I
he learned German, French
a bit of Russian he decided
he wanted to write novels
but held off, his older brother
a young author and Ian
flunked the diplomat exam
became a writer for Reuters
charming, persuasive, magnetic
an iconoclast people liked him
in Moscow to cover a sham
trial of two English businessmen
when he saw the dark hand
of Russia murderous, devious
in his future spy novels and
his book collection growing
he treated women the same way:
hunt, acquire, shelve
oh, the seductive playboy
a smooth rock against which
so many reckless women
dashed themselves.
Ian the Spy
Left out of his grandfather’s estate
the only heir without funds
he worked for a living
for newspapers, banks
and a job as a personal aid
to the director of Naval Intelligence
laying the groundwork
for the greatest intel alliance
in history he helped build
the CIA as well
but never talked
about what he did he did
start to drink too much
during the war
his 450 operatives
captured Enigma machines
to decode Nazi plans
the life or death drama, the risks
he recreated while managing
a newspaper syndicate
during the Cold War
a global cadre
of reporter spies
saving the world
from Russian aggression
he rose to the challenge
for the rush, oh the rush
that incandescent high
one only experiences
in a moment of greatness
he was able to recapture
with his writing
in his novels
on the risks, the wins
against the evil empire
by the glamorous Brit
the dapper super-spy
double-oh seven
James Bond.
Ian at Goldeneye
He fell in love with
a rum punch on arrival
fresh fruits, fresh fish
the colors, scents, trees
swaying palms and mangos
warm rain on warm waves
caressing the white sand
on the island of Jamaica.
He’d lost his first love
a sweet Swiss girl
at his mother’s demand
then Muriel, his love
a motorcycle dispatcher
killed in the war
his married older lover
Maud warned him
no, not Ann
Lady Ann, chaos Ann
but he liked her because
of her independence
her toughness he said
she was such a bitch.
On fourteen acres north
of Montego Bay
he built his home
with money from Maud
no glass in the windows
big sky, turquoise sea
blue floors and birds
flying in and out
natural and peaceful
he called it Goldeneye
Ann visiting, leaving
a son her husband
believed was his own
divorce and a marriage
Ian didn’t want, violent
whippings he maybe did.
Ian as James Bond
Swimming in clear water
above parrot fish, barracuda
escaping into a hidden world
under deadline he sits down
at his battered Royal typewriter
with the mind of a sexy boy scout
introducing a British ultra-hero
attractive to men and women
dangerous, exciting, patriotic
the ultimate suave spy
himself but romanticized
a fast car fantasy life:
sharp clothes, fine foods
whiskey, gin, martinis
a string of bedworthy girls
a chain of cigarettes
in solitude, darkness
Scottish melancholy.
After the first sale
a Bond every year
all done the same way:
an early morning swim
then hours in the study
two months in Jamaica
editing in Manhattan
retyping in England
one after another until
even JFK would ask:
“What would Bond do?”
Finishing the first book
the bang-bang, kiss-kiss
he hands in the manuscript
in time to marry Ann
and suffers for twelve years
writing eleven more books
smoking, drinking, escaping
her mockery, his depression
before the final chapter
of his filmworthy life:
a glass of whiskey and
dead at the height of fame.