Songs of a Menoflân by Dani Salvadori
This life writing piece by Dani Salvadori is a work of prose-poetry about the 'menoflân' – an older, menopausal flâneuse – moving through a ceaseless, beating city such as London, where 'the grammar of the city is movement'. As she slips through various streets and situations, the menoflân asserts a profound understanding and possession of the place she is in.
This piece was shortlisted for the 2025 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize.
'She has entered an undocumented corporality. Excellent. Now the scintillating research can begin.' — Lisa Robertson, Proverbs of a She Dandy (2018)
Definition
mē’noflân (mē’noflah’n) n. woman at or over the menopause who spends time idling in a city. [f. Gk mén; ménos month, f. F flâner saunter; lounge]
Manifesta
Menoflâns excavate the layers of the city. Menoflâns tell the fables of the city. The city that writes and lends us its sentences. Of passion. Of loss. Of desire. Of drunkenness on a Friday night. Of the handbag left on the tube. Of no way out of the tube station. Of the child holding tight to her toy while her mother falls apart.
Menoflâns know that the city is serious and joyful. They know the passions of the people scoring the surface of the city. How they gouge the streets when they strut and want. With desire. With fear. With need. With bright eyes on a Saturday night. Coming in every day and leaving every night. Leaving the city to those who do not want to leave.
The grammar of the city is movement. Menoflâns have no interest in abolishing grammar. Keep moving. Keep frisking. Keep prancing. Evade the debt of what should be done. What was done. Which is still done. But by others. Menoflâns have paid off our debts. Our organs are ours now.
Menoflâns are in every house. In every woman. In the hospital, clasping their mothers as they wither away. We watch our futures. We are not interested in our pasts. Because they are long gone and there is no way back. We look to the new. We create the new. We are used to our dreams. It is our reality we are creating.
Menoflâns look forward. Look down. Drill down. We are unseen. We are unheard. But we hear all. We see all. Or at least we see something. As we stay still, the city flows around us. We are the centre as the city swirls.
Menoflâns recognise each other with the secret glances that only we can spot. We are our city. We are there at every show. In every train. In every life. Ignore us at your peril because we make the myths. The ones that you did not think needed making. But they do. They do.
The Menoflân starts the year by going to a party like the old days and wonders why nothing feels new
in a good marriage
the bustles were tremendous
such a heavy reverb
pinned to the depths
a doddle to follow
with the normal mix of
wood panelling and gossip
past the hulk of the museum
getting back into an old coat
exactly what was going to happen
they weren’t the same place
eyes shining pissed with pleasure
denizen of the 1960s
frank with a broken ankle
*
The Menoflân goes for a gossipy walk with friends on an icy winter’s day
find ourselves in poets’ corner
famous for the quality of mud
a balancing act between
a party in Maidstone
and an icy bank in shade
for the 650 metres
by the side of the A1
looking for a pole carrying
electrical cables
gather the view of fields
coffee’d up and a bit impatient
crowds in art
burble about life
each step almost landing in a fall
*
The Menoflân buys a milk pan and then takes the bus to the station on a rainy day
not the most basic
the sort of adventure
you could have in furniture
putting to sea as a new person
legs straight up in the air
for longer than is comfortable
joy squashed by
dank T-shirts
in a stationary lake of traffic
an amateur through the barriers
conquered the project
writing the opposite
to the pale blue milk pans
no stripes no patterns
*
The Menoflân goes to the National Gallery to see her favourite painting of cabbages but gets waylaid by still lifes and painted breasts
a giant lute and a mini church
tweak her nipple as if
she is a radio needing tuning
an object that is in fact dead
stacked with hope and passion
for the less favoured son
leg to the fore
in a gesture of pride
writing a manifesto at the murder
edge of the genre
for a magical bishop
flooded with light
a Balkan feel to it
but could be anywhere
*
The Menoflân wonders about the woman sitting opposite on the District line with a rabbit in an animal carrier
coo softly through the fur
coating their tongues
in a plastic cage
quiver not sure if this is the time
to crack with the heat
in a high hat two seats away
playing over the rainbow
as if it’s a very different type of song
a gentle gesture
where I am going
there’s a tiny constriction
cradling a rabbit
with the dolls heads nestled
in their long hair
*
The Menoflân reads Lisa Robertson’s The Baudelaire Fractal on the tube and is reminded of when Paris was where everyone wanted to live
at right angles to where he lived
in those many galleries
not really looking but surrounded
determined to study mime
hung himself when he found out
a sort of fiction
in the tiny openings of the present
the shame so captivating
layered over black
no longer a bluebell
I almost forgot to get off
conjured by fairies
the unerotic now
making a magic realism
*
The Menoflân changes tubes at Earl’s Court on her way to see her mother and is reminded of being a teenager
spend a lot of time
in the snickets between streets
pink and white
as if it were a boudoir
a blue arrow that
has always been there
testament to the battle
to keep the water at bay
with a joining strip
a change of gait
make a choice
always a considered decision
with the ground rising
aren’t we there yet
*
The Menoflân realises that the day is coming when she will no longer be able to cope
against a wall gossiping
possibly for the last time
grief of a wet afternoon
torture of a skilled mover
no way back to her room
abandoned without a bun
if you think that’s difficult
get on the tube
before the doors close
London flows
banal with schoolboys
shaking hands
sitting in a café contemplate
a stony track in sunlight
*
The Menoflân visits her mother in her care home and contemplates dementia
an obvious section plus or minus
glass artists in Maidenhead
not Maidstone after all
connected again and again
taking all that was left to process
in a small room by the railway
something about geopolitics
for the first time
in the history of coinage
walk through a deserted mind
listen and marvel
go back to understand
the other side of London
and back again
*
The Menoflân gets a worrying call and has to rush to south London
coins with square holes
probably somewhere to put the stress
between secular and religious
a miserable difficult process
holding on to life
continually surprising
a sentence from King Offa
part of a team
with a compulsion to wash-up
the cadaverous confused yellow
stressed wall consoling
the daughters
a giveaway tic
to the dirty water on the floor
*
The Menoflân travels home after visiting her mother in hospital
don’t think we’re a gang
snapping for cash
teeth stained bruised
all the blood they’ve taken
filled with green
and less death
alternately glowering
and bouncing
the light was blinding
and the shadows long
on the scenic route
find a wondrous coat
glowing garnet with
matching hair ribbons
*
The Menoflân watches her mother in hospital hover between life and death
deep on the left
a channel for Baudelaire
or perhaps not
searching for money
not on his round
sex in her early 20s
communicate by grunts
curled up and clawing
go back and she’s gone
still hunting desire
she may be giving up
wouldn’t you
mouth open and snoring
a little went in
*
The Menoflân’s mother pulls through
hair in little plaits
feeling right at home
snapshots of ranting
to mates in Glaswegian
largely whimpering
and a literal pain in the bottom
conduct Beethoven
under the bedclothes
something to do together
out of all proportion
to the distance you
are travelling
eyes flayed by time
no longer on the agenda
*
The Menoflân goes for a swim in a search for mindfulness
facets of blue part hands
with enough light to cast
shadows of trees
lining has ripped
with four in the chilly lane
activities soothe
at the tipping point
there is a need to complain
double headed Ivan
in the sound system
struggle to keep afloat
and fix the turquoise goggles
forget the glint
past the barrier
*
The Menoflân prepares to write it down
right up to the armpit
ears feel nothing
although they never do
how to do this
black spirals on the page
glitched by hand
breasts on the table
feeling part of the writing
it’s beginning to hurt
at such intensity
thoughts stopped
ankles crossed
lose sight
but not hearing
In memory of Ann Salvadori (1929 – 2023).
Inspired by Janet Wolff – whose work introduced me to the idea that an older woman flâneuse was an avant-garde possibility – and Lisa Robertson’s Proverbs of a She-Dandy (2018).
Cover image: Vaibhav Sahu
