Poetry

For some strange reason I am compelled to try and write poetry as well as voraciously reading it (Billy Collins being one of my favourite poets). This is a vice that should be kept secret and locked up in an inaccessible mental cupboard. So that I don't frighten anyone with too much on this subject, I will just say that I am in permanent pursuit of writing, one day, The Perfect Poem. I wish. So here's a thought...


THE PERFECT POEM

Will I be discovered dead
in bed, covers folded neatly
under my chin, the golden hair
of my imagination
spread out on the pillow;

and will I, before then, write
at last the Perfect Poem;
a nugget in a jewelled bag
produced at the drop of a hat
and read to admiring audiences,

or a beribboned gilded medal
awarded for Services to Literature?
Will it be so startling, so great
that pigeons hurl themselves off roofs
with a flag-waving of feathers,

and will the earth hesitate
for a moment, stunned with awe,
while the sun winks knowingly
as metaphors slink for cover
like rats down an alliterative alley?

Will it be so wonderful
that you, after my funeral,
heads bowed, say in hushed tones,
'No, I don't remember HER at all.
But I remember her Perfect Poem'?

(written on 15/6/09)