I wanted to take a nap after Christmas lunch but instead I wrote poetry

by Christos Polydorou


There is a skeleton in my closet.
It is me, my past self, the one I was
before I met you, or rather, before
I understood what meeting you meant,
and of course how it was you transformed
me, from one person, into the other. What
I am trying to say is, before I met you, I
was so hopeless, and eager, and effusive,
but your coolness breached a coolness
in me, your stolidity created a stolidity
in me, your rose petals stirred whorls
in me, and I was sad, then I was mad,
then I was glad, then I was bad, then I
was had, then I was a tadpole, then I
shed all my skin, and my muscles, and
my bones, then I remained alone, for
a while, in a rented home, with others
more or less alone like myself, staring
out a window, at the isle of dogs, blinking
at me all night, writing poem, after poem,
not so much caring if the poems I wrote
matched a particular form, did not bother
creating a sonnet, or a haiku, or even free
verse, only that they felt particularly, that
is if they tapped into some rhythm
that was universal, and I could feel the
continuation of that particular rhythm of
the universe threading or beating through
out all the poems I was writing, and I am
writing, in the middle of the night, at the
start of the day, or at its end, at a desk,
feeling something overtake me, some spirit
fitting into my body like a hand in a glove,
and I am two things now, my spirit, and my
body, and both are collaborating in the creation
or the making of a thing called a poem. Spirits
overload you because they want to be acknowledged
and released. Before I met you I was possessed
by a pessimistic ghost, an angry ghost, and a very
hungry ghost. And then I met you, and our destinies
overlapped, and we headed in the same direction,
because we did something for each other: you
helped me fight the demons in me while I helped
you balance the anvil of light that was beginning
to drop on your shoulders. You know you are
going to have to do something with all that light
dropping on you shoulders. As for myself I threw
the skeleton out in the recycling. Just a bit of clutter
that needed organizing. Now I am ready to drink
from bowls of elsewhere, and am mastering the
description of what it is they taste like. That’s art.