What We’ve Been Given

by Christos Polydorou

2017-03-31 18.16.25

“Every poem is an epitaph.”

It is a shame
how every
poem
is an
epitaph.

Does it
have to be
this way?
Yes, writers
thrive, on forbidden
fruit, and death. Oh!
the death!

April Fool’s. I clutch my stomach melodramatically,
throw my neck back like a sad clown,
and say, Laugh! Life! I do not
feel like being morbid
today! See, my love of the sea, I’ve been
inspired to draw again,

and it is
making me feel
quite gay. Therefore this
poem can only be just as alive,

and kicking, with just a
good touch of the provocative
about it. I am imagining
it with a wild side, but from
the Oscar Wilde side, with a
limelight of drama,
like Maria. I can only
characterise my poem

as one which occasionally
retreats
from ordinary society,
in which it adequately flourishes,
to run away, holding the hand

of a girl, a dancer, to reach
a forest
where heavy peaches
hang from
the trees, for us.
Dear poem,

do not be a tombstone,
an urn,
or an elegy, but
a stubborn yet considerate
nuisance, fluent,
in the language
of peaches.

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