I could never begin a poem: ‘When I am dead’
As several poets still alive have done.
The jokey Last Will, and litanies
Of things we are to do when they have gone.
Courageous stuff. Written I shouldn’t wonder
The Morning After, in the throes
Of grim despair. Head still ringing from the noise
Of nights keeling over like glass dominoes.
The chill fear that perhaps the writer
Might outlive the verse, provides the spur
To nail the spectre down in print,
To risk a sort of atheistic prayer.
God, of course, does not appear in rhyme,
Poets of our time being more inclined
To dwell upon the price of manuscripts
And how they want the coffin lined.
Or ashes scattered, cats fed, ex-wives
Gunned down. Meanwhile, in a drawer
Neat and tidy, the bona fide Will,
Drawn-up and witnessed by an old family lawyer.
And though poets I admire have published poems
Whose imperfections reflect our own decay,
I could never begin a poem: ‘When I am dead’
In case it tempted Fate, and Fate gave way.