I

 

 

A poem which is about and is a new start.

 

i. That personal pronoun was anything but

as I maintained a low profile.

Auden, Kwesi or Rakim? There was

never a concordian style.

 

 

ii. Surely that letter was not allowed

by stanza wallahs boasting first class ties? 

So I cramped shut my jaw some time ago

during the hard man Northern cause.

 

 

iii. If I am animalistic, not a turncoat cuckoo. 

Neither a snake with oiling thoughts,

instead a Mr. Sheened-scaled pangolin,

who remembers the days of a glorious Rome.

 

 

iii. But I might have been a darling dove,

before the effluent brought me up short.

Blown, off course, in all that furore before

enjoying an imprisoned sojourn.

 

 

iv. My perch in life collapsed with the weight of a tiger,

a slow, septic bugger, along for the ride. Spying a curious

buttoned-up caw, it kept my mutex on show for all.

 

 

v. Brought back into the human realm,

where the ubiquitous ‘I’ is over-run,

I smith all my lines rather than cry

the ‘pity us’ song I have heard sung.

 

vi. Both my vinyl and syllables are now carefully pared.

The only vanity pressing which was nearly owned,

I exchanged to stay as a singular ‘I’, bears

the name of a woman who is greatness-born,

someone, an ‘I’, more important than most.

 

© Pat Mellow 

 

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