The Death Of A Poet.

It was a bright sunny day and I had some hours off, so I decided to go and write a poem. I settled down in a warm spot in the centre of my home town Cascais with a coffee and a cigarette in hand- and waited. I tried chucking a few thoughts around and even remembering some emotions, but nothing came to me. I tried to imagine, invent, feel something- but there was nothing there.

I started to have my daily panic about losing poetry altogether, but I do not give up that easily. I wrote a poem about not being able to write a poem- Poetry is the only form of creativity which scares me- I do not know from one day to the next if I have it anymore.

The Death Of A Poet.

Some days I wake up empty

Something has left me.


A discarded shell

On a desolate beach.

With no more purpose,

Nothing to learn

And nothing to teach.


Pick me up

Put me to your ear.

No sea

Or ocean

Will you hear.


Where is my mind

When it is not there?


Is a cruel consequence

Of contentment.


Or is it,

The death of a poet?

(© Gerry Aldridge 2016)



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