If poetry is dead
then I am long gone
Forget I am writing
even as I am speaking
Throw the book in the river
Bury the sounds I make under-ground.
If poetry is dead
then I am weeping
for if ears have been hiding
then what I have been saying
Recall the lost sonnets, essays
Calcuate the time wasted on your phone.
If poetry is dead
then I am confused, waiting
for the dining room is empty
whilst the concert halls are heaving
It's in these rooms, I've found, where poetry grew.
Not in somebody bearded, Oxbridge-educated.
It is not poetry that is dead, but you.
-sgh
Published by sophiegracehollis
I'm a solid girl from East London, England, now living in Scotland with my partner, Jillianne. I like to read, write, travel and play scrabble by the fire. I graduated university three years ago with a degree in English Literature. Now my work focusses on queer poetry and a heavy sense of nostalgia. I am obsessed with sand dunes, oak trees, the sea.
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