Sunday, 13 March 2011

Sunday poetry

Magical Realism

I’m unsure
About what is real
And I shan’t pretend I have ever been.
A broken seashell, a gnat
Crushed flat.
You destroyed them and they can’t come back.

They might be real.
And it might be okay.
But I wouldn’t put money on it.

It could be real to die;
But it might be underwhelming, and I can’t risk that.
I can’t be bothered with the paperwork;
You’d just confirm their superstitions you know.
And you don’t want that.

What you want is not the question.
It’s who do you want to think that what you want is
Indeed
Something they cannot quite grasp,
But they’ll love you for it.

The chances are, that you are drawn,
To ‘the face that launched a thousand ships.’
A warmongering neutrality at the eye of the storm
That is fabulously drab,
But you can dress it up in your mind
And chase it away from the dusty Sunday afternoon
Of reality.

They’ll love you for it.

© Holly Boyden 2011

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