Death and Poetry

Death tries his hand at poetry.

‘I’m innovating an inter-dimensional sestina,’

he explains.

‘How’s that working out for you?’ I ask.

‘It’s not as easy as it sounds,’ he replies.

‘It doesn’t sound easy at all,’ I say.

‘Exactly,’ says Death.

‘It’s strange,’ he continues,

‘getting into the creative flow;

‘it’s never really been my forte.’

‘You don’t say,’ I say.

Death screws up the 437^th page,

throws it against the wall,

and strikes a pose of poetic angst.

‘Maybe you should start with something

a little simpler,’ I suggest, ‘like a Limerick?’

Inspiration strikes Death,

and after a couple of minutes of fevered scribbling,

he strikes of pose of poetic declamation.

‘There once was a rider called Death,

Who looked, all the time, just like Death,

   “I wonder if Death

   Can die a good death?”

Said that black-hooded rider called Death.’

‘I feel so fulfilled!’ he exclaims, joyfully.

‘Is this how it feels when you win a slam?’ he asks.

‘We write the poems we need to write,

or want to read,

or possibly the other way round,’ I say,

hopefully avoiding the answer to his question

(no).

‘Now can I try my inter-dimensional sestina?’

he asks.

‘How about trying to get to grips

with blank verse first?’ I suggest.

‘I’m all ears,’ says Death,

‘metaphorically speaking, as we poets say.’

43 minutes and seven seconds

into my explanation,

Death throws a tantrum.

‘This is just stupid,’ he huffs.

‘That’s a very modern reaction,’ I say.

‘Perhaps you’d be more comfortable with free-verse instead?’

‘Which is….?’ he asks.

I explain free verse to Death.

‘Sounds like prose

masquerading as poetry,’ he says.

‘Every poem is poetry masquerading as poetry,’

I explain.

‘Like the one you’re writing now? No offence,’

he says.

‘None taken,’ I reply, as I tend to agree with him.

‘It’s what happens when you read

too much Kirill Medvedev, I think.’

‘I’m bored with poetry,’ says Death.

‘I’m going to write a novel instead.

Where should I start?’ he asks.

‘At the end?’ I say, having no idea

how one goes about writing a novel.

‘Oh, yes, that sounds like an excellent idea,’

says Death.

‘I can cope with endings.’