The Scream

You know
I could have chuckled into my tea 
Morning time six thirty-three
With a promise of blue sky
But rain again
Against library skylight.
Will it ever stop raining this summer in France?
email box gave me a message.
Drama queen at best, manic depressive at worst.
Never hear. Don’t hold the purse strings.
Already I’m thinking, Is it worth writing this? You can’t publish. Too personal.
Read it properly and all poetry is too personal. The poet’s soul.
Read the message. Says,
Be on mute for now
Nothing different there.
Six months ago, I was grateful him
sending a messenger thumbs up.
Now 600 words plus. Amongst all these words,
This round robin, what am I told?
Few words of love for family and friends.
That’s to be expected, I guess.
Why am I telling you this?
Reader, not for you.
Is it my essay on their Wasteland?
Their words become my words
My words become yours.
I hear in their words the cry.
I’m stopping, they say,
You won’t hear from me anymore. I can do it alone.
Alone. Solitary bike ride. Alone 
Poking amongst the frozen foods. Seeing
What I can eat in front of the screen.
Is there any one there to watch
Me. As I drown.

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John Eliot As well as reviewing for Welsh Connections, John Eliot has published four collections of poetry with Mosaïque press : Ssh!, Don’t Go, Turn on the Dark, and Canzoni del Venerdì Sera, a translation of his work into Italian. John is now poetry editor for Mosaique Press and with Italian and Romanian universities is editing translation anthologies.

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