The prospect of you paralyses me
though I cannot understand how.
You are a piece of paper, A4,
with some words, numbers, grades.
You should not shake me to the core.
All I have to do is turn up, accept you,
the systematically printed sheet
of misery in a brown envelope.
Well, not misery. That’s extreme.
You are extreme.
Your print I know will either
complete my task, the two-year struggle,
or erode me, debase me,
nothing but two years’ trouble.
You do not scare me on certain days –
most of the time – but in these
closing times you’ve become more eerie,
a daunting little slice of a tree,
treated, given life and ready to devour me,
my dreams, my sanity.
I'd like to be convincing or even just
a little bit Jekyll and Hyde
to be able to say to you:
You don’t scare me –
It’s me who’s coming to get you.
But I must walk down through the square
and the path by the fields
leading to the school gate again
where nearby trees are making a salient
summer’s hush and I must
walk through those doors, once more,
and claim you as mine
with a smile for everyone,
tear at your brown protection,
shaking, and believe, even if it’s not,
that everything will be fine.
August 15th 2006
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Powerful imagry and a wonderful poem!