There was a time
when it wasn’t all that bad;
you were married, you had a regular job,
hell, you even took art classes at one stage.
Perhaps you were thinking of the time
when you lost your virginity
to a 300-pound whore.
Or that spring
when you were suffering
from an internal haemorrhage
and nearly died in hospital.
Or when the FBI took you into custody
for avoiding the draft
and you spent seventeen days
in the humid whiteness of Moyamensing Prison.
Or that extreme case of ache you received
when you were fourteen.
Or when your father found
those sordid short stories you were writing
and threw them out on the front lawn
along with all your possessions.
Or when your father died.
Or your unfinished novel.
But whatever you were thinking at the time,
you survived it,
and went on to grace the world
for a further thirty-three years
with your poetic presence.
The first forty-one years
were just practise.Fnord
Colin Dardis is a 32 year old poet originally from Tyrone, now based in Belfast. He runs a monthly open mic night called Purely Poetry in the Crescent Arts Centre, and is the editor of Speech Therapy, an online poetry zine. His poems have been published in various journals, ezines and anthologies in Ireland, UK, USA and elsewhere.