Prompt: Why is poetry the language of the dead?
She were left fer dead, and me Da’ found me snotty ov’ her corpse, like. We found some poems on flowery paper in er’ ouse’ few days after. She were all cold, like; stiff as a bloody board. Had a reet good selection she did, all classics and that. Mad Mary used to stick Tobacco in her butty and eat it for er’ tea. Aye, she was nowt to be messed with, I’ll tell ya.
Didn’t have a lot a brass, you see. She were always down pub askin’ for lend some. I still ere’ er’ voice now; like a flippin’ angel she wer’. Our Tony saw her up ont’ moors t’other day, messin’ about with some kids. Tony dropped a ciggy down cracks of rock, but she stopped the dafty meetin’ the big man upstairs.
Ya know, I never woulda thought you can forget how somebody sounds. I knew er’ voice yesterday, same for the day before, but now, it’s just a blur, like. Poets speak same language as the dead, but I’m no poet—don’t have words for it. She were good at all that. It’s a cryin’ shame she went up wit’ smoke. I never got to tell er’ how I felt about er’.
Courtenay Schembri Gray is a 1/4 Maltese writer from the North of England. She takes delight in the morbid, the weird, and the eerie. From Hobart Pulp to Visual Verse, she continues to be published widely. www.courtenayscorner.com