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Poem by Mary Hobson
To Umut and Ian On Saturday I wrote the last full-stop. Onegin was to be my swansong. Probably the swans have better timing, but I’m still here. Bereft. What’s worse, after this long apprenticeship in verse, there’s no escape. I’m like an athlete over-running the tape, I’ll rhyme until I drop. I am addicted to iambic rhyming. While I could sit in bed and English everything he said and tear my brain apart in an endeavour somewhere between a crossword and fine art – life was splendid. And then it ended. I wrote the final line. I knew it couldn’t last for ever, But I was safer inside Pushkin’s head. It isn’t half as comfortable in mine.
Mary Hobson's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail email@example.com