Ephemeral, said the secretary of Barrow and District Writers Club
In 1988. In the upstairs room of the Traveller's Rest.
It was the first time I'd ever read my poetry in public.
Ephemeral, he said. Isn't it?
Thank you, I said.
A mixture of ether, me and Arial!
I was glowing with pride
Until I got home to the dictionary.
But my poetry has always been ephemeral.
Here today and soon, thankfully, gone
Like a Facebook post by the ever-blathering John
Like life itself (a good trick every bad poet plays)
The time soon gone, nothing ever stays
Your friends will die, your enemies too
I won't last long and neither will you
And this poem and the 19 previous
Will slip away and be forgotten the easiest
(God what a poor rhyme but I'm not going to worry my head
The secretary of the Barrow and District Writers Club
Is thankfully dead).
John Bleasdale is a writer. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Il Manifesto, as well as CineVue.Com and theStudioExec.com. He has also written a number of plays, screenplays and novels.