After studying Philip Larkin poetry in creative writing these last few weeks, I've been slowly creating my own depressing, 'movement' poems. This one was inspired by 'Mr. Bleaney' and what topic could be more crisis-conjuring than death? (However, if you need a little cheer-up afterwards, Larkin's 'First Sight' is actually teetering on the verge of positive - who knew he had it in him!)
What will happen to me when I die?
There's a bold rhetoric to voice aloud
After being taken from where I lie
And my body is safely beneath ground
Will my scarf, knitted for when I turned three
Linger beneath empty socks in a drawer?
Or be rediscovered in a charity
Shop, rebirthed - incarnated as a shawl?
Will my novels preserve like artefacts?
Provoke ethical outcry from strangers
Titbits of youth, cello-taped at the cracks
Naïve to the futuristic dangers
Or, will my belongings just melt away?
Dormant - regardless of calendar dates
A physical sum of my waking days
As my body awaits its subjective fate
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