poetry 2017 / 016

A Letter to My Living Self from the Memory of My Ghost.

Worry less about your bank balance,

about how well you are respected

or loved.

Don't fret that no-one wants your paintings

or your stupid little sculptures;

that your books are worth more

than the fifty cents a quarter you publisher sends

(and why would anyone want Lucifer's Gospel, anyway?)

Those shelves of books on art

and Christianity and techniques of writing

haven't been referred to in years

and your copy of Strunk & White

is digital.

Your family don't play boardgames

so why do you keep them?

Why are there crates of art materials in the loft

when everything you need is right here.

Why keep the boxes of oil paint

when you've no studio to use them?

And why are there a dozen swords

when you practice jiu-jitsu?

In the end there is nothing

no-one will care your copy of Faust dates from 1860

of that drawer of computer components

“Might come in useful some day”

or the book on Nazi Sterilization techniques

is worth two hundred quid

if only someone would buy it.

Live your life free of possessions

you're leaving a houseful of junk

for descendants who don't want them

and care less. Nostalgia is better in the mind

than gathering dust on a shelf.

Burn your paintings, your books;

you boxes of might-be-useful.

Hide it for a year then throw it away

You can always get another

if the need is great.

Rid yourself of the shackles of possessions

and I promise you

You live a fuller life.