Oh— I’ve kept every letter I ever received, (With copies of those that I sent), They are filed and piled in boxes and crates (A right pretty penny I spent). They are locked in a barn the size of house With shelving as tall as a tree, And if I don’t care to— (or dare to) go visit: They’re there if I want them — you see?
Dorsington, Warwickshire July 3, 2006
Odd behaviour, I know. But I am not the first to suffer from an absurd horror of discarding letters and papers. Nor, perhaps, am I alone in my contradictory aversion to inspecting the flesh and bone of the past, especially black-and-white documentary bones. Never mind, my executors can have a wonderful bonfire party while they polish off the last few bottles of wine stored in my cellar!
This poem is a work in progress. It is incomplete, unfinished and has not been revised. It is meant only to offer a glimpse into the notebook of a poet at work. Please do not post it onto other sites or publish it in any form without this notice being attached. Thank you — Felix Dennis