I want
many things, and I suppose
you could call me selfish for that
(in retaliation, I suppose
I could call you a communist)
Still, it won’t change the fact that I like
the smell of coffee but not the taste.
Unless it’s sugar-coated
(much like life,
I suppose)
Or that I like broderie anglaise
and philosophical debates
haircuts and Jodie Foster movies
opera, paper cranes
and selected school lessons.
Certainly
there are other things I would appreciate
world peace and such
but like you said, I’m selfish
and more preoccupied with
my own daily worries.
That they opened another Supré
and tried to make me read John Marsden
and that I have been invaded
by real estate agents
who hang up my dressing gown
and call me ‘dear’.
*this is a mega cheat – I wrote this poem when I was SIXTEEN. But I’ve had a long day (Armageddon, Auckland’s answer to Comicon) and for some reason decided it would be a good idea to go through ALL of various files marked ‘WRITING’, dating back to 2006, in some cases. It’s long and laborious, and I’m only partway through, but it’s been quite enlightening finding all this stuff of yesteryear. I still quite liked this poem, and TBH, I’m not sure if my style has evolved that much, which I don’t know if it means I was a very mature sixteen year old, or I’m an extremely immature/stagnant twenty-three year old. Either way. It was part of my poetry-prize winning portfolio in Year 12 (beating out all the Year 13s, I might add), so it can’t have been too terrible… can it?
